The Masada Complex

by Avraham Azrieli

  Masada nodded. “He’s like a father to us.”

  “I understand.” The nurse tore the wrapping off a pack of cigarettes. “Did he tell you he’s losing his vision?” The shock must have appeared on their faces. “It’s not the end of the world. He’s pretty healthy otherwise.”

  “He wears thick glasses, but I didn’t know his eyes were so bad. What happened with the procedure?”

  “I hate it when they lie to patients.”

  “Please, we need to know.”

  The nurse nodded. “We got a call from the government, someone high up.”

  “I don’t understand,” Rabbi Josh said.

  “We depend on funding, so Dr. Asaf had to oblige and stop the procedure. But you could pull some strings if you have connections.”

  “Bastards!” Masada stormed off. It was Ness. Levy’s eye in exchange for her cooperation. How dare he play with people’s lives like this? She flagged down a taxi. Rabbi Josh joined her. They did not speak the whole way to the Ramban Hostel.

  “Elzirah Mahfizie,” she yelled, pointing at herself, “anah Elzirah Mahfizie!”

  The hooded youth paused, his drawn knife hesitating.

  She pointed at the rubble that had once been her father’s home. “Bint el Hajj Mahfizie!”

  The mention of Father’s name had an astonishing effect. The group dispersed instantly. The one with the knife bowed and pointed the way.

  Higher up the hill, the shacks gave way to large homes with expansive balconies, Roman frescos, and gold-painted railings overlooking the unpaved main strip and the feces running in open sewage ditches. Farther up, through tall iron bars, she saw a mansion under construction, its exterior being tiled in black marble. She quickened her pace to catch up with the hooded youth, stepping aside as two BMW sedans raced by.

  The old mosque was gone. In its place stood a windowless white edifice with a minaret that gradually narrowed toward the wraparound terrace at the top. They crossed the front courtyard, which was carpeted with men’s shoes, and entered through a large, heavy steel door. As it closed behind Elizabeth, she noticed a crossbar and a large padlock with a key in it. The interior was dark and chilly.

  A man’s voice echoed through the narrow hallway, speaking in monotone, pausing between sentences. She walked softly on the tiles, listening as the voice grew closer.

  The prayer hall was lit by a round skylight at the center of the high ceiling. An old man sat in a chair, his checkered kafiya held with a black band, the vast floor before him covered with crouching men. “The duty is individual,” he intoned, “bestowed by Allah through the Prophet onto each Muslim man, bypassing the mind that sows doubt even in the most righteous man. By fasting during Ramadan, the mind is tempered like a horse in training, pulling the reins on our strongest urge-to eat-and replacing it with nutrition for the heart-the holy Koran. And once the bodily urges have been tamed, the mind becomes crystal clear, directed to a higher pursuit of the meaning and purity.”

  He paused and looked up, his face shaded by the headdress.

  She swallowed and said, “Hello, Father.”

  Hundreds of faces turned to her.

  He remained seated, not moving.

  “It’s been a long time.” She smiled.

  He closed the book.

  A path opened for her through the crouching men, and Elizabeth approached her father.

  He looked at her pants, her short-sleeve jacket, her uncovered hair. “Elzirah?”

  She nodded.

  His face was creased and pale, his mouth slightly open, his lower lip moist with dots of white saliva. A crazy thought came to her-to sit in his lap and hug his neck and kiss his rough cheek until he laughed and tickled her belly.

  Her belly!

  Would Father notice the life growing inside her? She hoped not. Not yet, anyway. “I wanted to see you before Wednesday.”

  He uttered a sound, something between a cough and a bark, and tried to stand.

  Through the glass doors of the lobby, Professor Silver saw Masada and Rabbi Josh get out of a taxicab. The rabbi headed down the street, limping. Masada came up the steps to the lobby. Silver turned to examine a cheap poster of the Mediterranean coast that was pinned to the wall. The glass door opened behind him.

  “Levy!”

  “Oh,” he turned, “my favorite voice.”

  She bent down to hug him. “Get your bag. Back to the hospital.”

  “What?”

  “I’m going to raise the biggest stink. They’ll take care of you right away.”

  “Calm down, meidaleh. It’s just a little procedure on my right eye.” Silver made sure a smile remained on his face while his mind struggled to figure out what she actually knew. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me you’re losing your vision?”

  “It’s a long time off.” He watched her reaction.

  “Still, you should have told me!”

  He was relieved. She obviously didn’t know the details, or that he only had one eye.

  “I’m sure it’s Colonel Ness. He interfered with your surgery to pressure me to make a deal with him.”

  Silver touched his thick spectacles. “My surgery for your integrity?” He fought to maintain a calm facade. If Masada made a fuss, they might tell her he was mumbling in Arabic while under anesthetics. He straightened up, sighing. “I’d rather suffer than let you cave in to extortion.” He took the bottle of eye drops from his pocket to show her. “They gave me these-”

  “I’m not going to cave in! Let’s go!” Masada grabbed his arm, and the bottle flew from his hand. It hit the tiled floor with a sickening pop.

  “No!” Silver dropped to his knees and felt around for the bottle. The blotch hid every section of the floor he was trying to see. His hand touched something, and he heard it roll away. “Where is it?” He felt the wet floor with his hands, swiping it back and forth. “Help me!”

  “There.” Masada’s shoes passed by him. “I got it.”

  The front desk clerk appeared next to him, helping him stand. Silver trembled, reaching with his hands. “Give it to me!”

  “It’s cracked,” Masada said, touching him with a moist hand. “You’ll need a new one.”

  “No!” Silver snatched the little bottle and held it up, slightly to the side of the blotch. A hairline crack traveled from the plastic cap down, around the bottom, and up the other side. Clear drops seeped onto his hand. He turned the bottle upside down.

  “Here,” Masada said, “I’ll hold it.”

  “Leave it!” Silver stumbled in different directions. “Give me a cup! Something! Don’t just stand there!”

  The clerk ran off to the cafeteria.

  Silver realized he was moaning and shushed himself. His shaking hands almost dropped the bottle again. “Irreplaceable! Can’t lose it.”

  Masada stood still, saying nothing.

  The clerk appeared with a plastic water bottle, which he emptied onto a shriveled potted plant and held for Silver, who poured in the remaining clear liquid from the cracked bottle. He hugged the plastic bottle to his chest and found a seat.

  “Miss El-Tal?” The clerk’s voice was a pitch higher than usual, as if he also realized something more than a glass bottle had cracked. “A man called for you a little while ago and left a message.” He handed her a note.

  She looked at it and groaned.

  “Any news?” Silver asked. He had called in the message before leaving the hospital.

  “Someone from my old kibbutz.”

  “What do they want?”

  “There’s a memorial service for my little brother.”

  Not so little, Silver thought. “Really? Then we should attend, of course.”

  “Of course not.” Masada rubbed her knee through the bulky brace and glanced at the bottle. “You’re losing your eyesight, aren’t you?”

  He sighed. “We all have our precious little denials to nurture.”

  She leaned over and pecked him on the c
heek. “You’re a foolish man, Levy Silver. And in no condition to go to Mount Masada at four-thirty in the morning.”

  “I’ve never been there,” he lied. “And with my eyesight going, I’d love to see dawn breaking over the Dead Sea before it’s too late.”

  Her face contorted. What could she say?

  “And after the memorial, my driver will take us from Mount Masada directly to Hadassah Hospital, and you’ll make a huge scene until they fix my eyes. How’s that?” He gambled she didn’t know the Michener Eye Center would be shut down for renovations.

  “Now you’re trading?”

  He laughed, threading his arm in hers. “Quid pro quo.”

  Elizabeth McPherson stepped closer to her father. “I came to mend fences.”

  Father’s shriveled face twitched. “Fences?”

  “That’s how we say it in America.” She realized the phrase didn’t work in Arabic. Looking up at the patch of blue through the skylight, she explained, “To fix our relationship.”

  “Like this you come?” His gnarled hand motioned at her clothes.

  She smiled. “This is how I dress when I talk to judges.”

  Hajj Mahfizie mumbled something, and a moment later a blanket was draped around her shoulders, its coarseness scratching the back of her neck, its odor musty.

  Elizabeth shook off the blanket, which fell on the floor around her feet. “It’s time you accepted me the way I am, Father.”

  A murmur passed through the crowd. Several young men stood up.

  “You know what I’ve done for Palestine. I’m a modern woman, very successful in my profession. It’s time you see there’s much to be proud of me.”

  “Leave!” Father waved his hand. “Go!”

  She stumbled backwards but steeled herself. “We should discuss the ceremony.”

  Complete silence was the only response. Two men stepped in to support Hajj Mahfizie.

  “It’s not every day that your daughter becomes,” she hesitated, “Hero of Palestine.”

  The men burst out laughing.

  “What’s so funny?” She grew angrier. “You think women can’t be heroes?

  Their laughter quieted.

  “You think only guns and bombs and suicides demonstrate courage?” She was yelling now. “You’re wrong! The bravest deeds are done quietly. What I did for Palestine no one else could do. And many women can provide unique services too. You cover us up in blankets, but it must change.” She paused, thinking she heard Father say something.

  He didn’t move.

  “I thought I’d keep it a surprise, but I might as well tell you now that on Wednesday, from the stage on the main street of this camp, I plan to announce the formation of the Palestinian Women Advancement League.”

  Father was pointing at her.

  “And this organization will dedicate itself to Palestinian women of all-”

  Someone shoved her from behind, and she fell to the floor. The rough blanket was thrown over her, and strong hands lifted her.

  She struggled to free herself. “Let me go!”

  Someone kicked her. The pain made her fight harder. She managed to release one arm and felt her hand slap against a face. “Release me immediately!”

  A fist punched her left kidney, paralyzing her.

  They carried her, wrapped in the coarse blanket. A door screeched, and she was dropped to the floor, the air knocked out of her.

  Through the fog of pain and fear, Elizabeth heard the door being locked.

  After returning from Hadassah, Rabbi Josh had visited a pharmacy and bought tiny scissors, bandages, and a tube of ointment. Back in his room, he propped his right foot up on a chair and pulled off bits of skin from each blister, gritting his teeth. In the back of his heel, a large blister had not yet burst. He popped it.

  A knock came from the door, and Professor Silver entered. “Oy!” He gazed at the rabbi’s foot. “What have you done to yourself?”

  “Jogged too long in the wrong shoes.” Remembering Tara’s suspicions, the rabbi asked innocently, “How did your eye procedure go?”

  “It was postponed,” Silver said. “Could you-”

  “Postponed?” He pressed the blister, which oozed clear liquid. “Wasn’t it an urgent thing?”

  “Not at all. A little tinkering with one of my eyes. Nothing serious.”

  The rabbi glanced at him, wondering why he was lying, and with such ease! “It’s not getting worse?”

  “At my age every bodily function is getting worse.” The professor removed his black beret and rubbed his thin hair. “I don’t sweat the little things.”

  Rabbi Josh took out the supplies, arranging them on the table. “Nothing serious?”

  “Thank God.” The professor touched his black-rimmed glasses.

  Fearing his face would betray his dismay, Rabbi Josh bent forward to look closely at his foot. “I’m glad,” he said, feeling the exact opposite. He brought the pointed edge of the tiny, half-moon scissors to the popped blister while pinching the skin between a finger and a thumb to raise it. “I was wondering about what you overheard.” He began to snip at the raised skin, twisting his face as the burning intensified. “Between Masada and Al.” He clipped the skin in a circle, tearing off the last bit, which hurt even more. “Could you tell me again?”

  “Again?” The professor puffed air. “They were doing it.”

  Rabbi Josh resisted the urge to glance at Professor Silver. “You sure you heard it clearly?” He pulled a loose piece of skin from his toe, and it trailed a patch of healthy skin that detached with the sensation of red-hot iron. He groaned.

  “You need a doctor.” Silver peered at the foot.

  “Happened before. I get carried away with exercise.” Unscrewing the tube of ointment, he repeated his question, “Did you hear them clearly?”

  “I think so.” Professor Silver’s friendly tone was touched by impatience. “It was a very traumatic night.”

  The vision of Raul’s white face pounced on Rabbi Josh’s mind like a stalker who had waited for the right moment to strike. He pushed the vision away, but his hand clenched the tube so hard it sprouted a long, gray worm of ointment on top of his bare foot. He smeared it over the blisters, twisting his face at the pain. “It’s important for me to know what she said exactly.”

  “That’s a lot to expect from an old man’s memory.” Silver chortled and put his hand on the rabbi’s shoulder. “Joshua, my dear friend, you are suffering. I know, I’ve been there myself, when my beloved son died.” He coughed, clearing his throat. “Grief is a process. Let it take its course.”

  “But did she-”

  “Forget about Masada. Her errors are rooted in her failure to grieve properly for her loss. She hasn’t healed for decades.” He patted the rabbi’s bowed head. “One day, Joshua, when you recover, when you’re stronger, then you can try to help her. But not now, when you are so tortured.”

  Rabbi Josh looked at his left foot, which was still laced up in his shoe, and dreaded what was waiting in there.

  “Oh, almost forgot. You remember the package I gave you at Newark Airport?”

  The rabbi hopped to the suitcase that lay open on the floor. Digging under shirts and socks and underwear, he found the package. “Here it is.”

  Silver held it with both hands.

  It occurred to the rabbi that he should have looked inside it. “No contraband, I hope.”

  “I only deal in words.” The professor grinned, pushing up the thick glasses. His hand searched for the doorknob. “Good night.”

  “Levy.” He waited for the professor to turn. “Rabbi Yehudah Ben-Tabai said: Don’t be like the lawyers; when the accused suspect comes before you, treat him as guilty, and when he repents, treat him as innocent. In other words, if a guilty man exhibits sincere regrets, he’s entitled to be treated as innocent.”

  The professor stood at the door, holding the package, his thick glasses preventing Rabbi Josh from reading his expression. “The problem is, my friend,
that nobody is innocent.”

  Masada beckoned the bartender. “I can’t wait for the Senate to vote. I’m tired of Ness’s tricks. You want to hear the latest?”

  Tara ordered two beers. She cradled her chin in her hands, elbows on the table, and listened to the story of how Ness had purportedly stopped Silver’s surgery.

  “Lenin isn’t so innocent.” Tara punched a key, and her laptop came to life.

  “His name is Levy, not Lenin.”

  “It’s not Levy, either. It’s Flavian.”

  A teenage boy passed between the tables handing out yellow flyers for the protest rally at the Jaffa Gate tomorrow evening. Masada wrapped it around the sweating beer glass to soak up the moisture. “I know him as Levy. Must be his Italian birth name. How did you find out?”

  “I called the absorption ministry.” Tara hit another few keys on the laptop. “Remember the interview in your garage, when you gave me lousy answers?”

  “You asked lousy questions.”

  “Before the interview, we were adjusting light and sound.” Tara turned the laptop to face Masada. “Priest e-mailed this clip to me.”

  The screen showed Masada’s garage, the light-blue Corvette in the background. Tara walked into the frame, counted numbers, raised four fingers in the air, and appeared brighter as the lighting was changed. A voice said, “Don’t mind me. Just getting something.” Professor Silver passed behind Tara and got into the Corvette.

  “He was searching your car. What for? A memory stick”

  “I don’t blame him. He begged me to give it back to him or destroy it, and I risked his life by keeping it.” Masada brought the beer to her lips but lowered it before drinking any. “He was desperate. He had to look for it himself.”

  “Behind your back?”

  “He was afraid. He’s got no one in the world.”

  Tara shut the laptop. “Why are you making excuses for him?”

  “Why are you trying to indict him? It’s Ness’s idea, isn’t it?” Masada was flushed with anger. “Levy is just a scared old man, that’s all. Sick and scared and trying to act brave.”