Cursing and shouting “Itbakh El-Yahood,” a swarm descended on Rabbi Josh, showering him with clenched fists. He hooked his fingers in the chicken wire, and the Arabs’ shrill screams filled his head with the certainty of doom.
He felt cold spray on his face. The beating stopped, and the angry shouts changed to cries of distress. Fierce burning flared in his eyes and nose. He began to cough.
Police in blue uniforms entered the cage, the hisses of their pepper spray barely audible over the screaming. They dragged him out and sat him on the ground. Wheezing with each breath, he remembered Masada, about to join Silver on a one-way trip, and struggled to get up. “Please,” he said to one of them, “I need to-”
“Shut up!” The policeman raised his club. “Sit!”
Rabbi Josh dropped, raising his arms in defense. “I’m not an Arab. It’s a mistake!”
“Mistake? Your mother made a mistake!” The club was about to land.
“I’m Jewish.” He wiped the tears and mucus from his face.
“Then why did you entered the mosque?” The policeman spat on the ground. “Idiot!”
They led him into the station, up two flights of stairs and along a corridor to a room with a mirror wall, a steel table and four chairs. He saw his reflection-soiled with blood and mud, his socks torn, exposing the blisters on his feet.
They went to the door.
“Hey! Let me go!”
They shut the door in his face and locked it. He heard them laugh, their footsteps fading.
He limped to the barred window. The sun had gone down, and the sounds from the rally on Jaffa Street had intensified. He could tell by the deep rumble that the crowd had become enormous, and he wondered if the senators in Washington paid any attention to what was happening in Jerusalem. By morning, Israel time, they would vote to punish the Jewish state for what it had not done. But how was he going to convince anyone? Telling the media that Professor Silver had attended a mosque would achieve nothing, especially as he himself was there too.
The only thing that mattered now was saving Masada! Rabbi Josh went to the mirror wall. Was it one-sided? He tried to see through, but couldn’t. He pounded the door. “Open up!”
The noise from the rally suddenly quieted, and the music ceased. He returned to the barred window and listened.
“I am not,” a woman’s voice reverberated from many loudspeakers, “a supporter of the Jewish state.”
Masada?
“I am, however, a supporter of freedom, security, and happiness for the Jewish people-and for all other people.”
There was no mistaking the voice. It was Masada! She was addressing the rally!
“And I believe that a state defined by religion cannot provide freedom, security, and happiness to all people, because setting religious criteria to citizenship contradicts the very essence of a modern democracy.”
The hum of the crowd disappeared, as if the many thousands in attendance were holding their breaths.
“I ask you this,” Masada continued. “Why live in another ghetto, even as big as Israel, when we can live anywhere in the Western world as equal citizens, free to practice our Jewish religion, follow our ancient customs, and pursue our individual, personal aspirations without fear or foe?”
Her question remained hanging, the crowd hushed. Rabbi Josh leaned against the bars and imagined her shrug in that special way.
“My question is hypothetical though, because the fact is that Israel exists, and you-I hear there are over a million people here-feel deep love for Israel. It is a love I cannot deny sharing with you. For us, born Israelis, love for this troubled land comes with suckling mom’s milk. But the reason I agreed to come up to the stage is not because you need to hear me, yet another Jewish writer with utopian ideas. What I had to say has already been heard in America, which started this fiasco.”
A grumble went through the crowd, multiplied by many thousands. But it died quickly.
“I agreed to speak here tonight because one of the organizers asked if I wanted Israel destroyed.” Masada paused. “Do I want Israel to die?”
A momentary swell of murmuring swept through the night.
“The answer is no.” Another long pause. “I do not wish destruction for Israel. It is my birthplace, the land of my youth, the country my beloved parents died for. And despite its flaws, Israel represents my values of humanity and progress in stark contrast to its neighbors. It stands for democracy among dictatorships, for creativity in a region beset by dark ignorance, for modernism among primitive fundamentalism. So I can’t help but pray for Israel’s survival.”
Hearing her sad voice, Rabbi Josh felt like crying. He grabbed the bars, wishing he could run out there and take her in his arms, tell her he knew she was not guilty of anything, that she was the victim of manipulation.
“However,” Masada said, her voice strong again, “I believe that optimism for Israel’s future is possible only if you ignore history. There is scant precedent for a lasting Jewish state on this land.” She paused. “As much as we hope for Israel to live forever, we must also consider the other possibility. Our existential risks come not from the Arab countries that render us landlocked. Israel is too useful for them as a scapegoat for their dictatorial failures and their peoples’ misery. Neither would Islam’s hate for the West likely to sweep us in its viral spread of Improvised Explosive Devices or nuclear-tipped rockets. The real risk to Israel is what has caused the repeated destructions of Jewish kingdoms: Infighting among Jews.”
Rabbi Josh listened, as mesmerized as the crowd outside.
“Only if we accept Israel’s vulnerability, maybe, just maybe, we can unite and save it. So please,” Masada said, “close your eyes and imagine hearing this hypothetical news bulletin on your car radio.”
Complete silence descended on the night, as if the whole city of Jerusalem froze in anticipation of Masada’s made-up news.
“This report has just arrived from Jerusalem.” Masada spoke in the even tone of a news anchor. “This morning, following the assassination of the prime minister and his cabinet, the Israeli Knesset building was destroyed by an explosion credited to an extremist Jewish organization. With El-Al jetliners burning on the tarmac at Ben Gurion Airport, Israeli citizens crowded into fishing boats and yachts, heading for Cyprus and the Greek islands. Meanwhile, bloody rioters vandalized central Jerusalem, and warring militias fought in Tel Aviv. At the United Nations building in New York, the blue and white flag went down while the Security Council voted to send peace observers to the former Jewish state. As of today at noon, the State of Israel is no more.”
Like a million other Jews nearby, Rabbi Josh shut his eyes as Masada’s made-up news bulletin echoed in his mind.
The State of Israel … is no more.
Moses must have felt the same way, Masada thought, only his sea wasn’t yellow. She descended from the stage and passed through the parted sea of people. The path was wide enough that no one touched her, even by accident. Some nodded, some bowed, and some looked away. A man cursed her but was hushed by others. Behind her, the next speaker was quoting verses from the Bible. But the crowd seemed numbed by the mental experiment she had foisted on them.
Masada walked back to the Ramban Hostel through streets filled with people. The front desk clerk looked up from his handheld game, saw her, and jumped to his feet. “Miss El-Tal! I heard your speech on the radio!”
She silenced him with her hand. “Did my friend leave a backpack for me?”
“The reporter? Yes.” He hefted the video backpack over the counter. “Careful. It’s heavy.”
“I know.” Masada shouldered it. “Have you seen Professor Silver?”
The clerk directed her to the cafeteria, where she found him alone, spreading butter on a piece of bread. He wasn’t wearing his thick eyeglasses, and the black beret was replaced by a white baseball cap sporting an extra-wide visor. The table before him was scattered with documents.
“May I join?” She sat down.
“Look who’s here!” He collected his papers into a large, padded envelope. “What a nice surprise!”
“Working on a new book?”
“Always.” The professor pulled the cap’s visor lower over his face. “How was your day?”
She realized he must have missed her speech at the rally. “Uneventful.”
“Mine too. Practically a vacation.” He sipped milk and put down the glass, his hand shaking.
She felt sad. Clearly he was putting on a brave face. “Your eyes bother you, right?”
“Not too bad.”
Masada tore a piece of bread and chewed on it. “Let’s skip that memorial. You don’t seem too well.”
“I’ll get some sleep before we leave.”
“Dress well. It gets chilly up there at night.” Hesitating, she added, “I could go by myself.”
“Absolutely not.” He waved both hands. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
It occurred to Masada that he didn’t even know what had happened to Srulie. “You have to promise me not to ask questions about my family or my past. I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Agreed.” Silver squeezed her hand. “Don’t worry so much, meidaleh. Everything’s going to be fine.”
A guest walked in and turned on the TV. The U.S. Senate podium came into view. A female senator with blondish hair and red lipstick declared hoarsely, “It’s especially painful when you find a friend turning that knife in your back. In upstate New York we have a saying: It’s not who’s sharing the fire with you in winter, but who’s gathering your calves when you’re sick. I say, this great nation need not share its firewood with a country that-”
Masada stood. “I’ll meet you downstairs at 2:30 a.m. If you’re not there, I’m back to bed. Please be late.”
“I doubt it.” Professor Silver chuckled. “Good night.”
Tuesday, August 19
The cool night air from the barred window soothed Rabbi Josh’s burning eyes but did nothing for his sore feet. He had paced the cell for hours, going from wall to wall, glancing at his broken wristwatch as if it could tell the time. Masada’s words had torn him apart. How cruel he had been to this woman, whose heart had repeatedly been broken by devastating losses. Now she was in mortal danger, and he was caged like an animal by his own people.
It had been hours, and his hands hurt from pounding on the door. Silver’s conversation with the taxi driver played repeatedly in his mind. Panic rose in his throat. He hit the door again. “Let me out! Please!”
What if they didn’t release him until the morning?
Masada would be dead.
Suddenly God’s plan became clear: Raul had died for a reason, for the greater good of Israel, because only his father could stop Silver’s evil scheme from consuming Masada and turning Israel’s only ally into a foe.
Raul died for a reason!
Rabbi Josh kicked the steel table. It shook. He tried to move it, but it was bolted to the floor. He fell to his knees and started to unscrew the bolts. All but one came out. He wiped his hands on his shirt and tried again. The last bolt wouldn’t budge. He wrapped it with the lapel of his shirt and tried, but the bolt was too tight.
He rolled on his back and looked up at the ceiling. Was God testing him again? Was it Masada’s turn to die because of his weakness?
The idea scared him so much that he jumped up, grabbed the table and heaved it upward. The last bolted leg bent, and he pushed the table all the way up until it stood perpendicular to the floor, three legs sticking out, the fourth leg holding it up like a skeletal dancer ready to pirouette. He forced the table down in the opposite direction, three legs pointing at the ceiling, and lifted it up, then down again, repeating it again and again, his muscles aching, until the leg broke off and the table slipped from his hands and fell.
Rabbi Josh lifted the steel table and threw it at the mirrored wall. It left a vertical crack in the mirror. He dragged the table across the room, held it up, and rushed back, ramming the corner into the crack, which got longer, slicing his reflection from the top of his head to his crotch. He did it again, and now the crack reached from the ceiling to the floor. Nearing exhaustion, he swung the table in a semicircle and hit the mirror, hammering it several times. The crack let out additional fissures. His arms and shoulders ached, but he kept going until the left half of the mirror broke and fell into the adjoining room.
They woke Elizabeth up in the middle of the night and made her stand in the hallway. She tightened the headdress and smoothed the yellow galabiya. Imam Abdul, the school principal, was holding a rope.
“Don’t you have respect for the law?” she asked. “Even the Sharia sets limits to abuse.”
“You’re an expert on Islamic law too?”
“I demand to see my father!”
“You will see him in the morning and depart with honor.”
His quick relenting surprised her. “Well, that’s good.”
He placed the rope around her waist, pulled a knife, and cut the rope at the exact circumference. “Go back to sleep,” he said.
As they were leaving, one of them said, “What will she do with seventy-”
The end of the sentence was lost in their laughter. It sounded like “burka’in,” which in Arabic meant “ponds,” but it made no sense. What would she want with seventy ponds? And why was it so funny?
Rabbi Josh tiptoed through the adjoining room, avoiding the mirror shards. The hallway windows overlooked the lit-up parking lot. The chicken-wire cage was empty. He tried to open a window, but it was fixed in a wooden frame. He broke it with his elbow and heard the glass fall on the asphalt outside. He got over the windowsill and hung by his hands. Shouts came from down the hall.
Below, the blacktop was strewn with broken glass. To one side was a planter with bushes. He tilted his feet and began to swing like a pendulum.
The voices in the hallway were getting close.
He swung wider, building up momentum, and let go, flying sideways. His bare feet landed just inside the planter, his body falling backward, cushioned by the bushes, the branches cradling his buttocks and thighs.
Someone uttered a curse above.
It was a perfect landing, but the branches sprung back up to their original position and catapulted him forward with force he had not anticipated. He blocked the fall with his hands. Glass slivers broke into fragments that lodged in the skin of his palms.
He sprinted across the parking lot, ignoring the blowing whistles and the pain in his blistered feet and bleeding hands, down an access road, through a small park with swings and a sandbox, along a dark alley and between two buildings, into Jaffa Street.
It was filled with people.
He grabbed a passerby’s wrist and looked at the watch. 2:26 a.m.
Masada had slept fitfully. She took a lukewarm shower and went downstairs at 2:28 a.m., carrying the video backpack. Professor Silver was waiting, dressed in a white shirt and blue suspenders. He was chatting with the front desk clerk. She asked, “You’re still here?”
“I took over at midnight.” The clerk’s acne turned angry red. “From my brother.”
Silver, in a white baseball cap but no glasses, clapped his hands. “Identical twins!”
“Not exactly,” the clerk said. “I read books, my brother plays electronic games.”
Taking Masada’s arm, the professor asked, “That’s the only difference?”
The clerk’s face turned even redder. “My brother likes blondes, I like older women.”
“Like aged wine,” Silver said, chuckling.
“Very funny.” Masada held the door for him.
“Meidaleh,” he patted her hand, “for me you’re a kid.”
The street outside was as busy as in midday. “Our driver is late.” Silver put down his shoulder bag and strained to see farther down the street. “Is this the punctuality of a retired army sergeant?”
“I’m going to buy a mobile phone tomorrow. Do you want one too?”
“Perhaps.”
Masada noticed how small and frail the professor looked. “I don’t have a good feeling about tonight. Let’s go back to sleep.”
Rabbi Josh ran up Jaffa Street. He knew the quickest route to the Ramban Hostel, but his pace was hampered by the human mass that filled the wide road, pressing against the storefronts, swelling into side streets.
He looked at someone’s watch. 2:29 a.m.
The intersection at Jaffa and King George was packed with dancing circles that turned in opposite directions within tight confines, resembling the inside of a clock. A woman grabbed his hand to pull him into a circle. He groaned in pain, retrieving his bloody hand.
She yelled, “Sorry,” and disappeared in the mayhem of leaping feet and singing, “Am Yisrael chai, the Nation of Israeli lives,” as if their voices could be heard all the way to Washington.
Rabbi Josh moved sideways, leading with his right shoulder, making his way up King George Street. At the top of the hill he paused and glanced back at the sight of thousands upon thousands of joyous Israelis, dancing ecstatically, hands locked in unity. Masada’s made-up news report had confronted them with the fragility of Israel’s existence. It had marginalized all political differences and unified everyone in yearning for Israel’s perseverance. Rabbi Josh watched in awe. He knew this sight was unlike anything he would ever see again in his lifetime.
He forced himself to turn away. At this moment, his concern wasn’t for Israel or for the Jewish people, but for one woman in mortal danger.
Farther along the street, the Jewish Agency compound sported a blimp in the shape of a yellow Statue of Liberty holding a torch whose flame was a Star of David. A youth ran by and dropped a yellow hat on the rabbi’s head, hitting the lump left by the police baton earlier.
“Nonsense!” The professor took her hand. “Don’t be a pessimist. This is an opportunity to reconnect with old friends, make peace with the past, relieve the guilt that’s been festering-”
The Masada Complex Page 38