The Masada Faktor

by Naomi Litvin

  And on that day when we were to flee for the march to either death or freedom, the old guard secretly passed the yellow envelope to me. I slipped it into the inside pocket of my dress and went out into the forest with the others.

  I was told to keep the envelope with me until the year 2014 and then give it to whichever of my children that could be trusted to save the Jewish people.

  And later in Munich, I would hear from one of my girlfriends that Hershel the Jewish Kapo saw the old German guard give me the envelope.

  Hershel reported what he saw to Commandant Gustav. Then Commandant Gustav killed the old German. I don’t know what happened to Hershel but I used to have bad dreams about him and sometimes I thought I would see him following me. But that was impossible!

  Always, Mother

  Everything else in the envelope was written in German on old yellowed onion skin paper. I wondered why Mother had not translated it into English for me. Well, I knew she had an aversion to the German language. I had no idea what the contents meant. I would find someone to help me translate it.

  PART ONE

  HAIFA

  CHAPTER ONE

  It was March 18, 2014. I took a wrong turn and found myself in Haifa. I had told myself, prior to leaving California that I would figure it out when I got there. I came to Israel, not as a tourist but as an immigrant exercising my right as a Jew, to settle in Israel under the Laws of Return which had been declared on July 5, 1959.

  I had been to Israel on vacation three other times and then, as I looked back, I realized that I was overly confident thinking I could figure out living in a foreign country when I got there. I would be humbled over and over in my new homeland. Luckily I could read Hebrew and write in script. Although that did not help me much with conversations, it was helpful for reading signs.

  I preferred Tel Aviv, but I had been, or thought I was, determined to be in Haifa for a while because it was so much more affordable. I found I wasn’t comfortable. In other words, I tried Haifa on, and it didn’t fit. I do not wish to disparage anyone that currently lives in Haifa or plans to settle there. For me, I didn’t have a car and the brutal terrain which consisted of very steep hills and steps proved to be too much for me.

  I had arrived at Ben Gurion Airport in Tel Aviv, on the Israeli airliner El Al, with mixed expectations. While waiting for the first leg of my trip in San Francisco I had received an email from the Haifa Municipality who was assisting me with my immigration. It stated that a problem with my absorption apartment had come up. I had been promised a safe place to stay for four weeks while I figured out where I would settle in the Haifa area.

  Not to worry, the email assured, but because of an emergency situation with a needier and homeless family we have located a suitable alternate location for you, but it is only for two weeks. Be sure to have 2,100 shekel with you to pay the landlord.

  Luckily I had enough American dollars in my wallet and knew I could exchange them at the airport for NIS, new Israeli shekel. The dollar was way down at that time, equal to about 3.3 NIS. I was dismayed at the turn of events and hoped this was not a signal of impending doom. I told myself, Stop it. No stinking thinking allowed. This was my adventure of a lifetime, and it was going to be fabulous.

  I felt a bit overloaded as I had packed three large duffle bags and two smaller bags, not knowing if I would come back to the States. Upon landing I was met by a volunteer who informed me that I’d be bussed over to the old airport for processing, and to expect it would take several hours, due to the large amount of Russians being processed at the same time.

  I felt off balance as the time was ten hours ahead of what I was used to on the American West Coast. As I walked through the old airport I noticed that it looked like it was frozen in time, and felt eerily abandoned. There could be another use for this place as a bomb shelter or a prison, I surmised.

  I shrugged off any feeling of foreboding and followed the others into the processing waiting room where framed photos of Bibi Netanyahu and Shimon Peres smiled down at me.

  Luckily sandwiches and drinks were offered. I sat down and awaited my turn to become an Israeli citizen.

  I shared a taxi, which was a free benefit as a new citizen, with another immigrant. Neither she nor the female driver could speak a word of English. I dozed off on the way, waking up as we dropped off the other woman, a Russian with bleached blonde hair. Later, I would run into her again, as she’d turn up in my Ulpan, the Hebrew language class in Haifa.

  The owner of the apartment was waiting for me, and gave me a quick tour of the place which consisted of a small room, a partial kitchen, and a bathroom. She was supplying me with a few dishes and an electric tea kettle, known in Israel as a kumkum, and some other kitchen items, like silverware.

  There had been yet another volunteer waiting at the apartment to welcome me to Haifa, but due to the late hour he had gone home. He left gifts: a box of corn flakes cereal which sat on the counter and a quart of milk, in the tiny refrigerator. He left his business card offering me a coffee date.

  I was grateful that the woman spoke some English and paid her the 2,100 shekel for my two week stay, which was equivalent to about $636. Later I would realize that I didn’t get a receipt.

  On her way out, she turned back to me and with her eyes nervously looking toward the next door on the apartment’s landing, said “Don’t speak to your neighbor. He’s crazy but he won’t hurt you. He was in the Lebanon War.”

  I thought, “Whatever.”

  My first shock was when I attempted to go into the bathroom. The door must have been put on the wrong way because I had to squeeze in by holding in my stomach and going on my tip toes. I immediately noticed a moldy smell and when I looked behind me, saw the black mold in the shower.

  Nevertheless, I was glad to have a place to rest my head. The bed was decrepit and narrow and I immediately removed whatever coverings were on it. Luckily I had packed Mother’s beautiful, hand knitted afghan blankets and wrapped myself in her scent. I fell into a deep sleep.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The next morning I awoke disoriented. My dream of moving to the Sea was not to be realized at this point. Haifa, situated on the narrow Israeli Mediterranean Coast Plain consists of Haifa Beaches south of the business center and extreme hills all the way up to Mount Carmel.

  I walked outside and saw that I was on a high elevation closer to the top of Mount Carmel. I knew the city was split over three tiers and now realized that I was at the top, considered the more elite section of Haifa. I was fifty-six miles from the Lebanon border.

  I continued walking in search of coffee, snapping some photos and saw how far I was from the Sea, as I could see down to the water from some points.

  There was a coffee shop at the end of the street and I ordered a café latte and a pastry. I looked around and saw that they had Wi-Fi and many electrical outlets for computers, good news as I knew the apartment was not set up for Wi-Fi.

  On the way back to the apartment I bought some cleaning supplies at a small market because there was no way I could take a shower until I cleaned it. I spent copious amounts of time spraying bleach on the mold and rinsing.

  At the point when I felt fairly safe to shower, the water was ice cold. No one had told me about the hot water switch, called the dood, which has to be turned on about fifteen minutes prior to getting hot water for showers or dishwashing. It would take a week of icy showers to figure this out.

  Someone was knocking at the door. I opened it to see a young man, shockingly beautiful, maybe in his mid-thirties. He had black hair, blue eyes, and curly black chest hair peeking out of his ironed blue oxford shirt. “Natasha Bernard?” he said.

  “Yes,” I said. “You must be Danny Cohen.”

  “Yes,” he said smiling broadly. “Welcome to Haifa!”

  On the second night in Haifa the bed collapsed under me landing me directly on the floor in a state of panic. I saw that the wooden pieces that had held it together looked like they had been chew
ed up by an animal. During the night I had heard scraping sounds outside my door. I assumed it was the neighbor that the landlady had warned me about.

  I was nervous without Wi-Fi and hadn’t, as yet, gotten a cell phone. In the morning I went to the café for breakfast and to send an email to Danny telling him that I wanted a refund and needed to find a hotel.

  After returning to the apartment a pounding on the door brought my neighbor into my life. “Hello? Shalom?” My voice sounded like a squeak as I opened the door. He proceeded to rant in Hebrew. I didn’t understand a word of it. His eyes were scary and wild. He was unshaven and his hair was very long. I smelled alcohol on him. I slammed the door.

  After a bit I ran back to the café and emailed Danny again, to get me out of this place. There was an email for me but not from Danny. Luckily some of my Australian cousins happened to be in Israel at the time and invited me to my first Sabbath, Shabbat in a fabulous flat they were house sitting in Jaffa.

  Danny finally showed up and offered to give me a ride to Jaffa. He was macho with excellent Hebrew. He had no hesitation in knocking on the neighbor’s door. I could not decipher a word of their heated conversation but afterward Danny advised me to ignore him. He assured me that as long as I did not use the porch light, or make noise, and not have company everything would be fine.

  On the way to Jaffa we stopped at Grand Canyon, the biggest mall in Haifa, to get my cell phone. Danny was American born and raised, a charming young man, and it was easy for me to calm down and begin to enjoy my new adventure.

  During the drive down, he pointed out many sites. Then I had a wonderful time exploring Jaffa and being with my cousins. By the time I returned to Haifa, my bed had been replaced but the black mold was still there in the shower.

  Danny Cohen was attentive to my needs my first week in Haifa. He helped me set up my bank account, health care, and various other details for my new life in Israel, including getting signed up for the specific Ulpan that I would be attending, The Abba Hushi School on Sderot Hamagenin named after Abba Hushi, the first mayor of Haifa.

  And then Danny disappeared. Later on I heard that he quit his job.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Haifa is the biggest city in Northern Israel and third largest in the country with a history of being settled for 3,000 years and ruled by Phoenicians, Persians, Hasmoneans, Romans, Byzantines, Arabs, Crusaders, Ottomans, British, and Israelis. Haifa is mentioned over one hundred times in the Talmud, our oral and legal explanation of the Torah, our written law.

  Approximately 600,000 people currently live in Haifa and the surrounding areas. I didn’t think it would be hard to get a better living space and besides, I only had this apartment for two weeks. I had no time to waste so I started looking for another place to live closer to the Sea. I wanted to be walking distance to Ulpan and close to the railway to easily travel to Tel Aviv.

  I found an area called Hadar which used to be the commercial center and where most of Haifa’s Jews had lived before they all decided to move up to the top of Mount Carmel. It was established before World War I and by 1944 there were 60,000 Jews living there. The Hadar District is on the northern slope of Mount Carmel in between the lower and upper city. It overlooks the Port and the Bay and is close to downtown and the government offices.

  I liked that the Carmelite, built in the 1950’s and called the smallest subway in the world was a funicular subway and cut right through Hadar. It could take you up and down the mountain from Paris Square downtown to Gan Ha’em, the top at the Mount Carmel shopping district. It cost a bit more than taking the bus but I liked the feeling of being on it, and there were always opportunities to speak with tourists.

  The beautiful Baha’i Shrine was also in this neighborhood. I was pleased with my choice of a new location. I was aware that it was culturally mixed between Jews, Arabs, Christians, and lots of Russians. The views were fantastic and I thought I could be happy there.

  My plan was to walk the streets of Hadar and look for signs of places for rent. Almost immediately, as I cut up a side street, I saw a small stone cottage with a sign. It was on Gid’on Street and looked a bit off the beaten track on a steep hill. I phoned the number on the sign and a woman answered. I asked if she spoke English. She did and we made an appointment.

  It was a ground floor renovated place that had been an old horse barn. It had stone walls inside and reminded me of a cave. There was no heat or air conditioning but the landlady assured me it did not require either because it was on the ground floor and had stone walls. The kitchen was cute, with all red cabinets. There was no refrigerator or stove.

  I noticed that Masada Street was at the top of the hill and not far from this unit. I took that as a positive symbol and rented the place. Masada Street had shops and Arab and Jewish cafes, even a laundromat.

  I hurried back to the temporary apartment to pack. I was going with the flow, and trusted that everything would work out for the best. The stone cottage was unfurnished but I didn’t care. I moved my belongings within a few days by taxi and began scouring the flea markets for odds and ends. I was able to borrow an air mattress to sleep on and began to settle in.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I signed up for Ulpan and was attending five days per week but wasn’t exactly happy with their mode of teaching Hebrew. All of my classmates were Russian except for one American non-Jewish woman who was engaged to an Israeli.

  Monique and I became friends and study partners. She was a statuesque and stunning African American who had been a top model in prior years. We started going to the beautiful, awesome Hof HaCarmel, after class to study our lessons. Monique was a very sexy and mesmerizing lady that drew attention wherever we went.

  One day, as we sat in her two low beach chairs that she always kept in her car, we were approached by a friendly group of Arab ladies who said they were from Hebron and had come on a tour bus.

  The women had English skills and at first there were about four of them smiling and talking to us. Two were in jeans and t-shirts, the other two were in long skirts. They all wore colorful hijabs.

  It seemed that they were practicing their English with us. It was fine, we were enjoying the conversation. They told us that they had between five and eight children each.

  They were intrigued with Monique as she looked so different from them in her neon pink bikini and hair in soft, shoulder length dreadlocks. They asked if they could touch her hair.

  I was wearing Mother’s gold Jewish star necklace and then I saw them staring at me. All of a sudden their focus seemed to shift from Monique to me.

  Another four women, all in black with hijabs to match, from head to toe, joined their group and surrounded us. Since we were seated and they were standing, it began to feel uncomfortable.

  One of the ladies that had started the conversation pointed to a woman in black and said to me, “A Yehudi killed her husband!” She formed her hand into a gun and her smile turned maniacal.

  “Her husband is dead,” a woman to her left said directly to me.

  “I am sorry she is a widow,” is what came out of me as I was packing up my Hebrew books and then she repeated it again three times.

  I whispered to Monique, “A Yehudi is a Jew.” The Arab woman was still making the hand gesture of a gun.

  Their body language became more aggressive and frightening. I looked at my friend and could see that she was getting upset. I motioned my head toward the parking lot and signaled her with my eyes.

  Quietly, Monique said, “Let’s go.” We gathered the chairs and said goodbye to the ladies.

  We got to Monique’s car and didn’t look back. At that point we were both shaky as we drove away. Monique was still in her bikini and was driving fast. We went North on Highway 2. We decided to call it a day.

  We got to my place on Gid’on Street and I invited Monique in for a cold drink. When we entered my cottage I immediately noticed that my laptop was on the floor. Someone had definitely been inside my place. Looking back, I realized
that this was the first sign that I was being followed in Israel.

  Monique phoned her fiancé who didn’t seem particularly impressed by our experience. He must be used to this, I thought, being a native Israeli.

  I offered Monique a shot of tequila to go with the ice water that I was making and she agreed. We licked the back of our hands and sprinkled salt on them and licked them again. Then we drank the tequila.

  I apologized for not having lemon or lime and we laughed about that. And then we repeated the process and had one more shot. Suddenly I felt a wave of vertigo, I wasn’t sure if it was the stress or that I was overheated.

  “I just need to lay down and close my eyes for a moment,” I told Monique.

  She followed me over to the airbed and sat down on it next to me. We kept talking about our beach experience and then she slowly put one arm under my back, causing the airbed to ripple and then her other arm reached under my rear.