The Masada Faktor

by Naomi Litvin

  Before looking at the material, it struck me how long it had taken me to get to Israel. Too long. Had I come thirty years ago, like many others did, I would be fluent in Hebrew, I might have had children and grandchildren. No, there was no doubt about that.

  Instead, I had arrived at this late time of my life alone, chasing a mystery. I had no memories of childbirth or waking up in the mornings wrapped in the arms of a loving husband, perhaps with children jumping on the bed. Still, I was hopeful.

  I didn’t understand who knew where I was, and how to contact me. That creeped me out. But the truth? I had a devil may care attitude about my life. I felt reckless and wild. I had blogged about journeying to Israel and tweeted daily as to where I was headed, so really, anyone in the world could easily know where I was. I wanted to make up for lost time. I was ready to experience life.

  The only thing in the shopping bag was a lot of blank wadded up newspaper. On closer inspection, I saw a small plastic bag. Inside was a folded piece of paper that read, “You must reply to the email from Millie Stone.”

  The name Millie Stone was vaguely familiar. There had been an email from a Millie some months back before I had left for Israel. I would dig it out of my inbox later and refresh my memory. It was late and I had gotten the last train back to Haifa.

  I knew that if I didn’t get off at the Bat Galim Station, I wouldn’t get a bus back close to Gid’on Street. I’d have to walk up the steep hills in the dark. I got off at Bat Galim. It was late and deserted at the bus stop.

  I waited a long time for a bus outside the train station. There was an old abandoned bus station next door. It looked like the perfect place to hide a dead body. I needed to put a cap on my wild fantasies. Eventually, after almost an hour, the bus arrived and I got back to my stone cottage, half running from the bus stop on Herziliya Street.

  Returning to Haifa late at night scared me and I was convinced more than ever that I wanted to move to Tel Aviv. I loved the 24/7 action. There was nothing that I didn’t like about Tel Aviv. I wanted to be a Tel Avivian.

  I would finish up in Haifa. There were a few more things I needed to see. And then I would get the hell out of there.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I had previously, only peripherally seen Millie Stone’s email to me. I was busy, at the time, holding onto my dead end job, coming home nightly to my lonely condo after Mother had died, and in general having one big pity party. Really, I didn’t remember reading it at all.

  I found Millie’s email way down in my inbox. She wrote that she was the granddaughter of an acquaintance of Mother’s from post-World War II Germany. She said that her grandfather’s name was Oskar. He had died sometime in 2011, and she, being his only grandchild, had cleaned out his apartment in Munich where he had stayed since the end of the war.

  She had found me through Google, and then my blog site which contained my email address. She told me she had something for me and was strictly instructed not to open it. I felt as if she was trying to entice me with this information of her findings.

  She was specific in pointing out that the only reason for not throwing these findings in the trash was the stipulation in her grandfather Oskar’s will that she contact Mother, or if Mother had died, then her next of kin, with this information. Millie also wrote that she wanted nothing to do with her family’s past.

  Millie said she was in the process of making Aliyah to Israel from Germany, mostly because of the music scene in Tel Aviv. I was somewhat surprised that there were any German Jews left over there and for her reasons for wanting to exercise her Right of Return to Israel.

  She wanted nothing to do with her family’s past, when Israel is all about the past. Oh well, I thought, Lots of people made Aliyah for different reasons. Who am I to question hers? Still, it was all very strange.

  I was uneasy when I finally replied to Millie’s email. Something did not feel right, and I was taking this information in with skepticism. I gave my phone number and suggested that we get together, thinking, She must be involved with the Arab from Haifa.

  I also mentioned that I was busy trying to find an affordable apartment in Tel Aviv and wouldn’t have much time. Moving to Tel Aviv was my first priority and finding an apartment there would be difficult.

  It was a Friday night at the beach in Tel Aviv and I could hear the beating of the drums. It was right before sundown and the lifeguard made a loud announcement over the crackling loudspeakers in Hebrew, then repeated it in accented English, “Ladies and gentlemen, in fifteen minutes there will be no more lifeguards on the beach. Please watch your children as the surf is very dangerous. Shabbat Shalom.”

  I had walked up the promenade to Tel Aviv from Jaffa, and noticed Muslim men and their children in bathing suits frolicking in the surf. Their wives must have been sweating under their long black dresses. Even though they were smiling, I thought of their second class status as women.

  Lost in thought about the plight of Muslim women on the beach, I abruptly found myself face to face with a tall young woman who spoke to me in a bizarre high pitched voice with a German accent, “Natasha Bernard? I am Millie Stone.”

  We went to Landwers Coffee at the Tel Aviv Marina behind the Gordon Pool. We sat down at an outside table. I was hungry and wanted to have their warm quinoa and lentil salad and a Goldstar beer.

  Millie ordered a coffee and we made some small talk about our email correspondence and she let me know she was a flight attendant. I found that hard to believe as she seemed so ill at ease in her own skin. She kept looking around, her eyes darting from table to table.

  She explained that her German grandfather was not Jewish but had married a Jewish woman after World War II. Millie’s mother was born to them. “My mother is Jewish and therefore I am Jewish. Even according to the religious Jews I can make Aliyah.

  I tore open the package that she gave me but there was nothing inside but postcards and souvenirs from Munich 1945. “Millie, what am I supposed to do with this stuff?”

  “Well, I certainly do not know and do not care. All I know is that it was my specific duty to get this to you so that I can receive my inheritance. And now I can afford to get the flat that I want in Dizengoff Square. And also, I meant to ask, are you at all interested in renting out my spare bedroom?”

  I couldn’t believe my good luck. “Yes Millie, I would love to see it. And if I like it I will move in immediately!” She gave me the address and told me to meet her there the next day at 2:00 P.M.

  The memorabilia from Millie’s grandfather Oskar didn’t seem to have anything to do with The Masada Faktor. After Millie left Landwers Coffee I stayed for a while to look over all of it. I didn’t want to think she was using it to lure me, it seemed reasonable that it was a condition of her inheritance.

  I could have been rationalizing that there was no connection between Millie and the conspiracy. But I needed this chance, to live in Tel Aviv. If I was going to successfully live in Israel, I had to take risks. That’s all there was to it.

  I decided to stay the night in Tel Aviv as it would be tough getting back and forth to Haifa on a sherut on Shabbat. There were plenty of mini buses available but they waited until they filled up before taking off, and it could be a long delay.

  I went over to The Brown Boutique Hotel on Kalisher to book a room. I registered and went up to my room on the third floor, after drinking the requisite complimentary chilled glass of white Cava, a Spanish sparkling wine.

  In the small, dark, mirrored, elevator on the way up there were three beautiful Israeli men close enough to almost touch. I wished that somehow this elevator would break down between floors. I was going to enjoy my new city. It dawned on me that my sex drive was returning after an extended hiatus. And I thought, Hallelujah!

  I went to sleep early and woke up to a stunning sunrise. After a shower, I headed for The Coffee House on Binyamin Naholot, for my free, included breakfast, a perk for staying at the Brown. I gorged on their heavenly salmon Eggs Benedict on whole wheat pas
try, sautéed spinach in a cream sauce, Israeli cucumber and tomato salad, freshly squeezed orange juice, and a large café latte.

  I went back to The Brown to check out, had a coffee at the bar. Then I headed for Trumpeldor Beach to wait until my appointment to see Millie Stone’s flat.

  I knew the location of the flat was ideal and hoped that I could get along with this Yekke. She was German, stiff and without a sense of humor but she was Jewish so I figured it would be all right. There was something about her high pitched German accent that made my skin crawl.

  I told myself that this was a business arrangement, and that roommates didn’t have to be friends. I had not had any roommates before, just Mother.

  I got to the building on Ben-Ami early and waited by the fountain in Dizengoff Square. Millie arrived exactly on time. Before we entered the building, she vehemently told me that my room rental had to be hush-hush, only between the two of us. It was important to her that the landlord not learn that I’d occupy the second bedroom in the flat.

  “Oh, Millie, I need a key to the mailbox.” I stated.

  “You must not have a key to the mailbox. You will have your mail sent in care of Millie Stone.” She explained. “And I will give it to you.”

  “Can I put my name on the mailbox?” I inquired.

  “No! Under no circumstances can you have your name on the box. It is my flat, not yours. You are renting a room. Since there are two balconies, you may have one for your use. And we will share the kitchen and the downstairs shower,” Millie was rattling on about stipulations.

  “Okay Millie, I am flexible.” There was something off about the situation but I thought about the positives of having a flight attendant for a roommate.

  “Who is the Arab in Haifa? How did he know to contact me for you?” I had to know.

  “His name is Tajir and I knew he lived in Haifa. He is only an acquaintance that is half German. I read in your blog that you were in Haifa, and I asked him to look for you.”

  ”Why all the cloak and dagger?” I needed to know.

  “What is cloak and dagger?” She laughed, but it didn’t seem sincere.

  “It means mystery,” I answered, the whole time looking into her eyes to see if she was lying to me.

  “Oh that silly Tajir. He is so theatrical.” Millie waved it off.

  That didn’t explain the note at the beach and the shopping bag at the lighthouse, but I would think about that later. We struck a deal and I was going to be a Tel Aviv resident. I was ecstatic at the thought of moving from Haifa.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  First things first. I went back to Haifa to wrap things up. Something was nagging me about Tajir, the Arab. I wanted to see if I could find him again and try to see if his story about being Millie’s acquaintance matched hers. Rethinking all that she said, especially that Tajir was half German, raised a red flag for me.

  I had read about the younger German Templars in Israel during World War II who had become mesmerized by Hitler. They had gone back to Germany during the war to assist the Nazis in destroying the European Jews. Seventeen percent of the Templars in Palestine were members of the Nazi party by 1938.

  Due to the fact that the Templars did not embrace a uniform religious ideology, they were easy prey to Hitler’s National Socialism. Official Third Reich policy included all international German communities to embrace Naziism. Mein Kampf was being distributed to all Templar communities and schools, including in Israel.

  When World War II started, 1,000 of these Nazis were put in internment camps in Sarona, then deported to Australia and Germany.

  The community house and local school, Beit Hava’ad, built in 1871 flew the swastika for seven years until 1943. To think that Nazi flags flew from the Templar buildings in Sarona, now a neighborhood in Tel Aviv, made me sick.

  Then Irgun fighters, the Zionist military organization that operated from 1931-1948 planted a bomb by the building which injured the mayor of Sarona, a fanatic disciple of Hitler and the Nazi party.

  My research showed that out of all the German Templars expelled during World War II, 345 had remained in Palestine. Supposedly the ones that remained in the Holy Land denounced Naziism. David Ben Gurion changed the name Sarona to The Kiryah. In 2006 the name was changed back to Sarona, when it was decided to restore all of the buildings.

  I speculated about the connection between Millie and Tajir. It was a hunch but was it all connected? Millie and her German grandfather who wasn’t Jewish, and the offer of an apartment. I didn’t have enough evidence to discourage me from moving to Tel Aviv.

  I made a doctor’s appointment on Moriah Street with the so-called Anglo doctor to discuss a recurring issue that I had with vertigo. I had suffered from vertigo for a long time but lately there seemed to be other happenings that were related to it. This doctor had been recommended by all the Anglo expatriates that I knew.

  Arriving at the office, I was shocked to see that the receptionist had a thing for cats. Her name was Edna, and her entire office was filled with a cat collection. It contained many porcelain cat figurines, stuffed cat toys, wooden cats, stone cats, cat calendars, cat posters, framed photos and paintings of cats, and even a cat bobble head. Was she actually wearing cat earrings? I was weirded out and disgusted to see this in a doctor’s office.

  The doctor had no idea what was causing my vertigo episodes. He looked in my ears and took my vitals. He told me the condition was usually attributed to inner ear problems but because I had started to black out after them, he was not certain my case was so.

  He wanted me to return for some testing but I told him I was moving to Tel Aviv. He recommended that I choose another doctor over there. He also suggested that I visit a psychologist.

  “Do you think this vertigo is psychosomatic?” I was taken aback by this. “Can I be imaging that I get dizzy and the room spins, and then I black out?” In my mind I thought, Screw you, doc.

  “It is possible that stress is bringing this on. I think you should cover all avenues if this is something that bothers you.” The doctor concluded the appointment.

  I said goodbye to the doctor and Edna and left the office.

  The next morning I went over to the Haifa City Museum on Ben Gurion Street. It was in the German Colony near The Bahá’í Gardens. The museum was recently built from a grant from Germany. I sauntered through and read all the information that was in English.

  I perceived anti-Zionist insinuations in the information on some of the plaques regarding what happened in 1948. One mentioned Zionist propaganda and proclaimed that the 1950’s photos by Jewish photographers depicted the Arabs as inferior and underdeveloped.

  The one thing I did enjoy was a video presentation about the Carmelite Subway. It was actually a black and white cartoon of a boy traveling on it. The music was good and it made me smile.

  It was quiet in there and I may have been the only visitor. I was upset by the tone of the information in the museum. There was an outdoor, interior courtyard to the museum and I went there and sat down on a bench in the shade to think.

  It was quiet out there also, being an out of the way place, and not accessible from the street. I was writing some things in my spiral notebook when I looked up to see the same Arab, Tajir, standing in front of me. Oh good, I thought, I can ask him some questions.

  But he abruptly grabbed me by the hair and pulled me down off the bench. He jumped on top of me and put his hands around my neck. His face was much too close to mine and what I noticed was that his breath and clothes smelled of cigarettes. Then I saw stars in my eyes.

  He was speaking to me in German which I did not understand. A German Arab! Millie’s half German acquaintance. I was shocked and afraid. Confusing thoughts swirled inside my brain and it occurred to me that I could die at the hands of a German. Abruptly my fear turned to anger, which was a good thing. The anger rose up in me and gave me strength. I was able to push him off.

  I started to fight back. He backed up and I came after him and scratc
hed his face. He kept punching at me and landed a few blows but I was able to block most of them.

  My karate training from the old days was still in my head and I did a roundhouse kick that landed on his chest. Wishing I had a weapon, I remembered that my house key was in the right hand pocket of my shorts.

  We fell to the ground again, wrestling, and I was screaming for help but no one was coming. I pulled the key out of my shorts’ pocket and put it between my index and third fingers with the sharp end pointing out.

  Somehow, with all my force and with an undercut punch that came to mind, I aimed exactly for his scrotum. He wailed like the dog he was and rolled away from me. I decided to step on his head as hard as I could and then I ran into the museum and went for the exit. I continued running without looking behind me and hailed a taxi. “Get me out of here, as fast as you can.”