by Dan Sofer
He crossed the street. A handwritten sign on the door read, “Dry Bones Society. Third floor.” The resurrected met at Clal Center, Hasan had said, and they had selected a fitting name.
An arrow pointed the way inside. One look at the elevator convinced him to take the stairs, but the third floor corridor was quiet. Too quiet. Had Hasan sent him into a trap? Was this Dry Bones Society a second killing field for martyrs who refused to stay dead?
He passed a door with a sign that read, “Absorption Center.”
“You,” said a commanding voice and Ahmed jumped. An old lady poked out the door, stared at him, then waddled over. Her eyes grew very large behind her thick glasses. “Hungry?”
He nodded.
She grinned. “Follow me.”
She led him to a large room within the Absorption Center. Steam rose from a long line of silver trays on a counter. The scent of cooked meat and rice almost overpowered him. His limbs trembled. The sight was too much. He wanted to charge ahead and bury his face in the food. Had he finally reached Heaven or was this another cruel trap? The food would disappear on touch. Or he would choke, the Jews having laced the delicacies with poison.
The old lady placed a clean plate in his hands. “Go on,” she said. “It’s kosher. Glatt kosher. The classes break for lunch soon, so dish up before there’s a line.”
Ahmed didn’t need a second invitation. He piled chicken thighs, rice, and steamed vegetables on the plate, then added the juicy cuts of meat dripping with thick gravy.
“Easy does it,” she said. “You can come back for seconds.”
He shoved handfuls into his mouth, then settled for a table and cutlery. So far, he had not dropped dead. If the old crone had poisoned the food, he would enjoy a very tasty final meal.
The old lady poured him a tumbler of sweet juice, and sat down opposite. “What’s your name?”
He paused mid-bite. Should he lie to his generous hostess? Even if she threw him out, he would have gobbled more food in the last few seconds than he had in the past few days.
He said, “Ahmed,” trying and failing to mask his Arabic accent.
The old lady nodded and pulled out a mobile phone. “Hello, dear,” she said into it. “Another one just came in. Yes. In the dining hall.”
Had she called security? He shoveled food into his mouth faster in case he had to dash for the exit.
“I’m Sarah,” she said. “You’ll want to have a shower, trust me. There’s plenty of donated clothes to choose from, and I expect you’ll want to stay in the dormitory.”
“Dormitory?” Had she offered him a place to live?
“One floor up,” she said, and pointed at the ceiling. “Nothing fancy, but it’s a place to stay and close to the Absorption Center.”
A tear trickled down his cheeks. The old lady was willing to accept him, alive and whole; Ahmed had found a new home in the most unlikely of places.
“That is,” she added, “until you can process your identity card and make your own way in the world.”
He swallowed hard. Once his old identity became known, they’d cast him out for sure. He would have to avoid that.
The old lady peered at the door behind him. “There she is.”
Ahmed heard soft footfalls and turned around. The figure that stood beside their table was not a security guard, but a pretty young woman. She wore a green hijab and gave him a demure welcoming smile.
“Ahmed,” the old lady said, “this is Samira. She’ll take care of you.”
CHAPTER 37
Is this really happening?
A number of young professionals buzzed around Moshe Wednesday evening while he waited on a comfortable armchair in the Channel Two studio. One attached a microphone bud to his shirt. Another applied a makeup brush to his cheek. Yet others adjusted spotlights wrapped in umbrellas and positioned large mounted cameras.
Beside him, Dani Tavor reviewed a sheaf of papers on the conference table while an attendant styled his wavy gray hair. Liat Arbel sat next to him and gave him a brief smile. They looked older in real life, although, to be fair, Moshe had first seen the father-and-daughter duo on the small screen fifteen years ago.
Liat brushed a strand of hair from her face. “Nervous?” she asked him.
“A little.”
She smirked. “We’ll try to go easy on you.”
Fat chance of that. The famous duo, Dani and Liat, were known to grill their guests on the weekly television panel like plucked chickens on a rotisserie. In his previous life, Moshe had fantasized about appearing on this Israeli answer to The Oprah Winfrey Show to discuss the unrivaled successes of Karlin & Son. Moshe’s current reality had surpassed even that fantasy.
Heat up the grill. Moshe didn’t mind. Negative publicity was publicity too, and he represented a non-profit that aided the weakest, poorest, most miserable minority in society. How bad a picture of him could they paint?
“Five seconds,” said a man with a tablet computer and a wireless earpiece.
The makeup crew fled and the famous duo sat up in their chairs. Moshe did the same.
“Welcome,” Dani said into the gaping mouth of a teleprompter camera. “Unless you’ve been living under a rock this past week, you will have heard of the wave of new immigrants that have reached our shores. Unlike other immigrants, however, these have arrived not from another country, but from another life, or, as some would say, another world. With us in the studio is Moshe Karlin of the Dry Bones Society, the organization that he established to cater to the needs of this new demographic of resurrected men and women. Welcome to the show, Moshe.”
“Thanks.”
Liat took over. “You’ve had to face a lot of opposition and not a few setbacks over the first few months, haven’t you?”
“Yes,” Moshe said. He’d have to move beyond monosyllables soon, and needed to find an excuse to plug the Society’s toll-free donation hotline.
Liat continued. “Many doubted the truth of the so-called Resurrection, calling it a hoax. Until recently, the State didn’t recognize your people or their rights.”
“That is true,” Moshe said, jumping on the opportunity. “In addition to the inherent trauma of coming back to life, they aren’t able to function in society—to find jobs or get medical attention. Many still have no food or shelter. We rely heavily on donations to assist newcomers. Our volunteers visit cemeteries across the—”
“But now,” Dani said, cutting him off, and Moshe felt the full force of his trademark piercing look, “you’ve had many successes. The Second Law of Return gave you citizenship and, it seems, preferential treatment at both the Ministry of the Interior and the National Insurance Institute, which now overflow with resurrected men and women applying for identity cards and health insurance. And, of course, there’s your recent foray into politics.”
“Yes,” Moshe said. “Thank God, we’ve made significant progress.”
“Thank God, you say. And yet you have joined with Isaac Gurion’s new political party, Upward. Isaac Gurion is running a very anti-religious campaign.”
Moshe took a sip from his complimentary bottle of mineral water and placed it back on the table. He had expected comments like that. “The resurrected come from all parts of society. Religious. Secular. Jewish. Arab. We help them all and we hope that our new friends will enable us to do more good.”
“Do you think,” Liat asked, “that the rest of us should feel… threatened?”
Moshe had not expected that one. He hoped his mouth hadn’t dropped too low. “Threatened?” he repeated. “Why should you? Our society will only gain. Lost loved ones are returning home. We’ve added talent and working hands to the economy, not to mention their many years of experience and insight.”
“Yes,” Dani said. “But each job taken by a Dry Bone—for lack of a better term—is a job lost to a First Timer. The Ministry of the Interior has been closed to them for days, and our medical services have only so much capacity. Would ordinary citizens be right to feel disenfranchised?”
Moshe’s fingers reached for the buttons of his shirt. The grill had heated up. “That’s a temporary spike. The load on the Ministry will ease up soon enough. The State will need to invest in infrastructure, that’s true, but that will only stimulate the economy further. Most industries in Israel suffer from a lack of workers, not unemployment. We’ll no longer need to import foreign workers.”
Dani didn’t seem to have heard him. “And now,” he said, “with your new political clout, it’s understandable that a few people might be concerned.”
Liat said, “Not just a few. Twenty thousand. See for yourself.”
The screen built into the table lit up. Hordes of people crowded Kaplan Street outside the Knesset building. At first Moshe thought this was footage of the Dry Bones Society demonstration, but these protestors wore yellow shirts with black nuclear hazard signs. The placards in their hands read “Zombies Go Home!” and “Life is for the Living!”
“This came in an hour ago,” Dani explained. “Citizens in Jerusalem have taken to the streets in protest.”
Moshe didn’t buy the spontaneous demonstration narrative. Someone had to have printed the yellow shirts and coordinated with the police officers, whose cruisers watched from the corner. A thicket of bearded men in the black cloaks of the ultra-Orthodox held their own picket signs aloft, which read “Demons Be Gone!”
“What are they chanting?” Liat asked.
Dani said, “Sounds to me like ‘Undead Stay Dead!’”
One man stood above the crowd and led the chanting. The demagogue shouted hatred into a megaphone as the camera zoomed in.
Moshe shuddered and his face drained of blood. He knew the man with the megaphone, and so he knew who had printed the shirts, arranged the crowds, and turned the country against him. Their paths had crossed before only too often. His name was Avi Segal.
CHAPTER 38
Noga led the blindfolded man from the bedroom into the corridor. He didn’t reach out with his hands to feel for obstacles. Eli trusted her completely. Good. She would need a double dose of that trust tonight.
“Almost there,” she said. She led him to the dining room and struggled to untie the scarf around his head.
“So,” he said, smiling, “are you going to show me why you locked me in the room for the last hour or what?”
“Patience, Smart Ass.” The knot unraveled and the scarf fell from his eyes. “There!”
He blinked at the set table and lit candles.
Noga clasped her hands together like a Queen Ester who had entered the royal court uninvited, her life depending on the king’s reaction. Raise the golden scepter and she lived. Otherwise, off with her head. Noga needed a good reaction right now, especially knowing what she had lined up for later.
“Wow!” he said. He turned to her and his eyes widened further. “Wow again!”
She had used his credit card and selected a minimalist red evening dress for the occasion. Matching lipstick and half an hour with a blow-dryer and voila! A romantic dinner for two. The phone call to Oshi Oshi had provided a platter of his favorite tempura sushi.
He seated her first, then poured wine into the two glasses. “My birthday is a few months away,” he said.
“I know,” she said. They split their takeout chopsticks and dug in.
“What’s the occasion?”
“You’ll see.”
He grinned and dipped his sushi in the tub of soy sauce.
“I’ve got a surprise for you too,” he said.
“You do? What kind of surprise?” His last surprise had almost wrecked their relationship in the secret garden of Shaare Zedek.
“That depends on you,” he said. “What do you prefer—the Bahamas or the Caribbean?”
“Come again?”
“There’s a big and beautiful world out there,” he said. “We should see it. Let’s take off a few weeks and go on a cruise.”
“A cruise?” A thrill ran through her body.
“Mm-hmm,” he said, chewing his food. “Norwegian and Princess do both lines. Which do you prefer?”
We’re going on a cruise! “Um,” she said. “Both sound good. You choose.”
Noga had never dreamed of going on a cruise—expensive vacations had never made it onto the menu—but Eli was going to make those dreams come true all the same.
She slammed the brakes on her enthusiasm. If the evening went according to plan, the cruise would have to wait. Was she making a huge mistake?
In the hospital, Eli had been the closet lunatic, she the voice of reason. How the tables had turned! She had double-checked her facts and rehearsed their delivery. She had shed every ounce of doubt and made her decision. Eli would hear the whole truth tonight, and to implement her decision, she needed Eli’s support, not just to hold her hand, but to play an active role, the role she had dismissed months ago as a delusion.
“Everything all right?”
She put down her chopsticks and wiped her mouth on an Oshi Oshi napkin. She had to tell him now; the stakes were too high.
“Eli,” she said. “Remember that time in the hospital, in the secret garden? You gave me a rose and a jewelry box.”
“How could I forget,” he said.
“You asked me to listen without interrupting. To hear you out.”
“Yeah,” he said. “And then you threw the box at my head and stormed out.”
She managed a nervous smile. “I need the same of you tonight,” she said. “The ‘hear me out’ bit,” she added quickly. “Not the storming out.”
He raised his eyebrows and the smile faded from his face. He had guessed what this was about. “OK,” he said. He loved her and he’d listen, just as she had.
The Jerusalem skyline darkened through the French windows in the adjoining living room. No turning back now.
“I owe you an apology,” she said. His eyebrows bunched with confusion. She had hoped that the opening would pique his interest and soften the impact of her words. “I went with Hannah to Samaria yesterday,” she continued. “We met with the heads of Arab clans. Their traditions back up the genetic data from my thesis. They’re Jewish and they know it. And now Hannah has figured out why.”
Eli stopped chewing and watched her in silence.
“They’re like the Marranos of Spain—they chose conversion over death or expulsion—but they’ve been here since the First Temple. Eli, they’re the Ten Lost Tribes of Israel.”
Eli blinked but said nothing, so she plowed on.
“You were right about the false messiahs. There were loads of them and they caused so much damage. But they all appeared during times of turmoil and suffering. Bar Kokhba after the destruction of the Second Temple. A whole bunch of messiahs during the Crusades. Sabbatai Zevi after the Khmelnytsky pogroms that wiped out a third of European Jewry. Those messiahs arose during desperate times. These are not desperate times. We live in a democracy with supermarkets and medicine, technology and reality TV. This time really is different.”
He drew a deep breath and exhaled. Were the facts getting through?
“Two months ago in the secret garden, you told me that you were Elijah, that the End of Days was here and that we had a special role to play together. It sounded crazy then—it still does—and I walked out on you, I know. But what if you were right?”
He gazed at her with sad, tired eyes.
“I’m sorry I doubted you, Eli. But I’m ready to make that up.”
Still not a word.
“Well?”
“Are you done?”
“Yes, I’m done.” His calm silence had frayed her nerves and was driving her insane.
“I’m not going to throw anything at you,” he said.
A nervous gasp of air escaped her lips. The rogue was playing with her, deliberately keeping her in suspense when he was behind her all the way.
“I’m not going to storm out either.” His smile faded. “But I don’t want you to suffer the way I did.”
“Suffer?”
/> “I know what it’s like. The certainty. The all-consuming obsession. It wasn’t easy to break free. You saw that for yourself.”
Noga exploded. “Have you heard a word I’ve said? These are hard facts—undeniable data points—not some conspiracy theory. My thesis supervisor wants to go public and write a paper.”
“And in the past,” he said, in an annoying singsong, “people sold their homes to join the Son of David in the Holy Land, only to lose everything.” He paused to calm down. “I heard you out, Noga. Now, please, listen to me. Delusions are delusions because they seem so real. Let her publish her papers. Her colleagues will laugh her into isolation and her career will come to a sudden and embarrassing end. Don’t make the same mistake I did.”
The chopstick in her hand snapped in two. She didn’t realize she had been holding it. She had expected resistance, but Eli was completely ignoring the facts. He wasn’t thinking rationally. Or was he right—was she the irrational one?
“I know it’s hard to hear this,” he said, “so don’t act on it yet. Please. Cool off for a week or two. Think it over. Don’t stick your neck out for some rosy chance to save humanity. That never ends well.”
CHAPTER 39
It started with a single tomato. Moshe had just sat down behind his desk at the Dry Bones Society Wednesday morning when Shmuel burst in.
“Disrespectful bastards!” he said, and waved his fist in the air.
Moshe jumped to his feet, then exhaled a long, relieved breath. The spatter of red that plastered the side of Shmuel’s face and trailed down his shirt was a rotten tomato, not blood. “Who did this?”
“The horde downstairs.”
Moshe made for the cubicles of the call center, where a press of Society volunteers peered out the windows. Down below, a dozen picketers danced in a circle on the wide sidewalk between the tracks of the light rail and Clal Center. Three of them stood beside a vegetable crate and hurled soft tomatoes at a woman who approached the entrance of the building.
Yesterday’s demonstration had not blown over as quickly as he had hoped. “Kids,” he told the volunteers dismissively. “Delinquents. They’ll grow tired of it soon.”