by Dan Sofer
Hunger had drawn him from his dry hillside tomb to the trash bins at the edge of the suburb. No longer fearful of Boris or his henchmen, he climbed into the large bins and scavenged for food. He gobbled moldy bread crusts and scraped bits of oily tuna from discarded tins. He emptied the last drops of cola and water from old bottles and cans into his parched mouth.
He felt like a monster too. Anger simmered in his belly. Nobody cared about him. His father had abandoned him years ago, and now his own mother had forsaken him for a new life of comfort and prestige.
His rage focused on neither of them, though. Only one person occupied his mind now: Hasan. His cousin, with his wavy dark hair and easy, careless gait, had pushed him to istishhad by threatening dishonor and promising Paradise. Hasan had arranged the mission and sent him to his death.
Ahmed pounced on a little boy on the street and grabbed him by his shirt. “Hasan Hadawi,” he demanded, taking out his frustrations on the wide-eyed bystander. “Where is he?” He already knew the answer. Hasan lived in Ramallah, out of reach of penniless, filthy monsters. To his surprise, the boy pointed up the hill. “The garage,” he said. Ahmed loosened his grip, and the boy slipped away and fled.
Hasan was in Silwan. Ahmed climbed the dirt road, his muscles tensing. Damas had been right: Paradise was a lie, and now Hasan was going to pay. Ahmed would clamp his hands around Hasan’s neck and squeeze, and as his life’s breath slipped away, he’d ask him why. Why had he deceived him, why had he destroyed Ahmed’s simple, worthless life?
Music echoed off the haphazard cinderblock apartment buildings as he rounded the hill—a song with a sensual maqsoum rhythm.
As the road curved, a cement hangar came into view. The music carried, loud and clear, from the speakers of a yellow topless sports car that bathed in the afternoon sun. A bass guitar thrummed while a synthesizer climbed and fell playfully, and Dana Halabi sang.
Ahmed’s mother had banned the provocative Kuwaiti diva from her household. The man who slouched in the driver’s seat of the Mercedes had no such qualms. His wavy hair pressed against the headrest and his legs crossed at the ankles over the dashboard.
Ahmed padded toward the car, acid boiling in his belly, his fingers twitching.
“Hos hos hos,” Dana Halabi sang. Shh, shh, shh. “Bos alaya bos.” Look at me, look.
In the hangar, two scruffy thugs bent over a backgammon board, immersed in their game.
In the car, the man’s head wobbled to the beat. An iPad lay on his lap, and on the screen, the young singer belly danced in a skimpy pink dress. She lay on a bed and sent meaningful glances at the camera. Then she posed on the deck of a yacht, gyrating her hips and hosing the vessel down, and drenching her clothes in the process. Ahmed could smell the man’s cologne. He had the same wavy hair as Hasan, but longer and with strands of gray.
Shh, shh, shh. Look at me, look.
He reached out his hand and tapped him on the shoulder.
The man twisted around to glance at Ahmed and shrieked. The iPad flew into the air, landing on the passenger seat, and the music cut out. The man dived over the door of the car into the dirt, where he curled into a little ball of fear in the dust and shielded his head with his forearms.
Ahmed blinked in disbelief at the terrified man at his feet. Then he laughed.
The man peeked between his raised arms. His hair had streaks of gray and he had lines on his forehead, but the man was indeed his cousin. Hasan scuttled away, toward the two thugs who approached the commotion, then got up, straightened his loose white-collared shirt, and squinted at the dust monster. “Ahmed, is that you?”
Ahmed wiped the tears from his eyes as his laughter subsided, and nodded.
Hasan laughed too. He leaned on his knees and caught his breath. “Halas,” he said, “you almost gave me a heart attack.” He walked over and embraced his cousin. “It’s OK, boys,” he told the confused thugs. “This is Ahmed, my little cousin.” He rubbed Ahmed’s head.
The thugs shrugged and returned to their game.
Despite himself, Ahmed enjoyed the reunion with his cousin. “Were you expecting me?”
Hasan’s smiled faded. “Not you in particular,” he said. “But one of the martyrs was bound to turn up. The dead are rising. It’s on the news.”
“The dead are rising?” The words pushed all other thoughts from Ahmed’s mind. He was not alone.
“More each day. They hang out at Clal Center.” The dead were rising and they had a meeting place.
Hasan wrinkled his nose. “Man, you smell bad. Let’s get out of here.” He waved at the passenger seat. “Step into my office.”
Ahmed walked around the sports car and got in. He needed to learn more about the rising dead.
Hasan pressed a button and the engine purred to life.
Cool air blew in Ahmed’s face. He spotted a water bottle inside the door. “May I?”
“Go ahead.”
He downed the bottle of clean cool water in one long gulp.
The Mercedes cruised down Silwan, climbed the City of David, and hugged the walls of the Old City. The road dipped down again as they passed Mount Zion.
“Nice car,” Ahmed said. He had never sat in a sports car before. The leather seats cushioned his body in a soft embrace. Ahmed had blown himself up but his mother had gotten the palace, and Hasan had inherited Paradise. The anger simmered within again.
“Latest model,” Hasan said with pride. “Bluetooth. GPS. The works.”
“The suicide business pays well.”
Hasan did not notice the bitter edge to Ahmed’s voice. “It has its perks,” he said. “Not as glorious as you shaheeds.”
“If suicide is so glorious, how come you never tried it?”
“Me?” He seemed truly surprised at the question. “Nah. We each have a job. Mine is to find and dispatch guys like you. Yours is to blow up.”
The engine growled like a tiger as the Merc crossed the valley of Ben Hinnom, then accelerated up Hebron Road.
Hasan seemed to relax more as they drove. Had his cousin wanted to treat him to a ride and a private chat or to remove Ahmed from his home turf? He parked at the Haas Promenade overlooking the Old City and eyed Ahmed. “You look like crap.”
The questions that had crowded Ahmed’s mind over the months surfaced again. “Did I kill many people?”
“Lots.” Hasan clapped Ahmed on the shoulder. “Don’t look so sad. You did well. Sons of pigs and monkeys, the lot of them. Killers of prophets. You showed them. You’re a hero.”
Ahmed didn’t feel like a hero. The gastric juices bubbled in his stomach. “Aren’t you going to ask me about Paradise—about my palace and wives?”
Hasan chuckled and lowered his eyes to the steering wheel.
Then Ahmed understood. “You knew all along, didn’t you? It’s all lies. There is no Paradise.”
“Quiet,” Hasan said. He looked over his shoulder. “You can’t go around saying things like that. It sounds like heresy, and you know what happens to heretics around here.”
“I want my life back.”
“You can’t. You must never go back to Silwan.”
Ahmed’s suspicions had been on target. “Why not?”
“You’re a shaheed. You’re a hero. You died for the faith. Your sins are forgiven. All the little boys want to be like you. The little girls too. You can’t come back from Paradise and say ‘I want a refund.’”
Ahmed lost his ability to speak. He doesn’t believe. He sends boys and girls to die on the streets but he doesn’t believe his own promises of eternal reward.
As a little boy Ahmed had received a plastic Kalashnikov for his birthday. A martyr’s death had seemed so noble and just. Death would turn him into a superman. And now Hasan wanted him to help cover up the lie.
“How am I supposed to live?”
Hasan looked him in the eye. “I have another belt. My last one. When they built that wall we had to move to knives and vehicle attacks.”
Had he hear
d correctly? “You want me to die again?”
“Think of it, cuz. You’ll be a shaheed twice over. Nobody has ever done that before. You’ll be the father of all shaheeds.”
“You’re crazy.” Hasan had aged since their last meeting, but he had not learned anything.
Hasan gave a short laugh. “What else are you going to do?”
Ahmed had no answer to that. He opened the door and got out.
“Listen to me,” Hasan called after him. “It’s the only way. Hey, where are you going?”
“To a better place,” Ahmed said, and he walked away.
CHAPTER 32
Yosef closed his laptop. He felt the urge to offer the padded manager’s chair to his visitor. On the other side of Moshe’s desk, Rabbi Emden sat ramrod straight but said nothing.
“Some coffee, Rabbi Emden?”
“No, thank you.”
Why had his mentor visited him and why, of all places, at the Dry Bones Society, the society that, according to the Great Council, was in league with the unholy Other Side? Did he intend to pressure Yosef into abandoning the Dry Bones Society as he had pressured Minister Malkior?
Yosef dug his fingertips into the armrests. He believed in their cause, reverends and all.
The distinguished rabbi removed his bowler hat, lowered his eyes to the desk, and pursed his lips. He looked humble, even contrite. “I owe you an apology, my friend, for not reaching out to you since our meeting with the Great Council.”
Whatever Yosef had expected, it had not been an apology. “There is nothing to forgive,” he said. “You could not associate with us after their verdict. I understand that.”
“Do you?” Rabbi Emden gave him a quick, penetrating look. “I failed to return your calls, even though I knew of your troubles at the school. When you needed a friend most, I did nothing.”
Yosef winced at the memory. A posse of Chassidic men had delivered the ultimatum to his house and then, the next day, the letter of dismissal from Rabbanit Schiff, the principal of Daas Torah Primary where Yosef had taught second grade. His support of the friendless resurrected had cost him his livelihood, and ostracized his family from much of the ultra-Orthodox community.
Would Rabbi Emden entice Yosef away from the Society with the offer of a new job?
“I want us to be friends again,” the rabbi continued. “Can we be friends?”
“Of course!” Yosef’s grip on the armrest slackened. The rabbi had checked his politics at the door and entered in his personal capacity. He had come to build bridges, not demolish them, and Yosef snatched the extended olive branch like a drowning man clamping onto a lifesaver in a stormy sea. Messianic questions weighed him down and he longed for the buoyant certainty of the rabbi’s guidance.
Rabbi Emden produced a grateful smile. “Thank you.”
A mad hope sprung in Yosef’s heart. Had the distinguished rabbi decided to join their struggle? Had he seen the righteousness of their way? His optimism rocketed skyward. Had a messianic sixth sense alerted the rabbi to Yosef’s secret phone calls? Had Rabbi Emden arrived to unmask his true identity and take over the reins of the Society as the rightful Heir of David?
“Now that we are friends again,” Rabbi Emden continued, “I must confess that I am in need of your help.”
Yosef’s anticipation deflated like a balloon. What could the esteemed rabbi possibly need from him? “Of course,” Yosef said. “Anything!”
The rabbi ran his tongue over his lips. “I understand that the Dry Bones Society has joined with Upward.” The turn to party politics sank Yosef into murky confusion, which must have registered on his face, for Rabbi Emden elaborated. “Isaac Gurion’s new party.”
“Yes, that is true,” Yosef said.
“Gurion is a godless man,” Rabbi Emden said, “and a sworn enemy of religion. We cannot let his party take hold of the country.”
“What are you asking, Rabbi?”
Rabbi Emden’s eyes sparkled. “Join us, Yosef.”
“Join who?”
“Torah True!”
Torah True, the leading ultra-Orthodox party, obeyed the Great Council. Torah True had convinced Minister Malkior to renege on his agreement with the Dry Bones Society, only to be double-crossed, in turn, when Gurion had entered the fray.
“I don’t understand,” Yosef said. “The Great Council called us the Sitra Achra. Now the Council wants to join forces with demons?”
“Not demons,” Emden said, and gave a good-natured chuckle. “Demon-strators. The sages of the Council saw your protest before Knesset and have heard of your suffering. A host of Jewish souls such as that surely contains sparks of holiness.”
“And now they have the vote.” The words slipped out Yosef’s mouth without passing his brain. How dare he question the Council’s integrity? Shmuel’s sarcasm had rubbed off on him.
Emden lowered his eyes again but didn’t seem to take offense. “You are right, of course. This is politics. We cannot let the secularists rule the country. They will desecrate the holy Sabbath, and dishonor the Torah. The voting box is the only way to safeguard Tradition.”
“And,” Shmuel’s voice said in Yosef’s mind, “to keep the money flowing into the Council’s coffers.” The man across the desk was not truly a friend, only another politician.
Yosef studied the chipped edge of the wooden desk. He had lost his job, his unquestioning belief in the rabbinate, and now his role model. Shaking his head, he said, “Gurion got them the vote. The Society won’t turn on him now.”
“Then give them a reason, Yosef. You are the spiritual leader of the Dry Bones Society. Guide them to the side of holiness. You have the power—wield it. This is your religious duty. Do you want the government to fill with Torah sages or pork-fressers?”
Yosef stared at the desk. “I’ve met many resurrected people,” he said. “Not all are religious. Some aren’t even Jewish. God seems to like them all the same.”
“Nonsense!” Emden’s patience was wearing thin, but he returned to his cajoling tone. “Don’t turn us down, Yosef. This is your last chance at redemption.”
Yosef squeezed the armrests. “That isn’t the redemption we’ve been waiting for.”
The smile fell from Emden’s face. He collected his hat and stood to his full height. “I came to speak with you as a friend,” he said, placing his hat on his head. “Friends treat friends with kindness and consideration. But reject that friendship, Yosef, and the gloves will come off.”
CHAPTER 33
Noga’s coffee cup trembled in her hands as she sat opposite Hannah in Café Hillel on Emek Refaim. After the Samarian village, they had visited an Arab settlement in Judea where they had heard a similar confession, and long after the two Israeli women had left the West Bank, the revelations still shook them.
The discovery burned inside her, demanding that she run through the streets to share the news. So this was how Archimedes must have felt. At least she hadn’t been lazing in a hot tub when the breakthrough had hit. And she still had a few questions to answer before she’d run naked through the streets of Jerusalem.
“We need to write a paper,” Hannah said, infected, apparently, by the same urge. She stared into space and sipped her coffee. “The country has to know. The world has to know. This changes everything.”
“I still don’t understand how it can be,” Noga said. She kept her voice low, so as not to be overheard by the couple at the next table. “Entire Arab villages, entire tribes–how can they be Jewish? It’s too convenient, too easy. It doesn’t make any sense.”
Hannah leaned in. “There’s a precedent. In the fifteenth century, Jews in Spain were given a choice: convert to Christianity or die. Thousands converted rather than leave the country where their families had lived for centuries. But many of these forced converts remained Jews in secret, and the Spanish Inquisition hounded these suspected Marranos, burning them at the stake.”
She took another gulp of coffee. “Israel, Palestine, Judea, Samaria—call
it what you like. Jews have lived here for over three thousand years. After King Solomon’s death, the nation split into the Kingdom of Israel in the north and the Kingdom of Judah to the south. The Assyrians conquered the northern kingdom in 722 BCE, exiling those Ten Tribes and scattering them throughout the ancient world.”
Noga thought she saw where Hannah was going. “But,” she said, “if they’re the Ten Lost Tribes, they should be somewhere else, not here in Israel.”
“That,” Hannah said and smiled, “is what most people think, and in this case most people are wrong. When we look closer at the historical record, we see a different picture. The Assyrians didn’t exile entire nations, only the ruling elite—the powerful families and leaders who could coordinate rebellions and national revivals. They didn’t bother with the simple folk—the farmers, villagers, and the poor.”
The pit in Noga’s stomach opened again.
Hannah continued. “Khalid’s ancestors claim to have been here for many centuries,” she said. “Before the British, the Ottomans, even the Crusaders and Muslims. When the Muslims invaded in the seventh century, they gave the native Jews the same ultimatum that the Spanish had: convert or die. Like the conversos in Spain, most chose to stay in their ancestral homeland and convert to the dominant faith in public, while still safeguarding their traditions behind closed doors.”
She placed her coffee mug on the table. “Genes don’t lie, Noga dear. They are Jews.”
“The Ten Lost Tribes,” Noga said, as though in a trance.
Hannah nodded. “People have been searching for the Lost Tribes across the globe when they were right here all along, under our noses.”
Noga abandoned her coffee. She should feel elated. Hannah had vindicated her research. With one logical connection, they had discovered the elusive Ten Lost Tribes and traced a path toward lasting peace in their time. But this boon for the Jewish People spelled disaster for her personal life. Why me? Why now?