by Dan Sofer
“That’s why I had the accident,” he said, his dark eyes flashing. “That’s why I landed up here, in the hospital. To meet you!”
A breeze ruffled the leaves of the trees. The world shimmered around them.
She had said that she would hear him out. “So I’m part of this End of Days?”
“Yes!”
“What exactly is my role?” Her voice had an edge of impatience, sharpened on the rubble of her broken heart.
“I don’t know yet,” he said. “But we’ll figure it out. Together.”
Together. That would have sounded romantic—if he wasn’t raving mad.
She hid her face in her hands. You idiot. You simple, trusting fool. Tears poured from her eyes. Dr. Stern had tried to warn her. Self-pity boiled over into rage. She shot to her feet. She wanted to slap him across his handsome face. Instead, she hurled the object in her hand. The jewelry box hit him right between the eyes and bounced on the dirt floor.
“Please, Noga. It’s true.”
She turned on her heels and stormed off, back to the hospital and out of his life.
CHAPTER 50
Moshe crammed trays of surplus food into the freezer. Rafi helped him rearrange the containers so the door would agree to close. Pity to waste good food. Their charm offensive had not changed reality and when the rabbanit arrived home, they’d be out on the street.
“Thanks,” Moshe said to Rafi. “I really appreciate this.”
“Anything for the Karlins.”
And thank you, Dad. His father’s kindness to a traumatized soldier forty years ago had returned to help Moshe in his time of need. Perhaps Rafi would let them crash on the floor of his apartment tonight. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that. Moshe’s loyal friend had lost enough in the name of the Karlins, and a band of homeless intruders would not help his wife’s failing health either. Besides that, Moshe longed to stay on Shimshon Street.
“What’s the matter?” Rafi asked.
“Nothing. Let’s have lunch.”
Trays of drool-worthy food covered every inch of the dining room table. Stuffed cabbage. Beef goulash. Baked chicken. Pullet on a bed of fried onion. Boiled ox tongue. White rice. Nokedli. Savta Sarah shoveled the steaming delicacies onto the plates. Moshe waited his turn and dug in.
The music of busy cutlery and contented eating filled the air.
Savta sat back in her chair, her plate empty. A veil of melancholy fell over her features.
“The cattle train arrived at Auschwitz very early in the morning,” she said.
Moshe knew the story by heart. At the death camp, SS men sorted the new arrivals: the able-bodied to the left, the young and old to the right. Sarah, her mother, and her younger siblings had stood in a long line that led to the showers.
“My baby sister cried for food,” she continued, “so my mother asked me to run back for the bread in the bag we had left on the train.”
The sounds of eating ceased.
“I ran back right away and grabbed the bag. But on the way back to my mother and the children, an SS officer stopped me. ‘How old are you?’ he said. I was fifteen. ‘From now on, you are eighteen,” he said. ‘Stay here.’”
Savta stared into thin air and shook her head. “I never saw them again. They were killed in the gas chambers that day.”
Moshe glanced at Savta Sarah. She had prepared food all her life: wedding banquets and bar mitzvahs for Jerusalem’s well-to-do, and pro-bono meals for the sick and needy. Generations of Jerusalem Jews had grown strong on her stuffed cabbage and meatballs. With each of those meals, a lost and lonely little girl tried to deliver a bag of bread to her beloved mother and siblings on a cold morning in Auschwitz.
A chill wave washed over Moshe. Was he any different? He had spent his new life paddling backward against the flow of time. Would he struggle forever? Or had the time come to raise his oars and follow the current of a new life?
Samira placed her fork on her plate. “My name is Samira,” she said, and glanced at Rafi. Moshe had forgotten to make the introductions. Savta Sarah’s confession seemed to have given her courage.
“I grew up in Deir Al Ghusun, near Tulkarem. I married when I was sixteen. At seventeen, I gave birth to a baby boy.” She smiled at the memory. Then her beautiful smile faltered. “My husband was a jealous man. He would lock me in the house when he went to work. He said he’d set me free and divorce me if I gave him full custody of our baby.” Her lips trembled. Moshe thought she would cry but she steeled herself.
“He sent me back to my parents. He spread rumors that I had been unfaithful. He posted a petition on the doors of the mosques demanding that my father restore the honor of his family. Everyone signed it, even the elders and our cousins.”
A lone tear rolled down her cheek. “My mother sent me to her sister in Ramallah for a few weeks, to wait until the pressure subsided. Then my parents brought me home. Everything would be all right, my mother told me. The next afternoon, however, my father came into my room. No one else was home. He had a cold look in his eyes. He hugged me, and I thought, ‘At last the storm has passed.’ Then he put his hand over my mouth and nose, and I couldn’t breathe.”
Irina touched her arm. Rabbi Yosef offered her a tissue and she wiped her eyes.
“I woke up in a garbage dump a few days ago, naked and alone. I don’t think I even had a proper burial.”
A reverent silence filled the room.
Moshe cleared his throat. Samira’s intimate revelation demanded that he reciprocate. “I’m Moshe,” he said, following her lead. “I don’t remember dying but I did. I died.” An unexpected knot of emotion lodged in his throat. Saying the words aloud in the company of friends had made his status more real and final. “I had a wife and daughter. A family business. But I think I’ve lost them all.”
He paused. If he said another word, he’d collapse and weep.
Irina saved him. “Hi everyone,” she said, upbeat. “I’m Irina. At least I think I am. I don’t remember a thing about my life, so I’m done.”
Chuckles all round. After three depressing life stories, they welcomed the comic relief.
“How about you, Shmuel?” Yosef asked.
The older man’s eyes widened. He folded his arms. “I can’t…” he said. “Not yet. And I don’t want my old life back. I’m not wanted there.”
“That’s OK,” Rabbi Yosef said.
A magical sense of unity, warmth, and acceptance hung in the air like pixie dust.
“This is wonderful,” Moshe said. “We should do this again.”
Rafi said, “Like a club?”
“Exactly. A weekly meeting. Like that group for people with drinking problems, what are they called?”
Rabbi Yosef coughed. “Alcoholics Anonymous?”
“That’s it. There are bound to be more of us out there. Shmuel, you said as much last night. We can help each other. We should start an organization. A non-profit.”
“We can’t even work legal jobs,” Shmuel said. “Now we’re going to start a company? You need two signatories to start a non-profit.”
Moshe felt his shoulders sag. “You’re right. We’ll need identity cards to do anything official.” He was still dead in the eyes of the state bureaucracy. The trickle of inspiration dried up.
“I have an identity card,” said Savta Sarah. “Will that help?”
“Me too,” said Rafi. “Where do I sign?”
New life flowed in Moshe’s veins. “Excellent!” he said. “We have our two signatories.”
“We’ll need five more,” said Shmuel. His voice had softened as the idea gained support. “To get tax benefits.” All eyes turned to him and he shrugged. “I was a journalist. You learn a thing or two over the years.”
A plan grew flesh and bone in Moshe’s head. “We can collect donations,” he said, “and rent a place to live.”
“What should we call ourselves?” asked Samira.
They shot down a flock of early suggestions: The Hope. Second Lif
e. The Undead. The Living Dead. The Resurrection Club. They made good titles for zombie movies or computer games, but not a satisfying name for their fledgling social movement.
“Reborn?” said Shmuel.
“Too Christian,” said Rabbi Yosef.
Inspiration flashed again. Moshe said, “The Dry Bones.”
Rabbi Yosef smiled. Moshe knew the rabbi would like that one.
“Sounds like a comic strip,” Shmuel said. “Or a rock band from the seventies.”
“The Dry Bones Society,” Rabbi Yosef said.
Heads nodded as they warmed to the idea.
Moshe said, “Let’s vote on it. All those in favor raise your hand.”
The front door opened behind him, and the enthusiasm drained from their faces. Moshe turned around. The rabbanit stared at the party in her living room, her mouth open. The four boys stood behind her like nervous ducklings.
Her face turned red and a vein throbbed on her forehead. “Yosef! What is going on here?”
Savta Sarah ambled up to her and offered her hand. “Rabbanit Lev?” she said, her voice radiating royal charm. “Sarah Weiss. Of Weiss Catering. How good it is to finally meet you!”
The rabbanit lowered her confused gaze to the friendly old lady. “Weiss Catering?” The name seemed to ring a bell. “The Weiss Catering?”
“The one and only. Glatt kosher. Strictly glatt kosher. Do I have a surprise for you!”
The aging chef snatched her hand and led her to the table. She introduced each dish as though announcing heads of state at a palatial ball. She sat the rabbanit at the table and the tasting began.
“This is good!” The rabbanit had tasted the ox tongue.
“There’s more of everything in the freezer. You won’t have to cook all week.”
“How do you get the meat so soft?”
“The recipe is yours, my dear.” Savta winked at Moshe. “But not today. I’ll be back tomorrow for a private demonstration. Moshe dear, please let me know how I can help with your promising new venture. Rafi, let’s go. It’s time for my nap.”
The granny and her driver bid them farewell.
The rabbanit chewed another mouthful and closed her eyes. Then she opened her eyes and woke from Savta’s trance. Annoyance and desire battled on her forehead. “One more night,” she said to Yosef. “One more.”
Shmuel punched the air. Samira jumped for joy.
One more day of borrowed time. They had better move fast. They cleaned the living room and kitchen, and huddled to assign tasks. Moshe would download the registration papers and coordinate with Savta and Rafi. Shmuel would contact a journalist friend to scrounge free publicity and search for a rental apartment. There were bank accounts to open and phones to order.
The rabbi helped his children with their homework and fed them an early dinner.
Moshe browsed government websites on the rabbi’s laptop. He was speed-reading the legal requirements for non-profits when he noticed Irina slip out the front door.
Strange. She usually told him where she was going, so he wouldn’t worry. They had no mobile phones yet.
“Samira,” Moshe said. “Did Irina say where she was going?”
Samira folded a second load of washing on the couch. “No. Maybe she just needed some fresh air.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I suppose you’re right.”
CHAPTER 51
The skyscraper on Jaffa Road towered over Noga, blocking the late afternoon sun and casting a cool shadow over her. She had walked past the shiny new apartment building of polished white marble countless times but never considered that people actually lived there. Not anyone she knew firsthand. The tall glass façade of the lobby and the chrome banister whispered of private jets and luxury yachts, not of deranged invalids in the Shaare Zedek neurology ward.
That morning she had stormed down the hospital corridors, cursing Eli under her breath, and cursing herself for falling for him. Proof lay in his apartment, so he had claimed. Proof she would find, but not the kind he had intended. His fantasies would fade away in the harsh light of hard evidence for the existence of Eli Katz, mortal of flesh and blood.
She steeled herself before the tall doors of expensive tinted glass. She had never dared to enter the building, never mind sneak into one of the apartments. Don’t worry, Noga. You probably won’t even need to. His claim to an apartment at the exclusive location was most likely yet another delusion. This would be a very short visit.
She crossed the forecourt of white stone. The glass double doors snapped open with an audible whoosh and a blast of air-conditioning blew in her face. The expansive lobby stood two floors high. A security guard sat behind a long counter of black wood and studied a hidden book or screen. The doors snapped shut behind her. The rubber soles of her old walking shoes squeaked over the large slabs of white marble. The guard looked up, a question in his eyes.
“Mr. Eli Katz,” she said.
His eyes moved from her old T-shirt to the frayed strap of her shoulder bag.
He did not throw her out, and the name Eli Katz did not seem to surprise him. “First time?” he said.
She nodded.
“The cleaning equipment is in the closet on the right as you walk in.” Two degrees and a doctoral grant, and she still passed for the maid. The wonders of higher education.
“Which floor?” she asked.
“Penthouse.”
She swallowed hard. “Thanks.”
She made for the corridor of elevators at the far end. Eli Katz lived in the penthouse. What were the chances that another Eli Katz lived in the building? Or had he stolen the identity of a wealthy stranger? What did she know for sure about the mystery patient in room 419C?
A roman letter appeared above each elevator. Instead of the familiar round buttons for Up and Down, she found a golden keypad. She pressed the key for “Penthouse” and the letter A pulsated on a digital display. The doors of elevator A shot open with another elegant whoosh.
She stepped inside. Mirrors lined the walls. The letter P projected in black on the golden lintel, while another ephemeral digit climbed upward.
1. 2. 3.
P came after 21.
Time to see who you really are.
The doors whooshed open, and she almost walked into a mahogany door. Another golden keypad appeared above the handle. She punched in the four-digit code Eli had placed in the jewelry box and the door clicked open.
She entered a large dark expanse. She touched the wall and fumbled for a light switch, when hidden motors purred. Blinds swiveled and shifted along tracks, and sunlight flooded the room through large continuous windows. Her breath caught in her throat. A set of low couches in cream leather faced a one-hundred-eighty-degree view of the Jerusalem skyline. Eli had the entire top floor to himself!
She stepped onto the shiny marble tiles and avoided trampling the carpet of cream-colored fur with her street shoes—she could not afford that dry cleaning bill. She reached the French windows and her breath clouded the glass. A forest of downtown offices and hotels gleamed white in the afternoon sun. The city sprawl traced the hills and valleys that led to the thick ancient walls of the Old City, with its domes and minarets. Beyond the Old City rose the Mount of Olives, bristling with gravestones and tombs. It was like looking back over history.
As the awe of the view faded, she noticed the smell. The acrid stench of decomposition came from the open-plan kitchen in stylish chrome and dark wood paneling. She blocked her nose as she drew closer.
Leave now. Jump into that elevator and go! But—serial killer or sloppy housekeeper—she had to know. She pulled at the door of the closet beneath the sink and stepped back. No severed heads or limbs, only a pile of putrid olives.
Sloppy housekeeper. With a thing for olives.
She tied the strings of the garbage bag, pulled it out of the bin, and leaned the olive graveyard against the front door. She’d take the bag down on her way out. She had become his cleaner after all.
She was
hed her hands in the sink and dried them on a soft kitchen towel. OK. So you’re rich and you have a great interior decorator. That does not make you an immortal prophet.
She ran her fingertips along the dining table—a thick glass plate on marble pillars—and leather, high-backed chairs.
A passageway opened onto a bedroom the size of her entire apartment in tasteful creams and dark paneling. She parted the blinds of another set of tall French windows. She sat down on the soft, unmade bed. The owner had woken up one morning and left in a hurry. He had not bothered to empty the trash. He had not expected to spend the next week in hospital.
No photos of family or friends. No mementos or collectibles. The man who lived here had loads of cash but no life.
A spacious walk-in closet. Piles of T-shirts, blue jeans, and a set of leather biker jackets. A spacious bathroom and Jacuzzi tub.
On the way back, she tried the door of a closet in the hall. Her fingers found a light switch on the wall and, with a satisfying click, she found herself in different world.
Five carpeted steps led downward, creating a square, sunken den in the center of the room. Objects hung on the outer walls. A shaggy fur cloak. A leather shield. A sword in a leather scabbard. A rounded clay urn. An oriental rug. A clunky pistol with a rounded handle. She had wandered into a private museum. Or a shrine. A shrine to what?
She scanned the walls, but touched nothing, sensing that her fingers would violate something very personal and secret. But Eli had sent her here.
She descended the steps into the central den. A padded bench lined the inner walls. A meditation chamber? A meditation chamber with bookshelves and a flat-screen television. She ran her fingers along the spines of the worn volumes. The Jewish War by Flavius Josephus. The Innocents Abroad by Mark Twain. A Hebrew Bible.
A universal remote lay on the padded bench. She sat down and pressed a button. The lights dimmed, and the television flickered to life.
Within minutes, everything made sense.
CHAPTER 52
As the shadows lengthened on Emek Refaim, Irina lurked beside a streetlight, wondering whether she had arrived at the wrong address. Pedestrians of all shapes and sizes flowed around her. They spoke English, French, and Hebrew and bustled toward coffee shops and boutique stores. Only a handful of the passersby, however, had entered the building across the street, all middle-aged women in ankle-length skirts and head coverings.