by Dan Sofer
They passed the Old City and his stomach knotted. Are you ready for this? That morning, his body had answered a loud and unequivocal “no,” but the rabbi had been adamant.
The road dipped into a valley, and then they climbed the winding access road that Moshe had descended, on foot and naked, exactly one day ago—the narrow, walled road to the Mount of Olives Cemetery.
The rabbi parked in the small lot of gravel at the top and they got out. The car hissed. Unseen parts creaked as they cooled beneath the hood.
Moshe pointed to the empty field, walled on three sides. “That’s where I woke up yesterday.”
The rabbi studied the lot in solemn silence, then said, “You ready?”
Moshe swallowed hard. The rabbi patted his shoulder and led the way, past the field and along a path of long, flat stones.
“This is Jerusalem’s oldest cemetery,” he said. He seemed to be talking for Moshe’s benefit, to distract him from what lay ahead. “Jews have buried their dead here for three thousand years, since the time of King David.”
With every step, Moshe’s feet grew heavier. He had followed that path many times before. The rabbi walked down the aisle between the long rows of tombstones. Crumbled edges and cracks. The ravages of time and vandals. Tufts of wild grass rose between the stepping-stones and wavered in the mountain breeze. In daylight, above the silent rise and fall of the Jerusalem hills, the graveyard radiated serenity.
Rabbi Yosef pointed. “Nachmanides is buried down there. Bartenura, too. And a host of other famous rabbis.”
He turned left and stepped between the graves. He halted before a line of gray headstones in polished granite. The etched names and dates stood out in white lettering beneath a patina of dust and the occasional spatter of bird droppings. Moshe passed the graves of his grandfather and his grandmother, then his father and mother, of blessed memory. His mother’s stone was shinier and cleaner than the others. He placed a white pebble on each grave.
Moshe had not visited enough. Did the dead care? Did they even know when a relative paid their respects? Moshe had no recollection, and yet there he stood, living proof that the spirit survived death.
“It is a great merit to be buried here,” the rabbi said. “They ran out of space years ago.”
“My great-grandfather bought plots in bulk and divided them up between his children. Turned out to be a good investment.”
He remembered his father’s funeral in every detail. The sight of the body on the stretcher, wrapped in a white shroud, had startled him even as a young man.
“Only soldiers are buried in coffins,” the officiating rabbi had explained.
The somber bearded men of the Chevra Kaddisha lowered the body into the gaping hole. They sealed the space with rough slabs of concrete, climbed out, and took turns shoveling dirt.
Why had God resurrected him and not his dear mother or his father, or any of the thousands of righteous men and women around them?
Rabbi Yosef touched his shoulder again, not to comfort him for his parents, but to give him courage for the next and final stop, and stepped aside.
Moshe stood before the next grave in the row. Moshe Karlin. Mourned by his wife and daughter. May his soul be bound in the Bundle of Life. A pile of white pebbles lay at the corner of the slab.
The wind whispered in his ear and caressed his face.
One step forward, and six below, lay his corpse.
What remained of a man after two years in the earth? Or twenty? Or two hundred?
A tremor spread from his legs through his body. He sank to his knees at the foot of his grave.
“I’m dead.” There—he had said the words. His breath came in halting gasps. Then he broke down and bawled into his hands.
Moshe Karlin had died. Nothing would change that fact. But if Moshe Karlin was dead and buried, who was he?
He stared at his tombstone, tears trickling down his cheeks.
A tissue materialized in front of his face. He thanked the rabbi and blew his nose. He drew three long, deep breaths. He leaned back, his hands in the dirt, and stretched his legs at the foot of his grave. He looked up at the rabbi. “Yet, I’m alive,” he said, in wonder.
He held out his hand and the rabbi helped him to his feet. He brushed the dirt from his jeans. His vision cleared. “Look.” He pointed at the horizontal slab. “Over there.”
A small, round hole lay opened in the earth at the corner of the grave, like the mouth of a mole tunnel.
They stepped forward to get a better look, when the crunch of gravel behind them cut their investigation short. They spun around. A pale figure flitted between the graves and cowered behind a tombstone. A woman. She reminded him of the fairies in storybooks for young girls: large eyes, a hint of a nose, and a head of short matted hair so blond it seemed white. She lacked only a pair of fairy wings. And clothes.
She peered at them over the headstone, her eyes flitting between the bearded rabbi and his teary companion, her brow a battleground of need and confusion.
“Please,” she said in Hebrew, her accent heavy with Russian. “Help me!”
Moshe and Rabbi Yosef exchanged a meaningful glance. He too had noticed the key detail, and drawn the same conclusion.
During her split-second dash between the grave markers, Moshe had glimpsed milky skin dusted with flecks of dirt. One arm pressed over her breasts, the other thrust over her lap, and, between the two, a clear patch of milky skin. No dirt. No freckles. Not even a belly button.
CHAPTER 10
In a parking garage beneath Jaffa Road, the Prophet pulled on a black leather jacket and a pair of matching riding gloves. The winged Harley Davidson emblem gleamed in the cool fluorescent light on the matte black chassis of the Sportster Iron 883.
He kicked his leg over the decal of a fiery chariot on the rear fender and settled on the leather seat. He squeezed the clutch, lifted the shift lever to neutral with his boot, and thumbed the starter. The V-twin engine growled to life.
He clicked the remote, and the gate of the private parking bay rolled upward. He eased back on the throttle and launched up the ramp and onto the street.
Air blew through his hair. He didn’t bother with a helmet. He never stopped or slowed—the traffic lights of downtown Jerusalem knew better than to get in his way—and soon he tore along open road toward East Jerusalem.
Jonah, man, I feel your pain. He would have preferred to stay in bed. The Redemption had loomed so many times that he had lost count. Why would today be any different?
And yet…
And yet a small thrill of anticipation quickened in his chest.
He reached the Mount of Olives and gunned along the walled access road like a bullet through the barrel of a rifle. An old white car hugged the perimeter wall at the top of the hill. Two men emerged from the cemetery: a brown-bearded man in a hat and shirtsleeves, and a clean-shaven companion in jeans and a T-shirt. They glanced toward the Harley’s rumble. There you are. Right on schedule.
A third figure appeared behind them. The woman wore a man’s suit jacket over her shoulders and, it seemed, nothing else. The bearded man held the car door open for her. Hello? What do we have here? The Thin Voice had not mentioned the girl.
He pulled back on the throttle and the bike hurtled forward. He would career around, spinning the wheels and spraying pebbles, and stop at their feet. Humanity loved dramatic entrances.
As he crested the hill, however, a horn blared—very loud and very close. Too close. The world became the flat metal front of a large truck, and the driver opened his mouth to scream.
Bam!
He flew forward. His head connected with the windshield. Bones crunched. Glass shattered. He floated in the air, an astronaut in zero gravity. Then planet Earth rose up and slammed into his back.
Pale blue sky filled his world. He tried to think. He tried to move.
A face replaced the sky. The bearded mouth moved but the words fluttered away. He felt a wetness at his back. His backpack. Oh, no
, the oil! Clean-Shaven joined Brown Beard, his face as pale as a ghost.
He tried to move his lips. Say the words. Deliver his message. He must!
Brown Beard spoke into a mobile phone and the men moved out of his field of vision.
Far above, a cloud hovered in the blue morning sky, a hand with one long accusatory finger aimed at him.
His head tingled. Weariness washed over him. He closed his eyes and knew no more.
CHAPTER 11
The fairy-woman nursed a cup of steaming tea on the couch in the rabbi’s living room. She had borrowed a potato-sack gown from the rabbanit’s wardrobe and her hair stuck to her forehead in damp, blond leaves.
Twenty-four hours ago, Moshe had sat on the same spot on the couch. The young woman was coping well—her hands didn’t even shake—despite the two extra complications. The first had involved a motor accident.
The leather-jacketed biker had passed out while they waited for an ambulance. The truck driver, an old Sephardic man, emerged from the truck without a scratch on his body, but a large gash in his conscience. He wrung his hands and muttered prayers as the paramedics shifted the biker onto a stretcher and into the ambulance.
When Moshe and Rabbi Yosef finally came around to questioning the fairy-woman, after providing her with two Acamol tablets for her head along with a shower and fresh clothing, they discovered the second complication.
“Let’s try again,” Rabbi Yosef said. He sat opposite on a wooden chair and clasped his hands. “What is your name?”
Her large eyes searched the bookcase at the end of the living room for answers. She shook her head.
“Where do you live?”
Another shake.
“Do you remember anyone? Anything?”
They had hoped that a hot shower and drink would jog her memory. The poor thing had started life over in every way: no clothes; no memory; not even a name. One creature walked the earth more miserable than Moshe, but the discovery gave him no comfort.
The woman on the couch sipped her tea and glanced from Rabbi Yosef to Moshe and back, with surprising calm and detached curiosity.
She doesn’t even know she’s been dead! With no memory, how could she?
Moshe and the rabbi exchanged an uneasy glance. Do we tell her? The rabbi frowned and gave his head a mild shake. He was right: rather let her figure it out herself.
Moshe had experience with lost people, usually in the form of customers who needed a taxi but had no clue where they were. “Do you remember any landmarks?” he said. “Street names?”
Another shake of the head. She sat there, erect and proud, and took another long sip.
“You can stay here while we figure it out,” the rabbi said.
“And I’ll help too,” Moshe said. “Many thousands of Russian Jews moved to Israel after the iron curtain fell. That trail should lead to who you are, or at least to some people who know you.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“Until then what should we call you?”
“Chava?” the rabbi suggested. Chava was the Hebrew name for Eve.
“Hmm,” said Moshe, his voice a moan of uncertainty. “A bit old-fashioned. How about Eva?” That sounded more Russian.
Her big blue eyes searched the walls. Then her face beamed.
“Or Irina,” she said. “Yes. I like Irina.”
The rabbi grinned. “Irina it is.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “I have to teach a class now. I’ll be back in a few hours. Moshe, can you help her with lunch?”
“Sure.”
Moshe had learned the ropes. The Lev family divided their kitchen into meat and dairy halves, each with separate sets of plates, cutlery, cooking ware, and even a separate sink. He chopped tomatoes, cucumbers, and red peppers, and served the salad with slices of toast, a block of white salted butter, and a tub of five percent cottage cheese. He scrambled the three remaining eggs in the box, thus exhausting his entire cooking repertoire.
Moshe and Irina munched away at their Israeli brunch. She polished off her fifth slice of toast and cheese, and then stared at the fridge, her eyes distant.
“I’m dead, aren’t I?” she said.
Moshe almost choked on a cucumber.
She tapped her slim stomach. “I’m pretty sure I should have a belly button. And if some mad scientist had cloned me, I would have woken up in a laboratory, not a graveyard.” She was no dumb blond. She gazed at him with defiance, daring him to deny the evidence. There was no point.
“We thought you had enough to deal with already,” he said, by way of apology. “Yes, you died. But you’re very much alive now.”
Her shoulders relaxed and she let out a deep breath. Her speculations were over, no matter how bizarre the conclusion.
“We’re the same, you and I,” he continued. At least she would not feel alone. “I woke up in the cemetery yesterday. I died two years ago.”
“So you remember your life?”
“I don’t remember dying or anything in between, but yes, I remember my life before. I had a hard time accepting that I had died.”
She let the idea sink in. “How did this happen?”
Moshe washed down his scrambled eggs with a tumbler of tap water. “Rabbi Yosef thinks it’s the fulfillment of a prophecy. The Resurrection of the Dead.” He decided to skip the Valley of Dry Bones, the Messianic Era, and the World-to-Come. Too much information. Had she been religious in her former life? She looked at home in the rabbanit’s gown even without the head covering.
“So no one is looking for me?” She studied his eyes.
He shook his head. “Don’t worry. We’ll figure it out.” She had the kind of face he’d expect to see on billboards for Fox Clothing, although she sure didn’t eat like a supermodel.
“How do you know that?”
“Sooner or later your memory will return. And if it doesn’t, someone is bound to remember you. You’re not easy to forget.”
She smiled and avoided his eyes. An awkward moment passed in silence.
“Were you born here?”
“Born and bred. Seventeen generations in Jerusalem, on my great-grandmother’s side.”
“So you must have a lot of family here.” He knew what she was thinking: you, at least, have a place to go.
“Yes and no. None of them are on speaking terms. Some old feud. Nobody even remembers how it started.”
“Oh.” Another silence. “Do you have a family of your own?”
“A wife and a little girl.”
She smiled. “You’re lucky.”
“I don’t know about that. My wife locked me out and my daughter doesn’t remember me. You have a clean slate,” he told her, his inner salesman taking over. “A fresh start. All I can think about is what I lost.”
Irina considered his words. “If you know what you lost,” she said, “you can get it back.”
Moshe laughed. “Easier said than done.”
“Why?”
“My best friend took over my life: my wife, my business.”
“A best friend might understand.”
“Not Avi. He’s a real ugly Israeli.”
Her eyebrows arched. The Russian immigrant had not encountered the term. Lucky you, Irina.
How could he explain without causing the new immigrant to lose faith in society?
“Most Israelis are decent and caring people,” he said, transforming at once into a spokesperson for the Jewish Agency. “Hard workers with family values who help old ladies cross the street.” He cleared his throat. “There is, however, a small but loud group of people that gives the rest a bad name. They push in line. Run you off the road. Trash their hotel rooms and steal anything not nailed to the floor. Real scumbags.”
Irina did not seem too bothered. “There are scumbags all over the world,” she said.
“True,” he conceded. “But Avi won’t give a centimeter without a fight.” He threw up his hands in preemptive surrender.
She nodded in sympathy but didn’t cut him any
slack. “Some things,” she said, “are worth fighting for.”
CHAPTER 12
Gastric juices sloshed in Moshe’s stomach as he boarded Egged bus number seven on Emek Refaim.
The driver took his twenty-shekel note and handed back thirteen in coins. Ticket prices had risen in the decade since Moshe had used public transportation last. He’d have to do more walking to stretch his budget.
The commuters didn’t give the man in jeans and slippers a second look as he found a seat next to an old lady with pale round cheeks and a halo of white hair. The bus rose and fell, roared and sighed, as gears changed and they charged along King George Street.
By his count, he had been away only two days, but he missed Karlin & Son already—the frantic buzz of telephones, the brusque exchanges on CB radio, the large mounted television screen with the numbers of waiting calls and routed customers.
He missed his team: Arkadi and his crude Russian jokes; Sivan’s no-nonsense practicality and feminine touch; mild-mannered Pini with his large white kippah, kosher sandwiches, and the unintelligible Moroccan Arabic he had suckled at his mother’s breast. And, of course, Mathew’s Wisconsin accent and frequent tantrums.
They were more than employees; they were friends. Among the four of them, they spoke five languages—Pini could get by in French too. Mathew and Moshe handled the English speakers. Sivan understood crap in any language and answered in kind.
The bus turned left and climbed Jaffa Road.
Soon he’d arrive at his destination. How would the team react to his return? His plan: get inside and spark a rebellion. None of them liked Avi much, especially Mathew, and Sivan swatted Avi’s constant advances and innuendos like flies. Galit had inherited the ship, but Moshe was still the only rightful navigator. A mutiny would force her to parley with the pirate captain.
A sudden doubt stirred the acidic juices in his belly. In two years, the workload must have skyrocketed, the headcount doubled to keep up with demand in Tel Aviv. He’d need a majority of the team on board if he was to challenge Avi. If they had pushed northward to Haifa as well...