by Dan Sofer
CHAPTER 16
Noga stared at the mystery patient in room 419C of the Shaare Zedek Medical Center. Slings hung from the ceiling and suspended the plastic casts on his left arm and right leg. A tuft of thick, jet-black hair fell over the white bandage that wrapped his forehead. Stubble peppered the solid jawline above the spongy neck brace. The name on the clipboard at the foot of the bed read Ploni Almoni. John Doe. Under the covers he slept, his handsome face a picture of serenity.
She shouldn’t stare. She shouldn’t even be in his room. Noga had wandered the wards, as she did, wearing a white cloak—although, being neither doctor nor nurse, she had no right to either activity—when she noticed the leg cast on the bed through the open door. On a hunch, she ventured inside and now her eyes would not budge from him.
“Cute, isn’t he?” said a voice behind her. She spun around. Eliana smirked. The Russian senior nurse with the beefy forearms and dirty mind moved about the ward with surprising stealth.
“I was just…” Noga began in her defense. What exactly was she doing?
“Feast your eyes. He won’t mind.” Eliana stripped the sheets from the bed on the other side of the partition curtain.
“What happened?”
“Motorcycle accident. Out cold since he arrived yesterday morning. Dr. Stern operated on him most of the day.”
A biker. Noga’s interest surged.
“Will he be OK?”
Eliana bobbed her head from side to side. “Time will tell.”
Noga looked him over. The nurse was right: he was cute.
“I wouldn’t get my hopes up if I were you,” said Eliana, reading her mind.
“Why not?” Eliana had tried and failed to set her up with any number of doctors. Why stop now?
Eliana placed her hands on her hips, the stance of a protective mother. “If by some miracle he survives, he’ll probably have brain damage. Which might actually be an improvement,” she added with a sour grin. “The fool wasn’t even wearing a helmet.”
“Oh.”
Eliana bustled out of the room to her next task.
That explained a lot. Noga had terrible luck with men. Scumbags flew to her like fruit bats to overripe mangos. Her extreme bashfulness around men did not help. The result: still single at twenty-eight.
An ECG blipped on a stand. She moved to the head of the bed and placed her transparent folder of forms on the bedside table. She stood over him. His breath came deep and even. What a waste.
He lay there. Nameless. Helpless. Alone in the world. Like her.
She put out her hand and—fingers trembling—she touched his shoulder. His skin felt warm through the hospital gown. What am I doing? She moved her hand to his forehead and stroked the shock of black hair.
There was a sudden movement, and she gasped. Fingers tightened around her wrist. He stared up at her, an urgent plea in his dark brown eyes. And a fire.
He spoke, the words flowing with a mad intensity. Noga didn’t wait for him to finish. She wrenched her arm free and fled the room.
CHAPTER 17
Moshe knocked on the door of the second-floor apartment. The sound bounced off the lumpy wall plaster in the dingy stairwell. Was he doing the right thing?
The visit could be dangerous. Not for him or Irina, but for their hostess. The surprise that waited outside her front door might succeed where Hitler had failed.
The apartment building in Jerusalem’s Katamon neighborhood had no elevator. The hall light flickered out, so he pressed the light button again.
In the 1950s, the State of Israel had built the long, unimaginative apartment blocks to house the waves of Jews who had fled Arab countries in North Africa and the Middle East with little more than the clothes on their backs. These shikunim returned maximum living units for minimum investment. At the time, the refugees must have felt lucky to trade their shanties in the absorption towns for a solid roof over their heads. Two generations later, however, the cement monstrosities still marred large swaths of prime Jerusalem property, even as realty prices skyrocketed.
He used the buzzer. He shifted on his feet, which itched inside the scuffed sneakers from the Tal Chaim secondhand store.
Behind the door came the sound of shuffling feet. The lock rattled and a hunched old woman stared up at Moshe. Her eyes filled the thick lenses of her glasses. She froze. Had an aneurysm paralyzed her? The visit was a terrible mistake.
Then Savta Sarah reached out both arms. “Moshe!” she gushed. An ecstatic smile split her wrinkled face from ear to ear. She pulled his head down, kissed both his cheeks in Hungarian fashion, and beckoned him inside.
Had she forgotten that he was dead? He returned Irina’s surprised glance and shrugged. The familiar homey scents of carpet, wood polish, and old lady hung in the air of the square living room. He closed the door behind them.
“This is for you.” He held out his offering: a small plastic doll in a ballroom gown.
The old woman’s eyes lit up like those of a little girl. She turned the doll over and played with the limbs. “Beautiful!” She shuffled to the vitrine of shiny wood that covered one wall of the pokey room and contained books and ceramic dishes, and she positioned the doll on a shelf beside a dozen other dolls. “Thank you, Moshe. You always thought of me.”
Thought. Her use of the past tense jarred him. She had not forgotten his passing, and the idea of a ghostly visitation didn’t seem to bother her.
“Sit! Sit!” she implored.
She waved them to a small square table of worn plywood. The hard surfaces of the steel-framed chairs pressed against his back and bottom. Savta Sarah set two large and flowery dinner plates before them, and disappeared into the kitchen.
They sat at the table. A clock ticked over the background music of busy kitchen sounds.
A large black-and-white family portrait dominated the adjacent wall. Six children orbited two seated parents. Pins held the mother’s hair in a tight bun. The frilled edges of a laced bodice peeked out the neck of her coat. The husband looked respectable with his trimmed beard and heavy frock coat. Four daughters—with prim white dresses and braided hair—stood behind their parents, and two little boys—trousers, wooly coats, and red cheeks—stood at attention on either side.
Irina followed his gaze. “Is that her family?”
“Savta Sarah is second from the right. Dark curls.”
“All in Jerusalem?”
“All dead. Murdered in the Holocaust. Only Savta Sarah survived. When the Russians liberated Auschwitz, she moved to Palestine. Married. Gave birth to Galit’s mom and uncle. That’s them as kids.” He pointed to the framed photo of a little boy and girl on a cracked sidewalk, one of many smaller color photographs that surrounded the portrait. “The rest are grandchildren and great-grandchildren.” He did the math. “Four grandchildren. A bunch of great-grandchildren too.”
The photos of her descendants circled the black-and-white portrait with defiance. Take that, Hitler.
“Wow,” Irina said. “What a large family.”
“We didn’t see them much. Galit’s uncle moved to America after the Six Day War. Her parents followed soon after we got married.”
“Why?”
“They were convinced that, any day, our Arab neighbors would wipe Israel off the map. You can liberate Jews from a concentration camp, but a little shard of Auschwitz still lodges in their heart. The hearts of their children and grandchildren too.”
Irina didn’t probe further. Instead, she pointed at another framed photograph. “There you are,” she said. She had found the close-up from the wedding. Galit leaned her head on his chest. White dress. Big smiles. Love sparkling in their eyes.
Savta Sarah reappeared and unloaded a stack of tinfoil trays onto the table. She shoveled mounds of food onto their plates: steaming white rice; meatballs in tomato gravy; sticky triangles of baked chicken with potato and sweet potato. The savory smells made his stomach growl. Their octogenarian hostess returned to the kitchen.
�
��Wow,” Irina said, her mouth full. “This is delicious!”
“Pace yourself,” he said. “She’s only getting started.”
On cue, Savta reappeared bearing fresh trays: cabbage stuffed with minced meat and rice; ox tongue boiled soft as butter; beef goulash; nokedli, the Hungarian dumplings of oddly shaped egg noodle; and wobbly squares of beef jelly. Hungarians, it seems, had never heard of cholesterol.
“How did she know we were on our way?”
Moshe chewed a juicy meatball. “She didn’t. She used to run a catering business and never learned to cook for less than a hundred people. She didn’t stop when she retired. The cooking keeps her going.”
Savta Sarah pulled up a chair and watched them eat. “Have some more stuffed cabbage, Moshe. It’s your favorite. You’ve hardly eaten a thing. Is it any good?”
“Excellent!” Moshe and Irina said as one.
Savta Sarah didn’t seem to hear them. “The meat didn’t come out well today.” She clucked. “The chicken burned on the stove.”
“Not at all,” Irina said. “Aren’t you going to eat?”
“I ate earlier.”
Moshe had never seen Savta Sarah eat. A sad, distant look clouded her eyes. Here we go.
“We had a lovely home,” she said. “In Poton,” she added for Irina’s sake, “a village near Dunaszerdahely in Hungary. Or Czechoslovakia. We moved countries every other year without even moving house.” The bags under her eyes seemed to sag lower. “One day, the Germans took my father. We never saw him again. There was no money. I was fourteen. What could I do? I went to the city and bought fabric to sell at home. That was how we survived. Then the Germans came for us too.”
She shook her head at bygone years. “I was the worst of the children. The troublemaker. My sisters were angels. Why did God take them and leave me?”
Moshe had heard the stories countless times and for once he understood how she felt. He wiped his mouth on a paper napkin. “Savta, you do know that I died, don’t you?”
“Of course.” She leaned forward, conspiratorial. “And now you’re back! Edith told me.” Savta had named her daughter after her dear mother. Galit had told her mother, who, in turn, had told her mother, Savta Sarah. The news of his return had crossed the Atlantic twice. He interpreted that as a good omen.
“I told her to go back to you,” Savta continued. She reached over and pinched his cheek. “Moshe is like me,” she told Irina. “Businessman.” She had used the one and only English word she seemed to know. “I was so glad when Galit married you.” Her face darkened. “And so sad when you passed.”
“Galit won’t speak to me,” he said.
“You must make her listen,” Sarah said. “Before she marries that no-good friend of yours.”
His mind did a double take. “Before she… what?”
“You don’t know? The wedding is in two weeks.”
He steadied himself on the table. “They’re not married?”
“No.” She tutted. “He moved into her home without even a ring.”
Moshe reeled with the sudden discovery: Galit and Avi were not married. Moshe had assumed too much. He didn’t know whether to jump for joy or to punch the wall. Avi, you lying bastard!
“I have to speak to Galit.”
“Not dressed like that, you won’t.” Savta eyed his worn shoes under the table.
“I have no choice. She inherited everything. I have only a hundred shekels to my name.”
Savta got to her feet. “That will do,” she said. “I’ll show you.”
CHAPTER 18
Yosef waited in the foyer of Frumin House in downtown Jerusalem and hoped that he would not sound crazy.
The stately block of rounded Jerusalem stone stood three stories tall over King George Street in the center of town. Once home to the Knesset—the legislative branch of the Israeli government—the structure now housed the Rabbinical Court.
Beyond the security fences and guards, the foyer teemed with rabbis and their clients, who awaited hearings on matters of marriage, divorce, and religious conversion. Yosef felt out of place among the sure-footed, bustling masses. When the great doors of the main courtroom swung open, he glimpsed rows of wooden seats and white pillars, and heard snatches of arguments and pronouncements.
The doors swung open again and a tall, straight-backed rabbi in a black bowler and impeccable suit emerged between the doors, a briefcase of black leather in his hand. He scanned the rushing crowd and, when his eyes fell on Yosef, he smiled.
“Reb Yosef,” he said, gripping Yosef’s hand, his perfect ivory teeth gleaming. “Good to see you again, my friend.”
Although Rabbi Emden soared leagues above the poor teacher and neighborhood rabbi, he always addressed his former student as a colleague. “Coffee?”
Rabbi Emden treated him to a Nescafe from a vending machine. The rabbi placed his briefcase on a vacant bench and they sat side by side.
After an exchange of pleasantries, Yosef got to the point.
“A man in my congregation passed away two years ago,” he said. “A few days ago I bumped into him on our street, alive and well.”
The older rabbi studied Yosef for a while. Would he dismiss the story out of hand? Did he think his old pupil had lost his mind?
“Are you sure of this?”
“I officiated at the funeral. I saw the body. It’s him. He’s been staying at our house since I found him. He eats and sleeps. Remembers nothing since he died. And one more thing.” Yosef leaned in close and whispered. “He has no navel.”
Rabbi Emden seemed to understand immediately. “The grave?”
“I checked the next day. Undisturbed, except for a small hole in the ground at the corner of the cover stone. And we found a woman.”
“Also resurrected?”
“Yes, and with severe memory loss.”
Rabbi Emden’s eyes moved as he processed the data and matched the facts with the sea of Jewish learning stored in his great mind. A high-profile rabbi would have to think twice before diving into speculations of the Resurrection.
“This is big,” he said eventually. “Very big.”
Yosef sucked in air. He had known that his mentor would not let him down.
“We need to tell the world,” Yosef said. “To announce the miracle. What a Sanctification of God’s Name this will be! We must prepare for the others that will come.”
Rabbi Emden rested a reasonable hand on his shoulder. “Slow down, Yosef. Two resurrected Jews do not the Resurrection make. Now, start again. From the beginning. Tell me all you have learned. We must prepare our case.”
“Our case?”
“Yes, my friend.” His wise eyes glittered. “We must present your findings to the Great Council.”
CHAPTER 19
The Prophet opened his eyes. He lay on a bed in a strange room. Clear liquid dripped into a thin plastic tube from a pouch on a metal stand above him. Electric sockets and mounted equipment lined the headboard behind. A framed print of Van Gogh’s Sunflowers hung on the shiny green wall.
A machine emitted rhythmic beeps. Outside the room, busy feet hurried and voices spoke in hushed tones. A telephone rang.
He knew about hospitals from TV, but had never had cause to visit one. How had he gotten there? Images flashed before his eyes. The rock walls of the Mount of Olives. Two men and a white car. The blare of a truck horn. Glass shattering. Bones crunching. His bones.
That’s impossible!
He turned his head. Blue sky filled an open window of steamed glass.
He must get out. He must complete his mission. He moved, and pain flared in his head. His left arm and right leg swayed heavily in slings. The thick casts locked his joints in position.
“Good morning,” said a man’s voice. The man at the foot of the bed wore a white cloak and gave him an appraising glance. “Or rather,” he added, “good afternoon.” The doctor drew near and flashed a light in his eyes. He asked him to watch his finger as he moved it back and forth. P
atches of gray hair covered his temples and worry lines furrowed his cheeks. The identification card clipped to the pocket of the gown read Dr. Yariv Stern. He pocketed the flashlight and trained his grim, penetrating stare on his patient.
How much does he know? The Prophet swallowed hard. “How long have I been here?”
“A day.”
“When can I go home?”
Dr. Stern gave a short laugh. “Your skull is fractured. Your leg is broken in two places. You have a shattered left arm and three broken ribs. You’re lucky to be alive. We weren’t sure you’d wake up. You’ll be here for some time.” He drew a breath. “Now tell me: What’s your name?”
Panic seized the Prophet. He racked his memory. Who was he? What year was this? Remember!
“Eli,” he said. “Eli Katz.” Yes, that was it! Relief washed over him.
Dr. Stern repeated the name. He mulled over the information like a wine connoisseur swishing a new vintage in his mouth. Pale blue eyes searched his face. “Are you sure?” he said.
The dread returned. Does he know? Eli managed a slight nod of his head.
“That’s strange. Earlier you claimed to be Elijah the Prophet from the village of Tishbe in Gilad.”
Oh, God, no! He feigned surprise. “Did I?”
“Yes indeed. You were quite adamant.”
Eli managed a nervous laugh. “Must have been a fever dream.”
“You also said that the End of Days is nigh and that you had an urgent mission to fulfill. A mission from God.”
Oh, crap! Never tell anyone. The Golden Rule. The only thing standing between him and the stake or, these days, the insane asylum. He had broken the Golden Rule for the first time in two millennia. Quick! Think of something! He said, “Could it be the drugs?”
The doctor pursed his lips. “You’re not on painkillers, if that’s what you mean. You were comatose. I can prescribe some if you like.”
“Yes, please.” He had never taken medication, not even vitamins. He had never had the need, but now he was eager to start. By the time the pills arrived, he would be gone, but the request would get the doctor out of the room. A few seconds alone. That was all he needed.