An Unexpected Afterlife

by Dan Sofer

Cars whizzed by on Pierre Koenig.

  Phase One complete. He had the money. Phase Two also involved no small amount of risk, but he was sure Phase Two would be easier. He was wrong.

  Moshe took two steps down the sidewalk and froze. A large man in a gray suit stood thirty feet away and stared at him. King Kong looked no less intimidating in public.

  The towering thug stalked toward him, the threat of violence in his every step.

  Moshe opened his mouth to explain, but swallowed his words. Negotiations with this Russian would be short and painful.

  So he turned and ran.

  CHAPTER 43

  “Stand aside,” Eli said. “I want to show you something.”

  Noga released the rubber handles of his wheelchair and stood beside the wall of the corridor.

  His stamina was returning. Even after the physio session, he had strength enough to show off. He gripped the metal push rings inside the wheels, pushed with his arms, and the chair inched forward. His right leg jutted out on the footrest like a cannon. He shifted his hands back on the rim and pushed again. The chair rolled forward.

  Push, roll. Push, roll.

  He picked up momentum.

  “Hey,” she called behind him. “Wait up!”

  He didn’t. He careened down the hallway. A nurse entered the corridor and jumped out of his way. The wheels spun so fast, he could no longer grip the rubber tire. He pressed the plaster cast on his arm against the left wheel to adjust his course and avoid a row of chairs, and then he slammed on the brake lever. The chair stopped inches from the potted plant at the end of the corridor.

  Noga reached him, panting and laughing. “Since when can you do that?”

  “Since this morning.”

  “And you still let me wheel you to physio and back.”

  Eli winked at her. “I was enjoying your company too much.”

  She had no answer to that. Her flushed cheeks said it all. She said, “I’ll take you back.” She stepped behind the chair. “You should be more careful. Your bones still need to mend.”

  “Casts are coming off next week,” he said.

  “Next week? Are you sure?”

  “Got a CT scan to prove it.”

  “That’s… that’s great.”

  She fell silent. He couldn’t see her face. Was she impressed with his speedy recovery, or sad at the prospect of losing him?

  Lose him she would, and sooner than he had thought. His body was healing and his mind would not be far behind. Once the casts came off, he would be able to complete his mission. Yet, for the first time since his arrival at Shaare Zedek, he wasn’t in a mad rush to leave.

  They passed a doorway and he clamped his hands on the wheels. Something had caught his eye.

  Down a corridor, a man juggled colored balls. He had fuzzy orange hair.

  “So there is a clown.”

  A child’s voice squealed with delight and a little boy stepped into view. He reached for the flying balls. He wore a hospital gown. His head was as smooth and hairless as the plastic balls.

  “That’s Moti,” Noga said. “The therapeutic clown. He spends most of his time in oncology.”

  The balls rained down on the clown’s head and he fell to the floor with dramatic flair. The little boy convulsed with laughter. He coughed. He clutched his chest and doubled over. A nurse drew near and held his shoulders.

  “Poor kid,” said Noga.

  “Yeah,” Eli said. “Poor kid.”

  The clown inflated a blue balloon with much huffing and puffing and handed it to the boy. He pretended to fall over again and the young patient ran at him and hugged him for all he was worth.

  Eli stared at the little boy and his moment of joy. The clown turned his head. He looked straight at Eli with his sad eyes and white frown.

  “Let’s go,” Noga whispered.

  They continued down the linoleum hallway. The little boy stuck in Eli’s mind. Mortality sucked. How did humanity bear it? One week in the hospital had been more than enough for him.

  They took the elevator to the fourth floor. Noga said hello to the nurse on duty, Nadir, a quiet Arab woman with a white headscarf that made her look like a well-tanned nun. Noga seemed to know all the doctors and nurses, and they always greeted her with smiles.

  She wheeled him to his bed and supported his good arm as he rose with great effort and shifted his rear onto the edge of the bed. He stared at the small pearl buttons of her blouse. He inhaled her flowery deodorant. Her hands lingered on his arms a moment longer than was necessary. She lowered her head and took a step back.

  “See you later?” she said.

  He nodded and she left. He stretched out on the bed, alone with his thoughts and his racing pulse.

  “Love is in the air,” sang a man’s raspy voice in English. “Everywhere I look around.” An old man lay in the next bed.

  Eli scowled at him.

  The old man didn’t take the hint. He smiled and his loose jowls flapped. “Oren is the name. Checked in an hour ago.” Oren had a receding hairline. He spoke with a breathy tone and effeminate lisp. “Nothing serious,” he said and he threw up his hands. “My doctor thinks it’s a sinus inflammation, but he sent me here just to be safe. Are you also with Dr. Mohammed?”

  Eli groaned. His new roommate loved to talk, and Eli now had yet another reason to escape the hospital pronto. He decided to kill the conversation with a curt reply.

  “No,” he said. “Dr. Stern.”

  Oren frowned. “Never heard of him. I like your girlfriend, by the way. Lucky guy.”

  It took Eli a full three seconds to realize about whom Oren was talking. A motormouth and a busybody. “She’s not my girlfriend.”

  “I don’t know,” Oren said in an annoying singsong. “Body language doesn’t lie.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Oh, I get it!” said Oren, as though he had just discovered America. “You’re married.”

  Eli shook his head.

  Oren clung on like a bulldog. “A girlfriend? A guy friend?”

  “Cut it out, OK?”

  “I’d snap her up if I were you. Take some advice from an old man. Don’t delay. Life is too short.”

  Eli gave a short sarcastic laugh.

  “What?” Then Oren gasped. “Brain tumor!” He slapped his forehead. “I should have known. I am so sorry.”

  “No, nothing like that. It’s just… complicated.” Why am I talking with this stranger?

  “Then what are you waiting for? She likes you. I’ll tell you that for nothing.”

  “Just forget about her, please.”

  Silence settled over the room. Golden, glorious silence. He didn’t have feelings for her. He was playing a part. Soon he’d flit away in a storm and a chariot of fire.

  “Love is in the air!”

  The silence had lasted five seconds. Eli wrapped his pillow over his ears. Some miracles were beyond even his powers.

  Love? Please! He had moved beyond those mortal emotions long ago. What, then, was the flicker in his gut whenever he thought of the girl in the white cloak?

  The sudden realization hit him harder than the truck on the Mount of Olives. Of course! The accident, the hospital—in one Divine flash, the pieces of the puzzle slid into place.

  How had he not seen this before? The fracture in his skull was probably to blame. His mind, however, was healing, and his sixth sense had transformed, a vague intuition taking the place of the Thin Voice. A new prophecy for a new era. Once he had learned to see, the message appeared crisp and clear before his inner eye. The future rolled on before him, and he knew which path he must take.

  CHAPTER 44

  Moshe turned a corner and sprinted down an alley in the Talpiot industrial zone. He stuffed his hands in his pockets to prevent the wads of hundred-shekel notes from fluttering to the sidewalk.

  He hazarded a glance over his shoulder. King Kong lumbered after him, his face tight with concentration. Moshe, lighter and faster, might actually escape the hench
man, so long as he didn’t trip or wander into a dead end. He needed to put a few more feet between them before he changed direction for his next destination. King Kong would never think to look for him there.

  Moshe ducked into an auto garage, running down a line of cars suspended on forklifts. Moshe had dispatched taxis to customers on every street corner in Talpiot, but he knew little of the yards and footpaths that connected them. He pushed past two greasy mechanics and out a door into a large dirt lot. Plenty of cars. A passerby or two. None would save him from the tree-trunk arms of King Kong.

  He dashed to the end of the lot and took cover behind a dented fence of corrugated iron sheeting. Air burned in his throat and lungs. His heart galloped in his chest. He peeked over the fence. No sign of his pursuer.

  He scampered along the fence, crouching to avoid detection. When he ran out of fence, he made sure the coast was clear and sprinted off.

  Lost him. That had gone easier than he had expected. Not bad on an empty stomach. He doubled back, checking behind him every few steps and peering around each corner.

  Boris was right. He could not run forever. He might escape King Kong today, but the goon would catch up with him tomorrow. Or the next day. When he least expected it. A life on the run was no life at all. Play his cards right, and Moshe would never need to run again.

  He turned into a tired street dotted with litter. The slave warehouse stood across the road in dilapidated silence. Moshe scanned his surroundings a second and third time for signs of hulking thugs. He crossed the street and slid the door aside.

  He had barely closed the door of the empty warehouse behind him when a brick wall crashed into him and flung him to the ground. He sprawled on the cement floor, pain throbbing in his shoulder and down his arm. King Kong stood over him. He stared down at his prey, then stepped up to finish the job.

  Moshe’s shoes slipped and scraped as he launched to his feet. Not fast enough. Large blunt fingers grazed his neck and clamped onto his shirt. Moshe strained against the iron grip for all he was worth. The nape pressed into his throat and threatened to choke him. He threw up his arms and slid downward, slipping out of his shirt and landing on his behind. He scrambled to his feet and ran for all he was worth.

  He leaped onto the metal staircase, which trembled and twanged as King Kong followed at his heels. Moshe pulled at the handrail and bounded up the steps, three at a time. Not far now.

  A large hand closed over his foot. Moshe kicked and wriggled until the shoe came loose and he shot upward.

  He sprinted across the metal walkway and dived toward the door of the corner office. Please be there! Please open!

  The door swung inward and Moshe fell into the room. He thrust his hands into his pockets and dumped the stash of bills onto the desk.

  King Kong filled the doorway, panting and scowling. Boris gave his head a slight shake and the thug stood down.

  Boris stared at the heap of money and raised his bushy eyebrows.

  “That’s very generous of you.”

  “Not just me. My friends too: Irina, Samira, and Shmuel. Three grand each. Fifty percent more than we owe.”

  Boris fingered the bills.

  The moment of truth. Their future lay in the slaver’s hands. Moshe could only hope that self-interest would beat out spite.

  His boss wiggled his mustache. “A deal is a deal,” he said.

  Moshe breathed again.

  Boris raked in the money like a winner at a casino table. “And you,” he spoke to King Kong. “You owe me a hundred shekels.” The thug groaned, and Boris chuckled. “Don’t be a sore loser.”

  Moshe waited on the street corner beside his plastic grocery bag of possessions. The sun warmed his face. He breathed in the free air. A giddy sense of release washed over his mind. Only a slave understood the sweet thrill of freedom.

  The minivan returned a few hours later. Damas jumped out and scowled at him as he charged into the warehouse.

  Irina ran to him. Shmuel said, “Moshe, what’s going on?”

  He greeted his friends with a wide smile. “We’re free to go.” His eyes met Shmuel’s. “You too.”

  Irina jumped on him. Shmuel hugged him. Samira bowed and blew kisses.

  He explained, and then they collected their things and regrouped on the street.

  “For a moment there,” Shmuel said, “I thought you’d run off without us.”

  “I’m sure you would have done the same for me.”

  They looked to him, tears glistening in their eyes. They would follow him anywhere. For a fleeting moment, he had returned to the helm of Karlin & Son. The feeling energized him. He wished he had more hope to dispense. A plan. A future. A promised land. He had nothing.

  “Never again,” Moshe said. “We must make sure this never happens again.” They nodded as one, knowing that they had no power to enforce the words.

  “Let’s go,” he said. “Before Boris changes his mind.”

  “Where to?” Shmuel asked.

  Moshe drew a deep breath. Of their few options, only one felt right. Only one rekindled the hope for a return to his former life.

  He said, “The only place we can.”

  CHAPTER 45

  Rage drove Damas up the metal stairs inside the warehouse.

  Few had left the Pit and none escaped without scars. A boiling pot of injustice brewed inside him as he launched across the walkway to the corner office. He pushed open the door without knocking.

  Boris looked up. He sat at the desk, the phone to his ear, and mumbled in Russian. The Rottweiler stood at the wall and folded his thick arms. Damas didn’t know his name. There was a lot he didn’t know about his employers. Boris told him only what he wanted him to know. He had not even consulted with him before setting free his entire team.

  Boris put the phone down and watched Damas through droopy eyelids, his face expressionless. “Have a seat.”

  Damas stood tall in the middle of the room. He scuffed the floor with his feet like an edgy stallion. “Why did you let them go?”

  Boris considered his words, as though deciding whether to answer. He slouched back in the chair. “We made a deal. He kept his part. This is a business, Damas. The deal closed our gap for the quarter. We must keep the Big Boss happy.”

  “You shouldn’t have let them go. It sets a bad example.”

  The Rottweiler took a step forward but Boris raised his hand.

  “Forget about them, Damas. You’ll get a new team.”

  Damas was not going to stand down. Moshe Karlin and his friends were laughing at him right now. Let them laugh. He would laugh last.

  “We must bring them back,” he said.

  “Must we now?” His tone indicated that he was losing his patience. He was not used to receiving orders from a worker. Damas didn’t care. For once, Damas knew something that Boris didn’t, and he had saved his secret weapon for a moment like this.

  “Yes,” he said. “They are not ordinary people.”

  Boris raised a bushy gray eyebrow.

  He told his boss what he had overheard and what he had seen. Every word. Every detail.

  Boris stared at him for half a minute. “So these dead people just wake up in the cemetery?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you lost your mind?”

  In his anger, Damas had not paused to think how the story would sound to a man who had not heard and seen for himself. “It’s true,” he said. “I swear to it by my other fingers.” He held up his maimed hand for display.

  Boris ground his teeth. “One good thing about dead people,” he said, “is that they do not come back. They do not talk.” His boss had understood right away how the discovery could complicate business.

  Adrenaline burst into his arteries. “Hunt them down,” he said. “Interrogate them. Tear out their secrets.”

  Boris put his hands together and touched them to his lips while he thought. Damas had presented his case, but would the judge rule in his favor?

  “You have ma
de a very bold claim, Damas,” he said. Damas swallowed hard. His phantom fingers itched, and he hid his hands behind his back. “But a claim we can easily verify. And if you’re right, this could be very profitable.”

  Profitable? What did he mean? He had expected fear and action, but instead, Boris smiled. Why was he smiling? When the Russian chuckled, Damas could stand the tension no longer. “I don’t understand,” he said.

  “Soon you will.” His boss leaned forward and rested his elbows on the desk. “Forget about Moshe Karlin for now. Think about the possibilities. Their lives,” he added, “are our opportunity.”

  CHAPTER 46

  Rabbi Yosef closed the Laws of Blessings on his podium at the front of the class. Five minutes until the chime of the schoolyard bell. Time enough to atone for his sins.

  “Boys,” he said, “I want to discuss another topic.”

  Menachem raised his hand. “Rabbi,” the boy said, “is it about the Resurrection?”

  “No!” Yosef said, with more force than he had intended. “Something even more important.”

  He had their undivided attention. What could be more important than the dead rising for Judgment Day and the Final Redemption? He picked up a black marker and scrawled two words on the whiteboard.

  “Emunas Chakhomim,” he read aloud. Faith in the Sages. “Who can tell me what that means?”

  Menachem’s hand shot up again, but Yosef called on Dudi. “Our rabbis are always right.”

  “Close,” Yosef said. “God gave us two things to guide our actions. He gave us our intellect”—Yosef tapped his forehead—“and He gave us the Torah. But how are we to know whether we have understood the Torah correctly?”

  Menachem waved his hand so hard that Yosef feared he might dislocate his shoulder. “The rabbis tell us how to understand the Torah.”

  “Very good. But surely the Sages of Blessed Memory also make mistakes?”

  Twenty pairs of fearful eyes stared at him. “That is Emunas Chakhomim. We trust that God guides the leading rabbis of the generation to the correct interpretation. The Torah tells us, ‘Do not turn from what they instruct you neither to the right nor to the left.’ The Midrash comments, ‘Even if they seem to tell you that left is right and that right is left, obey them.’ Trust their judgment, even above your own.”