The Masada Complex (66 page)

How Would Senator Jesus Vote?

She jotted down the wording of the signs. Such authenticity would demonstrate the consequences of what Colonel Ness and Rabbi Josh had done.

“So?” A hand tapped her shoulder. “You still want Israel to be destroyed?”

She turned to see the man with the colorful skullcap who had asked her to speak at the rally.

Rabbi Josh was sure his head was split open, oozing gray brain matter onto the ground. Otherwise it wouldn’t hurt so badly. He parted his eyelids one at a time and saw the world sideways, like a TV standing on its side. The ground pressed against his left temple. He wasn’t at the mosque any longer, but he didn’t remember being moved. He touched the crown of his head, finding it was still covered with the kafiya.

The large cage was made of chicken wire and steel posts. Arab men crouched or stood in clumps of hushed conversations. A bearded man wearing a white knitted cap noticed he was awake and helped him to a sitting position. The rabbi winced, his head pounding. The man said something in Arabic.

An Israeli policeman tapped the bars with his club and pointed to one of the Arabs, who approached a small opening backward and stuck out his hands. He was cuffed and led away.

There was music nearby, blurred against the deep background hum of a huge crowd. Rabbi Josh realized the rally was taking place only a few streets away from here. He looked around, digesting his situation. He was locked up with a few hundred Arabs in a makeshift cage in the parking lot of a police station. Every few minutes, one of them was handcuffed and taken across the parking lot to another cage, whose walls were blocked off with gray tarp. At the current pace, he could be here for hours.

The events at the mosque replayed in his mind.
Silver praying to Allah.

He wanted to believe the professor had merely visited the mosque for reconnaissance purposes. But Levy’s expression bore the fervor of a true believer experiencing that rare joy of spiritual unity with his creator. Rabbi Josh knew sincere faith when he saw it, and Silver’s faith in Allah, while utterly unbelievable, was sincere.

The implications were astounding. Professor Levy Silver was a Muslim! But was he an Arab?
A Palestinian?

Rabbi Josh rubbed his forehead, trying to clear his mind. He reflected on Silver’s constant use of Yiddish phrases, his inaccurate yet endearing quotations of Jewish sages, his humor—
Jewish
humor. The professor had put on a masterful act of an elderly Jew, of good-natured resilience, spiced up with jokes and affection. Had he once been a Jew and converted to Islam out of misguided convictions? Or was he a born Arab who had assumed a Jewish identity for clandestine purposes?

Thinking objectively of the elderly man he had so fondly respected, the rabbi remembered Silver’s subtle accent and the softly tanned hue of his skin, both explained away by his Italian roots, yet now hinting at another, ominous possibility. The events of the recent past could be explained by a frightening hypothesis: Silver could be a Palestinian agent! His training, instructions, and money could have come from the Palestinians! It all fit together!

Rabbi Josh closed his eyes, trying to think clearly. Silver must have recruited Al into the imaginary Judah’s Fist organization, bribed Senator Mahoney with Arab money in exchange for sponsoring a pro-Israel act in the Senate, and leaked the information to Masada, whose deep resentment of Israel had conditioned her to write a scathing exposé. The senator’s suicide fueled the anti-Israel fire, inciting a vote for the Fair Aid Act that was lethal for the U.S.-Israel friendship. Logically, at the conclusion of the plot, the professor needed to get rid of Al and Masada in order to eliminate any risk of exposure.

The plausibility of this scenario terrified Rabbi Josh. The sounds of the rally nearby proved how brilliantly the Palestinian scheme had worked.

Darkness was settling down on the city. Lights were turning on one by one, illuminating the parking lot. He must warn Masada before she left with Silver for the memorial service!

A policeman approached the lockup and pointed with his club at one of the Arabs. Rabbi Josh got up, wincing as his swollen feet pressed on the hard concrete, and rattled the chicken wire to attract the policeman’s attention. The Arab who was called stuck his hands out to be tied and grunted something in Arabic, likely telling the rabbi he had no reason to rush.

The policeman stepped closer, his club ready. Rabbi Josh cupped his mouth and whispered in English, “I’m an American.” He hoped the noise from the nearby rally prevented the Arabs behind from hearing him. “Let me out.”

“An American?” The policeman banged his club on the bars, making Rabbi Josh jump back. “Do you need my aid?”

Rabbi Josh turned. The whole group was standing, glaring at him. The Arab with the white knitted cap snatched the rabbi’s kafiya and yelled, “
American!”
Another Arab came forward and kicked him in the groin. The rest of them launched their bodies toward him, wailing in Arabic.

When the sun went down, Elizabeth heard the muezzin call for evening prayers. While the men gathered in the prayer hall, the women set long tables in the courtyard for the
iftar
. They carried bowls of rise and lamb stew, baskets of pita breads, and jugs of ice water. A smoky fire kept away the flies.

Aunt Hamida had gone to bring another dish, and Elizabeth stepped to the side of the courtyard, observing the commotion. The evening communal eating during Ramadan was familiar, even after so many years. Fasting from sunrise to sunset during the long, hot summer days was taxing, which probably contributed to Father’s impatience and the harsh punishment.

She realized no one was paying attention to her. With all the men in the mosque, who was going to stop her from running off?

She inched along the wall toward the exit from the courtyard, but paused. Now that her punishment had been meted, what was the point of running away? Tonight, after the
iftar
, she would demand a private audience with Father. Caressing her tummy, Elizabeth was determined that her child would have a grandfather.

Cursing and shouting “
Itbakh El-Yahood
,” a swarm descended on Rabbi Josh, showering him with clenched fists. He hooked his fingers in the chicken wire, and the Arabs’ shrill screams filled his head with the certainty of doom.

He felt cold spray on his face. The beating stopped, and the angry shouts changed to cries of distress. Fierce burning flared in his eyes and nose. He began to cough.

Police in blue uniforms entered the cage, the hisses of their pepper spray barely audible over the screaming. They dragged him out and sat him on the ground. Wheezing with each breath, he remembered Masada, about to join Silver on a one-way trip, and struggled to get up. “Please,” he said to one of them, “I need to—”

“Shut up!” The policeman raised his club. “Sit!”

Rabbi Josh dropped, raising his arms in defense. “I’m not an Arab. It’s a mistake!”

“Mistake? Your mother made a mistake!” The club was about to land.

“I’m Jewish.” He wiped the tears and mucus from his face.

“Then why did you entered the mosque?” The policeman spat on the ground. “
Idiot!
”

They led him into the station, up two flights of stairs and along a corridor to a room with a mirror wall, a steel table and four chairs. He saw his reflection—soiled with blood and mud, his socks torn, exposing the blisters on his feet.

They went to the door.

“Hey! Let me go!”

They shut the door in his face and locked it. He heard them laugh, their footsteps fading.

He limped to the barred window. The sun had gone down, and the sounds from the rally on Jaffa Street had intensified. He could tell by the deep rumble that the crowd had become enormous, and he wondered if the senators in Washington paid any attention to what was happening in Jerusalem. By morning, Israel time, they would vote to punish the Jewish state for what it had not done. But how was he going to convince anyone? Telling the media that Professor Silver had attended a mosque would achieve nothing, especially as he himself was there too.

The only thing that mattered now was saving Masada! Rabbi Josh went to the mirror wall. Was it one-sided? He tried to see through, but couldn’t. He pounded the door. “Open up!”

The noise from the rally suddenly quieted, and the music ceased. He returned to the barred window and listened.

“I am not,” a woman’s voice reverberated from many loudspeakers, “a supporter of the Jewish state.”

Masada?

“I am, however, a supporter of freedom, security, and happiness for the Jewish people—and for all other people.”

There was no mistaking the voice. It was Masada! She was addressing the rally!

“And I believe that a state defined by religion cannot provide freedom, security, and happiness to all people, because setting religious criteria to citizenship contradicts the very essence of a modern democracy.”

The hum of the crowd disappeared, as if the many thousands in attendance were holding their breaths.

“I ask you this,” Masada continued. “Why live in another ghetto, even as big as Israel, when we can live anywhere in the Western world as equal citizens, free to practice our Jewish religion, follow our ancient customs, and pursue our individual, personal aspirations without fear or foe?”

Her question remained hanging, the crowd hushed. Rabbi Josh leaned against the bars and imagined her shrug in that special way.

“My question is hypothetical though, because the fact is that Israel exists, and you—I hear there are over a million people here—feel deep love for Israel. It is a love I cannot deny sharing with you. For us, born Israelis, love for this troubled land comes with suckling mom’s milk. But the reason I agreed to come up to the stage is not because you need to hear me, yet another Jewish writer with utopian ideas. What I had to say has already been heard in America, which started this fiasco.”

A grumble went through the crowd, multiplied by many thousands. But it died quickly.

“I agreed to speak here tonight because one of the organizers asked if I wanted Israel destroyed.” Masada paused. “Do I want Israel to die?”

A momentary swell of murmuring swept through the night.

“The answer is no.” Another long pause. “I do not wish destruction for Israel. It is my birthplace, the land of my youth, the country my beloved parents died for. And despite its flaws, Israel represents my values of humanity and progress in stark contrast to its neighbors. It stands for democracy among dictatorships, for creativity in a region beset by dark ignorance, for modernism among primitive fundamentalism. So I can’t help but pray for Israel’s survival.”