The Masada Complex (67 page)

Hearing her sad voice, Rabbi Josh felt like crying. He grabbed the bars, wishing he could run out there and take her in his arms, tell her he knew she was not guilty of anything, that she was the victim of manipulation.

“However,” Masada said, her voice strong again, “I believe that optimism for Israel’s future is possible only if you ignore history. There is scant precedent for a lasting Jewish state on this land.” She paused. “As much as we hope for Israel to live forever, we must also consider the other possibility. Our existential risks come not from the Arab countries that render us landlocked. Israel is too useful for them as a scapegoat for their dictatorial failures and their peoples’ misery. Neither would Islam’s hate for the West likely to sweep us in its viral spread of Improvised Explosive Devices or nuclear-tipped rockets. The real risk to Israel is what has caused the repeated destructions of Jewish kingdoms: Infighting among Jews.”

Rabbi Josh listened, as mesmerized as the crowd outside.

“Only if we accept Israel’s vulnerability, maybe, just maybe, we can unite and save it. So please,” Masada said, “close your eyes and imagine hearing this hypothetical news bulletin on your car radio.”

Complete silence descended on the night, as if the whole city of Jerusalem froze in anticipation of Masada’s made-up news.

“This report has just arrived from Jerusalem.” Masada spoke in the even tone of a news anchor. “This morning, following the assassination of the prime minister and his cabinet, the Israeli Knesset building was destroyed by an explosion credited to an extremist Jewish organization. With El-Al jetliners burning on the tarmac at Ben Gurion Airport, Israeli citizens crowded into fishing boats and yachts, heading for Cyprus and the Greek islands. Meanwhile, bloody rioters vandalized central Jerusalem, and warring militias fought in Tel Aviv. At the United Nations building in New York, the blue and white flag went down while the Security Council voted to send peace observers to the former Jewish state. As of today at noon, the State of Israel is no more.”

Like a million other Jews nearby, Rabbi Josh shut his eyes as Masada’s made-up news bulletin echoed in his mind.

The State of Israel … is no more.

Moses must have felt the same way, Masada thought, only his sea wasn’t yellow. She descended from the stage and passed through the parted sea of people. The path was wide enough that no one touched her, even by accident. Some nodded, some bowed, and some looked away. A man cursed her but was hushed by others. Behind her, the next speaker was quoting verses from the Bible. But the crowd seemed numbed by the mental experiment she had foisted on them.

Masada walked back to the Ramban Hostel through streets filled with people. The front desk clerk looked up from his handheld game, saw her, and jumped to his feet. “Miss El-Tal! I heard your speech on the radio!”

She silenced him with her hand. “Did my friend leave a backpack for me?”

“The reporter? Yes.” He hefted the video backpack over the counter. “Careful. It’s heavy.”

“I know.” Masada shouldered it. “Have you seen Professor Silver?”

The clerk directed her to the cafeteria, where she found him alone, spreading butter on a piece of bread. He wasn’t wearing his thick eyeglasses, and the black beret was replaced by a white baseball cap sporting an extra-wide visor. The table before him was scattered with documents.

“May I join?” She sat down.

“Look who’s here!” He collected his papers into a large, padded envelope. “What a nice surprise!”

“Working on a new book?”

“Always.” The professor pulled the cap’s visor lower over his face. “How was your day?”

She realized he must have missed her speech at the rally. “Uneventful.”

“Mine too. Practically a vacation.” He sipped milk and put down the glass, his hand shaking.

She felt sad. Clearly he was putting on a brave face. “Your eyes bother you, right?”

“Not too bad.”

Masada tore a piece of bread and chewed on it. “Let’s skip that memorial. You don’t seem too well.”

“I’ll get some sleep before we leave.”

“Dress well. It gets chilly up there at night.” Hesitating, she added, “I could go by myself.”

“Absolutely not.” He waved both hands. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

It occurred to Masada that he didn’t even know what had happened to Srulie. “You have to promise me not to ask questions about my family or my past. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Agreed.” Silver squeezed her hand. “Don’t worry so much, meidaleh. Everything’s going to be fine.”

A guest walked in and turned on the TV. The U.S. Senate podium came into view. A female senator with blondish hair and red lipstick declared hoarsely, “It’s especially painful when you find a friend turning that knife in your back. In upstate New York we have a saying: It’s not who’s sharing the fire with you in winter, but who’s gathering your calves when you’re sick. I say, this great nation need not share its firewood with a country that—”

Masada stood. “I’ll meet you downstairs at 2:30 a.m. If you’re not there, I’m back to bed. Please be late.”

“I doubt it.” Professor Silver chuckled. “Good night.”

Tuesday, August 19

T
he cool night air from the barred window soothed Rabbi Josh’s burning eyes but did nothing for his sore feet. He had paced the cell for hours, going from wall to wall, glancing at his broken wristwatch as if it could tell the time. Masada’s words had torn him apart. How cruel he had been to this woman, whose heart had repeatedly been broken by devastating losses. Now she was in mortal danger, and he was caged like an animal by his own people.

It had been hours, and his hands hurt from pounding on the door. Silver’s conversation with the taxi driver played repeatedly in his mind. Panic rose in his throat. He hit the door again. “Let me out!
Please!”

What if they didn’t release him until the morning?

Masada would be dead.

Suddenly God’s plan became clear: Raul had died for a reason, for the greater good of Israel, because only his father could stop Silver’s evil scheme from consuming Masada and turning Israel’s only ally into a foe.

Raul died for a reason!

Rabbi Josh kicked the steel table. It shook. He tried to move it, but it was bolted to the floor. He fell to his knees and started to unscrew the bolts. All but one came out. He wiped his hands on his shirt and tried again. The last bolt wouldn’t budge. He wrapped it with the lapel of his shirt and tried, but the bolt was too tight.

He rolled on his back and looked up at the ceiling. Was God testing him again? Was it Masada’s turn to die because of his weakness?

The idea scared him so much that he jumped up, grabbed the table and heaved it upward. The last bolted leg bent, and he pushed the table all the way up until it stood perpendicular to the floor, three legs sticking out, the fourth leg holding it up like a skeletal dancer ready to pirouette. He forced the table down in the opposite direction, three legs pointing at the ceiling, and lifted it up, then down again, repeating it again and again, his muscles aching, until the leg broke off and the table slipped from his hands and fell.

Rabbi Josh lifted the steel table and threw it at the mirrored wall. It left a vertical crack in the mirror. He dragged the table across the room, held it up, and rushed back, ramming the corner into the crack, which got longer, slicing his reflection from the top of his head to his crotch. He did it again, and now the crack reached from the ceiling to the floor. Nearing exhaustion, he swung the table in a semicircle and hit the mirror, hammering it several times. The crack let out additional fissures. His arms and shoulders ached, but he kept going until the left half of the mirror broke and fell into the adjoining room.

They woke Elizabeth up in the middle of the night and made her stand in the hallway. She tightened the headdress and smoothed the yellow galabiya. Imam Abdul, the school principal, was holding a rope.

“Don’t you have respect for the law?” she asked. “Even the Sharia sets limits to abuse.”

“You’re an expert on Islamic law too?”

“I demand to see my father!”

“You will see him in the morning and depart with honor.”

His quick relenting surprised her. “Well, that’s good.”

He placed the rope around her waist, pulled a knife, and cut the rope at the exact circumference. “Go back to sleep,” he said.

As they were leaving, one of them said, “What will she do with seventy—”

The end of the sentence was lost in their laughter. It sounded like “
burka’in
,” which in Arabic meant “ponds,” but it made no sense. What would she want with seventy ponds? And why was it so funny?

Rabbi Josh tiptoed through the adjoining room, avoiding the mirror shards. The hallway windows overlooked the lit-up parking lot. The chicken-wire cage was empty. He tried to open a window, but it was fixed in a wooden frame. He broke it with his elbow and heard the glass fall on the asphalt outside. He got over the windowsill and hung by his hands. Shouts came from down the hall.

Below, the blacktop was strewn with broken glass. To one side was a planter with bushes. He tilted his feet and began to swing like a pendulum.

The voices in the hallway were getting close.

He swung wider, building up momentum, and let go, flying sideways. His bare feet landed just inside the planter, his body falling backward, cushioned by the bushes, the branches cradling his buttocks and thighs.