The Masada Complex (69 page)

Downstairs, the clerk showed him a map of Jerusalem, tracing the way to the city’s eastern exit, where he could hitch a ride to the Jordan Valley and the Dead Sea. “Make sure you stay out of the Arab neighborhoods,” the clerk tapped at the colored sections in the northern and eastern parts of the city, “and don’t go into a car unless you’re sure they’re Jews.”

“How can you tell the difference?” Rabbi Josh headed for the door, thinking of Professor Silver’s effective deceit.

The 3 a.m. news found them on the road, descending among dark hills into the desert. Masada tried to stretch her legs in the small car while the Voice of Israel tallied the likely votes in Washington based on the tone of each of the senators’ speeches. So far, it was forty-seven to twelve in support of the anti-Israel act. Even the opponents of the wholesale suspension of aid and cooperation did not object to the imposition of penalties as long as they were tied to the findings of an investigation. Only a lone senator from Connecticut, an observant Jew with a record of political independence, called for complete scrapping of the punitive legislation, arguing that the Israeli government’s official denial of guilt entitled it to an presumption of innocence until proven otherwise. The radio replayed Senator Mitchum’s earlier comments and predicted a final vote by 6:00 a.m., Israel time.

“Terrible,” Professor Silver said. “America, of all nations, turning against us.”

“And for what?” Ezekiel lifted his hands off the steering wheel. “Some crazy Jews give money to a senator, and the whole relationship should go to hell?”

“It’s anti-Semitism,” Silver concluded. “Pure and simple. The goyim are always looking for an excuse.”

“Exactly.” The driver glanced over his shoulder. “And it’s not your fault, Miss El-Tal. You did your job, that’s all.”

Masada didn’t answer. What was the point?

Silver leaned forward. “Please, Ezekiel, she’s on a private excursion tonight.”

“My lips are sealed.” The driver turned down the radio, which was reporting on planned Arab celebrations in the West Bank and Gaza. “If I may, Miss El-Tal, I was deeply moved by your comments at the rally. You are a very brave woman to tell us what we don’t want to hear.”

Silver turned to her. “You gave a speech? What did you say?”

“Oh!” Ezekiel swayed his head from side to side. “You should have heard her. Reminded me of the prophet Deborah, who led us against the Canaanites thousands of years ago.” He quoted from memory, “
And travelers feared the roads, caravans bypassing the land, unarmed villages emptied of their inhabitants, until God brought forth Deborah, brought forth the Mother of Israel.”
The driver shook a finger. “It’s the same now. Jews are afraid to travel on the roads, to shop in malls, our enemies attack us with bombs and rockets and shootings. We need a leader like Deborah.”

“Find someone else,” Masada said.

“But you have the gift,” Ezekiel insisted. “Look at the incredible impact of your words!” He flashed his high beam at an oncoming car. “Seriously, none of the prophets wanted to prophesy. They were reluctant voices of morality. That’s why people listened to them.”

“Or crucified them,” Masada said.

Rabbi Josh jogged along the streets that skirted downtown Jerusalem, avoiding the crowds, and made his way to the city eastern exit. He slowed down when the burning blisters reached intolerable heat.

A group of Hassidic men danced in the forecourt of a synagogue, embracing bejeweled Torah scrolls. Their bearded leader stood on a chair in the middle, waving a U.S. flag that had been modified, the stars replaced by a large yellow Star of David.

As the pain got worse, Rabbi Josh developed avoidance techniques, putting more weight on one foot for a while, then switching, or walking on his heels or toes or even on the outside of his sneakers like a sailor with bowed legs—brief reprieves that kept him going.

It was 3:35 a.m. when he reached a well-lit intersection near Hebrew University and realized he was one of many waiting for a ride out of Jerusalem. He kept going. At the next intersection he saw a sign pointing to the Dead Sea.

Farther down, the road split. An overpass with no sidewalk veered left and up over the residential area, and a local road curved to the right. He continued on the local road while cars went on the overpass, their open windows letting out the sounds of passengers singing.

As he walked deeper into the Arab neighborhood, the air smelled differently and the homes showed no sign of life, as if the inhabitants had gone underground. He stopped by a driveway to tighten the bandages on his hands using his teeth. When he began walking again, the pain in his feet was tenfold. He endured this intensified pain for another dozen steps, hoping his feet would readjust, but tears blurred his vision.

He stopped and rested his bandaged hands on the trunk of a parked car. He looked up, but saw only a black sky. Taking deep breaths, he waited for the pain to subside. Time was running out—the memorial service would start in less than an hour. Would it last thirty minutes? An hour? As soon as it was over, Silver would lure Masada away from the others, near the edge, and—

A loud beep jolted him. The lights of the parked car blinked. Another beep.

He began to laugh and looked up. “That’s your divine answer?
Peep. Peep. Peep.
What’s that supposed to mean?
Tough luck. Eat it.”
He bumped the rear of the car with his hip, and it beeped and flashed again. “You want me to fail again?” He was shouting now. “Say hi to Raul for me, will you? Tell him I’m letting Masada down—literally! Tell him:
Raul, your dad is a loser!”
He hit the trunk of the car with his lacerated hand, immediately folding over in agony. “Oh, God,” he broke down, “not Masada! Please, not her! I beg you!” He sank to the pavement while the parked car beeped and flashed. “Not Masada!”

Nearby, a man shouted something in Arabic.

Ezekiel pulled into a gas station in the middle of nowhere and stepped out of the car, leaving the engine running, the radio blaring rock music with Hebrew lyrics. He started the pump and walked off a few steps, talking on his mobile phone, a burning cigarette dangling from his lips, his hand gesturing to emphasize a point in the conversation.

Silver said, “Can you believe this guy?”

“Israelis are addicted to phones.” Masada turned to Silver. “By the way, I called Young Israel in Toronto last week.”

“Did you?” Silver saw Ezekiel spit out the cigarette and stamp it with his heel.

“Asked for the Solomons.”

He turned to Masada. This line of questioning was going somewhere he didn’t want to go. “The Solomons?”

“Your friends. The couple Sheen mentioned.” She looked at him. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, of course.” He made himself smile. “I blanked out for a moment. The Solomons, my friends, yes. Did you speak to them? How are they?”

“Bernie’s dead. The wife is in an old-age home.”

“Oh.” Silver clucked his tongue. “Too bad. He was a fine doctor. We played poker every Thursday.”

“I thought he was a lawyer.”

“Was he? Are you sure? He was retired already when we met, so—”

“Why would Sheen use their name? It’s too specific. You could have called to check.”

Silver shrugged. “Twisted is the criminal mind.”

“Have you ever mentioned the Solomons to Rabbi Josh?”

“Yes!” Silver felt like kissing her for providing a convenient lie. “You’re so clever! I once told him how Bernie and I played poker, and the winner got to read from the Torah on the Sabbath.”

“That explains it. Rabbi Josh must have told Sheen to use their names.”

“Exactly.” Silver was pleased with his narrow escape.

Ezekiel returned to the wheel. “A full belly, and off we go!”

They drove in silence, Masada looking out the dark window.

After a while, she pointed at a cluster of lights. “That’s my kibbutz. Juicy tomatoes and dead heroes.”

“
Ya Sidi?”
A man bent over Rabbi Josh. The beeping and flashing stopped.

“I’m sorry,” the rabbi said, wiping his face, “very sorry.”

“It’s okay,” the man said in English with an Arabic accent.

“You come inside, please?” He hooked a hand under Rabbi Josh’s arm and helped him up.

“
Ahhh!”
The pain in his feet was unbearable, and he sat on the ground. He tried to remove his jogging shoes, but his bandaged hands got in the way.

The Arab man crouched and slowly removed each shoe. In the streetlight the rabbi saw a gray moustache and a striped pajama.

Free from the grind of the shoes against his raw feet, Rabbi Josh was able to walk slowly to the house. The front door had a large cross recessed into its wood facing. In the foyer a candle burned at the feet of a full-scale crucifix. The man shut the door and turned on the light. His eyes went over Rabbi Josh’s bandaged feet and hands, the long hair and tearful eyes. The man glanced at the crucifix, crossed himself, and hurried through a door.

A moment later the whole family appeared—the man’s wife, grasping his arm, five daughters, and a hunchback grandma who shuffled with a cane. Crossing the line formed by the others, the old woman measured him from head to toe.

Rabbi Josh knelt, his face level with her. He smiled, pointing to himself. “Joshua.”

She nodded knowingly, and her gnarled hand let go of the cane, which dropped to the floor. She caressed the stubble on his cheeks and the bruises on his forehead. She touched his hair and took his bandaged hands, kissing each one. She crossed herself and uttered a long sentence—not in Arabic, but in Latin. She repeated the sentence. Tears appeared in the creased corners of her eyes. She turned to her family and said tremulously, “
Christo Santi.
”