The Masada Complex (13 page)

Masada sat stoically while the officer wrote her a ticket for speeding. When she turned on the engine, the cold AC made her realize she was wet with sweat. Before she could do it herself, Rabbi Josh took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped her forehead.

“I worry about you,” he said.

“A worried optimist? It’s the ultimate oxymoron.” She had a hard time hiding the tremor in her voice, surrendering to his touch as he wiped her temples and her neck. “If you love Israel so much,” she said, “why don’t you move there?”

“I’d love to make
aliyah
.”

“Who’s stopping you?”

Rabbi Josh put away his handkerchief. “Are you trying to pick a fight with me?”

“Are you avoiding the question?”

He laughed, then turned serious. “I agonized over it, but decided that Israel is not the best place for a little boy whose mother I’ve already lost.”

“The statistical risk of dying in a terrorist attack is tiny.”

“It’s not about statistics. I would do anything for Israel, but Raul is five. I think of the daily risks, the new language, and mandatory military service, all those things. I can’t make such a decision for him. I’ll raise him here safely, and when he’s an adult, God will help him make the right choice.”

“You don’t trust God to watch over him in Israel?”

“The Master of the Universe would have to work much harder to keep Raul safe there.” He paused. “In your nightmares do you go back to jail?”

Masada felt her guts clamp up and lifted her foot off the accelerator, slowing down. A glimpse of the women’s penitentiary came to her, the view from her cell—a concrete wall, dry grass, and pink bars, someone’s idea of a feminine touch. “Eight months,” she said. “Felt like eight years.”

“Only eight months for manslaughter?”

“I got three years, but my conviction was cancelled. I signed an oath of silence, and came here on a student visa.”

Rabbi Josh shifted in his seat. “And now they’re using the conviction to discredit you.”

Masada turned into her street, letting the car cruise downhill.

“Please tell me more,” he said softly.

She drove into the garage, but did not turn off the car. In all the years since she had left Israel, not once had she spoken of what had happened on Mount Masada. “I grew up on Kibbutz Ben-Yair by the Dead Sea. As teenagers we used to hike to the top of the mountain, camp all night among the ruins of King Herod’s palace, sing songs by a bonfire until dawn.” Masada smiled. “It’s the most beautiful sight, when the sun clears the peaks of the Edom Mountains and reflects in the flat water of the Dead Sea, paints it as red as blood.”

Rabbi Josh nodded. “One day I hope to see it myself.”

She thought of Ness and his staged video conference over Srulie’s tombstone. “It’s a magical place. My parents were Holocaust survivors who became Zionists, devoted to communal life in an independent Jewish state. They worked in the salt factory six days a week, fourteen hours a day. When I was twelve and my brother seven, a dock collapsed. Several kibbutz members were trapped underneath. It was poorly built and they were overworked. There were no safety precautions, no life vests, no first aid gear. Dad pulled Mom out, and went under to save others. The saltwater killed him. Mom lived until the next morning. Her lungs were ruined.”

Masada recalled her mother’s face with blisters the size of grapes, lips cracked like burst tomatoes. “Before she died, I promised her I’d take care of my brother. It wasn’t hard. Kids on a kibbutz grew up in one big, happy family, sleeping in coed dorms. Srulie spent days by Mom’s grave, writing poems, but he got over it. In 1981, it was time for my mandatory service. I enlisted and was assigned to an elite unit.” She paused, shrugged, and looked away.

“And then?”

“And then Srulie died.” She swallowed hard, controlling herself. “He was killed by Palestinian terrorists.”

“
Blessed be He, the true judge
.” He took her hand.

“It was so unnecessary. Easily preventable.”

“By whom?”

She wanted to tell him everything—about the passionate nights with Colonel Ness at the army base, about the hostage situation on Mount Masada, about the senseless waiting game and her lover’s refusal to order the attack until it was too late. She wanted to tell this handsome American rabbi about finding the crushed body of her brother at the foot of Mount Masada, about climbing the sheer cliff on a steel cable, about throwing the Arab boy over the edge and stabbing the other one in the eye with Srulie’s bloody bone. She wanted to tell him everything, but she knew he would never understand, would never again look at her with the same loving naiveté.

He cradled her hand in his large, soft palm.

When she knew her voice wouldn’t betray her, Masada said, “I went crazy, did something really stupid, and went to jail. And I’m still angry, because Srulie and my parents didn’t have to die.”

On the kitchen counter Masada found two packages. Drexel’s secretary must have brought them in, finding the front door unlocked. One contained the silver statue of the newsboy, the other a tray of chocolate brownies with M&Ms forming the letters
T-I-R
. She handed it to Rabbi Josh. “Raul likes chocolate, right?”

The rabbi took the tray. “Actually, it’s his birthday today.”

Dr. Gould dropped Elizabeth McPherson’s chart on his desk. “I got the MRI results.” He glanced at her abdomen, shaking his head. “If there ever was a curve ball.”

Elizabeth gulped, rubbing the bulge on her lower belly. She knew what he was going to say.
Colon cancer. Spreading.

“Problem is I spend too much time looking in people’s colons. My wife complains I suffer from tunnel vision.” He formed a hole with a thumb and a finger. “Got it? Tunnel vision?”

“I had to prepare for a trial,” Elizabeth said. “That’s why I missed the last appointment.”

“Don’t blame yourself.” He flipped the pen between his fingers. “I should have put you on something, just in case. But after all these years, I assumed it can’t happen. Call it nature, I guess. God. Allah. Whatever.”

Elizabeth imagined red little tumors sprouting all over her insides. What should I do?”

“My colleague, Doctor Nelly, is top notch.” He paused. “If you don’t mind me asking, is there a stable companion? A partner?”

She understood. He was wondering who would take care of her. “I’m in a committed relationship. We’ve been dating for five years.” To dispel any doubts, she added, “With a man.”

“I guessed that much!” Dr. Gould chuckled. He must have attended a seminar on breaking bad news to patients.
Be cheerful!

“We were planning to move in together soon.”

“Good. It’s important to have the support of a committed partner, especially with your medical history and age. Not that I foresee any complication.”

“I already knew it in my heart,” she said.

He shook his head, still smiling. “Women always do.”

Elizabeth was determined not to cry. “How advanced is it?”

“That’s for Doctor Nelly to tell you.”

“I’d prefer you to take it out, not some stranger.”

“Take it out?” He examined his fingernails. “Is that your choice?”

Nausea rose to her palate, chased by a sense of dread.
Cancer!
What bad timing, just when she was winning a coveted promotion and David was about to leave his wife for her. Could she handle a deputy director’s workload while going through surgery, chemotherapy, radiation? David would help. They would survive it together. “I’ve been through a lot. I’ll beat this thing.”

“You’ll be fine.” Dr. Gould stepped to the door. “Let it sink in, give it a few days.”

She supported herself on the desk, fighting her tears. “What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.”

“That’s the spirit!” He handed her a note. “Talk to your fiancé. Maybe he’ll convince you to keep it.”

She paused, looking at him. “
Keep it?
”

“Why not? The clock is ticking. Your body surprised us this time, but I doubt it’ll happen again.”

“Again?”

He clucked his tongue. “Old fashion is charming, Elizabeth, but I got to tell you, this isn’t Palestine. Nobody’s going to blink an eyelid. It’ll keep you young.”

She realized he wasn’t speaking of cancer.

He let go of the door and grabbed both her shoulders. “Elizabeth, I understand the hesitation, with your traditional upbringing and all, but these days a lot of career women do it later in life, after they’ve achieved everything else. Go for it! What do you care if some kindergarten teacher thinks you’re Grandma?”

Rabbi Josh Frank stood at the foot of his wife’s grave, finishing the Kaddish. “
He who makes peace in heaven, He will bring peace upon us and upon all his people of Israel, and we say, amen.
”

The others repeated, “Amen.”

The rabbi kissed the top of his son’s head. “Thank you all for joining us today. It warms my heart to know that Linda’s memory brings together the Temple Zion community, even after five years.” He pointed to the round wreath on top of the stone. “Thank you Marti and Esther Lefkowitz for the beautiful red roses—Linda’s favorite.”

The florist and his wife nodded in unison.

“I prepared something to say.” Hilda Zonshine unfolded a piece of paper and put on her reading glasses. “I remember when our rabbi brought Linda to Temple Zion the first time, I told Al that she was the best-looking redhead I have ever seen. And my husband agreed with me, which was rare even before he became MIA from home.”

On the other side of the grave, Al half turned, showing his back to his wife, and mumbled, “Damn right.”

A few people snickered. It was common knowledge that they had separated a few months ago after he became obsessed with Masada El-Tal.

“Linda was beautiful on the outside and the inside,” Hilda continued. “She became part of our congregation, always available to help with family celebrations or with sad events. I remember how gracious she was when I woke her up at four in the morning because a member of my household had nightmares and needed to talk to the rabbi.”

This caused chuckling around the gravestone.

“I miss Linda, but she’s with God and all the other righteous people who are too good for a world where people hurt each other.” Hilda glanced at Al. “But at least we have our rabbi and the baby.” Choked up, she placed an age-spotted hand, laden with cheap rings, on Raul’s head.

“Thank you,” Rabbi Josh said. “Now, as Raul is turning five today, he prepared a speech.”

Raul looked down at the gravestone. “Dear Mom.” He filled his lungs for the next sentence. “I don’t know you, but I love you, and my hair is red like yours. I mean, like yours when you were, you know, alive.” He looked up at his father. “I’m starting kindergarten next month, but I already know letters. Also numbers. My dog’s name is Shanty and she’s a golden retriever.” He inhaled deeply. “But I think Daddy misses you, because you are not here anymore. So, that’s it for now, okay?”

Everyone laughed and wiped tears.

Rabbi Josh picked up his guitar. It had been his custom to conclude the memorial by singing. He closed his eyes, allowing Linda’s face to appear in his mind.

“
A woman of valor, who can find?