The Masada Complex (44 page)

Hundreds of passengers queued up at the passport-control counters. Masada joined a line. The cavernous hall, lit by countless fluorescent bulbs, was tiled in cream marble and decorated with huge pictures—a tractor plowing a field, a hiker mounting the crest of a hill, folk dancers circling a campfire, shoppers in a bustling market, and a tank trailing a dusty wake. The opposite wall was lined with dozens of flags representing the nations that recognized Israel. Masada flexed her right leg. At last, her scraped kneecap had begun to heal. Or was she too numb to feel the pain?

Another group entered the hall with yellow shirts and naïve clatter. Masada could not understand. Didn’t they realize Israel was about to lose American support? Didn’t they realize every inch of this country was within range of Arab missiles and rockets? Many stood in line with kids or babies bundled up in blankets. She wanted to yell at them,
What are you doing?

As she reached the passport counter, Elizabeth McPherson appeared at her side. Masada placed her travel papers on the counter.

The attendant, a young woman in a pressed uniform, turned to her computer. “Born in Israel?”

“Yes.”

The woman typed some more. “Can I see your Israeli passport?”

“I flushed it down the toilet many years ago.”

A flitting smile crossed the young woman’s face. “Welcome home, Miss El-Tal.” She stamped a form and handed it to Masada with a diminutive Israeli flag glued to a long drinking straw. “Please go to the right for processing.”

“Hold on!” The lawyer unfolded a sheet of paper. “I am Elizabeth McPherson, Chief Legal Counsel, Southwest Region.”

“Yes?”

“Someone must sign a receipt before I release her from custody.”

The Israeli attendant landed her stamp on the receipt. “Here you go.”

“Don’t let her in,” Masada said. “She’s a Palestinian.”

“Welcome to Israel.” The attendant stamped Elizabeth’s passport. “Have a safe visit, Miss McPherson.” As the lawyer passed through, the attendant winked at Masada.

While she searched for a place to dump the little flag, Masada’s way was blocked by two elderly women holding bouquets of flowers. They pulled her toward a large door marked:
Olim Hadashim.
She declined the flowers and explained she was not a new immigrant. “Doesn’t matter,” one of them chirped, “after so long abroad you’re considered a newcomer.”

Masada paused before the double doors. The plaque above read:
The Masada Lounge.

“Look!” Professor Silver approached, waving his tiny flag with one hand, holding Rabbi Josh’s sleeve with the other. “What a perfect name!”

“Right,” Masada said. “Perfect name for a training center:
How to hole up on a mountaintop and commit mass suicide.
”

“That’s what you want!” Rabbi Josh pointed at her with his little flag. “As Isaiah said,
Your haters and destroyers shall come from within you.
The blood on your hands isn’t dry yet, and you mock out ancestors?”

“
Kinderlakh!”
Professor Silver put his arms around them. “Let’s not spoil this occasion with petty squabbling. It’s not every day that three passionate Jews from Arizona make
aliyah
together, right?”

“Miss McPherson?” A young man in a crew cut and a sleeveless khaki jacket approached her with an outstretched hand. “I’m from the U.S. Consulate. Name’s Bob. Bob Emises.”

They shook hands, and he took her bags. She followed him through the crowd to the curb outside, where a black Chevy Tahoe waited. The driver, who looked like Bob’s football teammate, opened the door for her.

The vehicle left the airport, following the signs for Jerusalem. The AC was blowing hard, and soon Elizabeth, whose shirt was wet with sweat, was shivering. The driver glanced back and adjusted the vents.

“Thank you.” She put a hand on her belly. There was a purpose to her visit, a future to prepare for and celebrate.

“We booked a room for you at the Kings Hotel,” Bob said. “It’s central and safe.” He reached back and handed her a business card. “Call me if you need anything.”

The wide highway was choked with late-model cars. The rolling hills sprouted clusters of homes with red roofs and whitewashed industrial buildings. Elizabeth filled with anger. The Jews were pests, multiplying and consuming the stolen land.

“Beautiful country,” Bob commented, “isn’t it?”

She noticed mustard-yellow graffiti on a concrete embankment:
AID + U.S. = AIDS

On the way to Jerusalem, Professor Silver sat between the two sulking Jews in the middle row of an absorption ministry van. Masada fanned herself with a magazine. The rabbi murmured verses from Psalms. Each of them had received a new immigrant package, including identification papers, a sum of Israeli money, health-care insurance card, and a voucher for an extended stay at the Ramban Hostel in Jerusalem.

As they approached the Judean Mountains, the slopes were blanketed with new homes, many of them on small plots half dug into the hillside, exposing the white limestone. “Just like God’s covenant with Abraham,” the rabbi said. “
I will turn you into a great nation, bless you aplenty.
”

Silver picked up the quote: “
And multiply your seed like the stars in the sky and the sand on the shore, and your seed shall inherit your enemy’s gates.
”

Masada elbowed him. “Don’t you have something from Rabbi Hillel?”

“Of course,” Silver boasted, “being with my dear friends, seeing our beautiful homeland flourish, I finally understand what Hillel meant.
Who is wealthy? A man who’s satisfied with his lot.
Right?”

“Wrong,” Rabbi Josh said. “Rabbi Ben Zomah said it, not Hillel.”

Silver noticed Masada exchange a glance with the rabbi, an acknowledgment of jest that was broken off immediately. He reminded himself to fuel their acrimony and suspicions. He asked Masada, “Have you called your family already? Or friends?”

She was quiet for a moment. “My parents and little brother are dead. I don’t have friends here.”

He patted her shoulder. She had never told him what had happened to her family or why she had left Israel with such bitterness, and he hoped she would elaborate now. But Masada looked out the window in silence.

The van stopped at the entrance to Hadassah Hospital. Silver stepped out with his bag. Masada offered to go in with him, but he declined, explaining that it was only a checkup ahead of Sunday’s procedure. He gestured at Rabbi Josh, who sat in the van with the open book of Psalms. “He intimated to me that you shouldn’t attend the funeral.” Seeing the hurt on her face, he added, “Maybe it’s better this way.”

She got back in the van, and he waved good-bye.

He found the Michener Eye Center on the eighth floor. Dr. Asaf was a small man with quick manners. He tested Silver’s eye with various optical instruments. “Professor,” he announced, “we are good to go.”

Silver smelled coffee. He wished the sun had set already. “What should I expect on Sunday?”

Dr. Asaf held his hand in front of Silver’s face. “Within your field of vision, the palm of my hand is eclipsed, correct?”

“Yes. It’s like a hole in my vision that looks like a black ball with hairy edges.”

“Surrounded by a whitish glow?”

“The blotch,” Silver said. “That’s what I call it.”

The Israeli doctor opened a wooden box and took out a model eye in a transparent socket. “The muscles and nerves controlling your directional and focus functions are fine, and so is the connection to the brain. In fact, for a single eye that has carried the load for so long, it’s in remarkably good shape. Nothing is wrong with your eye, except this little area right here,” he pointed, “in the rear, where the macula is degenerating.”

“Very quickly.”

“But not for long,” Dr. Asaf said with a smile. “The microscopic bleeding interferes with the optical nerve.” His finger traced it. “We will inject genetically altered stem cells to the affected macula with a very thin needle through the wall of the eye.” He turned the plastic model to show Silver. “There will be some discomfort after the operation.”

“Pain doesn’t scare me.”

Dr. Asaf put the model back in the box. “We have not treated anyone who had lost the other eye, but it should make no difference. Out of seventy-three patients so far, everyone has shown improvement. The new cells rejuvenate the area, causing cessation of degeneration and marked shrinkage in the eclipsed field of vision.”

“A miracle.” Silver looked around the room, imagining it without the blotch.

“See you Sunday morning.” Dr. Asaf showed him to the door. “No eating or drinking after midnight. And bring in your favorite music. Our patients report it helps them relax.”

Silver shook his hand. “I relax by thinking.”

Elizabeth pushed open the window, revealing a view she had only seen in photos—the Dome of the Rock, glistening in the afternoon sun, the walls of the Old City, thick and mighty. The air was tinted with pine scent and engine fumes from the traffic below.

The windowsill left a film of black soot on her hands. After washing in the bathroom, Elizabeth brushed her hair and applied fresh lipstick. She sat on the bed and flipped through tourist brochures. It was Friday afternoon. What would she do until Wednesday morning? And how would the professor reach her—he didn’t know where she was staying.

She remembered the card Bob Emises had given her and called the number.

He answered instantly. “Miss McPherson?”

“Could you help me track down someone?”

“Sure.”

“Professor Flavian Silver. He’s about seventy years old, a new Israeli citizen, arrived today on my flight.”

“Got it. I’ll call you back.” He hung up.