The Masada Complex (50 page)

She resumed her speech, more loudly to overcome the noise. “I feel redeemed by this award. Allah had a purpose in sending me to America so that one day I could help Palestine. Father,” she turned, “I now know that you served as Allah’s hand in fulfilling my destiny.”

Father would hug and kiss her, their reconciliation complete. She marked the spot on the page with a little heart.

“I live far away, but my heart belongs here.” She pressed a fist to her chest. “My career is in America, but my future is here with you.” She touched her abdomen then removed her hand quickly.
Remember not to do it on the stage!

Elizabeth inhaled deeply, releasing the air in small bits, surveying the imagined audience from left to right. “To help our national dream come true, I decided to establish the Palestinian Women’s League, dedicated to equal rights and opportunities for all Palestinian women, irrespective of age or marital status, to offer job training and family counseling.” She raised her hand, expecting some grumbling—Kalandria was dominated by the Islamists, as she had learned from news reports. “I respect tradition, but the success of our national enterprise requires that we utilize every human resource in our collective possession.” She combed her hair back with calculated femininity. “How can we neglect half of our national creativity? Half of our industrial force? Half of our intellectual power?” She left the question hanging in the air for a moment. “We can’t! We mustn’t! No more!”

The sound of the explosion made Rabbi Josh stumble. He murmured a short prayer for the victims as he imagined blood and gore and wails of grief. Now he was part of it, not just in words, but in physical reality. As an Israeli citizen, he was a target, not only of Arab terrorism, but of Masada’s anti-Israel scheme. He cringed, recalling how she had manipulated him, pretending to be the victim of Israeli agents. Soon the world would learn the truth, and Americans’ anger at Israel would dissipate.

He climbed the remaining stairs two at a time. Room 511 was down the hall, second from last. He unlocked Masada’s door and slipped inside.

The first thing he noticed was Professor Silver’s book on the night table. The rabbi had read it back when Silver had joined Temple Zion. It seemed like a long time ago, but he still remembered how the book unsettled him with its cool analysis of the world’s indifference to the Jews’ plight at the hands of the methodical Nazis.

A cream blouse hung in the open closet and a laundry bag rested on the floor, the thin strap of a bra peeking out. Rabbi Josh hesitated. First he stole her keys, then trespassing, and now voyeurism. Levy would quote the verse “
Sins love company.
”

But wasn’t
she
the sinner, trying to destroy Israel? And wasn’t he one of her intended victims? God specifically ordered, “
He who rises to kill you, rise first and kill him.
”

He held Masada’s laundry bag upside down and shook it violently.

They watched Colonel Ness park his minivan and roll the wheelchair onto a hydraulic tray that lowered him to the ground. “Apologies for my tardiness.” He steered off the loading tray, which folded back into the minivan.

“We were about to leave,” Masada said. They had waited at the address he had given Tara at a business park south of Jerusalem.

Ness propelled his wheelchair across the parking lot toward a three-story office building.

Tara asked, “What was that explosion?”

“A synagogue near the Zion Plaza. Suicide bomber from Hebron, dressed as an Orthodox Jew.”

Tara caught up with him. “How many hurt?”

“Don’t know yet.” He circled the building.

“Hold on.” Masada grabbed Tara’s arm. On a Sabbath morning, the area was deserted. “Aren’t we driving to the airport?”

Ness rolled down the path, around another corner and through a gate in a brick wall. In the middle of an enclosed courtyard, a small helicopter sat idle, its transparent bubble reflecting the sun. Ness lined up his wheelchair with the cockpit, opened the door, and hoisted himself into the pilot seat.

“I don’t think so.” Masada exhaled loudly. “Let’s do breakfast instead.”

Tara asked, “Where’s the pilot?”

“You’re looking at him.” Ness adjusted the headphones over his white hair. He gripped a stick that protruded from the floor between his stumps and moved it around. “A child could fly this thing.” He twisted a handle, which was attached by steel wires to a set of pedals.

Tara settled into the middle seat. “Come aboard. Be bold.”

“Be suicidal.” Masada forced her right leg to bend enough at the knee to get it through the door. “Does this thing have airbags?”

They put on safety harnesses and bulky headphones. Ness started the engine. The small craft shook and rattled as the rotors gained speed.

They began to rise, the earth distancing from their feet under the transparent floor.

“
Hoo ha,
” Tara cheered, her voice tinny through the headphones.

Colonel Ness exchanged a few sentences with air traffic control while lifting straight up and veered left over the office building, through a crevice between two hills, and higher into the open air, passing a cluster of apartment buildings, wide roads with sparse traffic, a large hotel on the right, and a green area that bordered an expansive cemetery. “Veterans,” he said, “mostly from the Yom Kippur War.” He pointed to a group of white, rectangular buildings around a mushroom-like structure. “The National Museum of Israel. The round building has the Dead Sea Scrolls. You should go see it. The ancient text proves how long Jewish life has existed here.”

Masada was getting used to the weightlessness of midair suspension. “It proves that Jewish hermits once hid in desert caves from the gentiles who actually ruled this land.”

Pushing forward on the stick, Ness said, “The scrolls talk extensively about the Jewish kingdom and life at the time of the temple.”

“Reminiscent fantasies,” Masada said, “about a brief, glorious past.”

“We’ve restored that glory.” Ness pointed to a large square structure. “The Knesset. Our legislature.” He turned slightly toward a group of massive office buildings on the next hill. “Government ministries.” Flying in a circle over an elaborate set of arches, he gestured at a glass-and-stone complex. “The Supreme Court, completing the three branches of government on equal elevation at the three points of a triangle.” He directed the chopper at the rising sun, passing over a forested valley and higher over the vast city. “There’s the King David Hotel.” Tilting the stick right to avoid communication antennas, he pointed again. “Hebrew Union College.”

“The Reform Movement’s seminary,” Masada said. “Is that where Rabbi Josh studied?”

Tara glanced at the colonel.

“Rabbi who?” He slowed the helicopter until it remained stationary in midair, the Old City spread in front of them. “After two thousand years, we returned to King David’s city and created a modern state with high technology and democratic institutions.”

“Hardly democratic,” Masada said. “You’ve got a quarter-million Arabs simmering in East Jerusalem and another—”

“I’m most proud,” Ness cut her off, “of how quickly we’ve achieved all this. In less than half a century we practically rebuilt David’s kingdom from scratch.”

“Another myth,” Masada said, raising her voice as he pulled up, the engine roaring. “King David ruled the whole middle east, with armies and slaves and huge trade. Israel today is a fraction of that kingdom, and even his empire didn’t last long after his death. Jews never ruled themselves here for an extended period of time.”

“King David’s kingdom lasted five centuries. If we are determined and united, we will thrive much longer.” Ness glanced at her over Tara’s head. “You’ve turned into a defeatist, Masada. Where’s your fighting spirit?”

“Don’t speak to me about fighting spirit—you of all people!” She glared at him. “My brother would be alive if you had any fighting spirit, and the Arab who killed him would have been dead for sure.”

Ness accelerated, the noise preventing further conversation. They flew over barren land, the desert sloping gently eastward into the Jordan Valley and the Dead Sea.

Professor Silver got out of the taxi. It was hot, and the flat water of the Dead Sea idled at the edge of the unpaved parking area. A limp Israeli flag hung beside a gate topped with rolls of barbed wire. Sulfuric odors made him gag, and he recalled how Faddah had complained all those years ago.

Ezekiel put on a straw hat and went to the guard booth. It was attended by an armed man in short khakis, who was at least as old as Silver, yet tanned and alert. Ezekiel explained that the professor, an
Oleh Hadash
from America, was trying to find a relative who was involved in rescuing survivors from the 1982 accident on Mount Masada.

The kibbutznik let them in through the gate, handed them a map of the kibbutz, and pointed to an electric golf cart parked under a tree.

They drove by several squat buildings, including a library, a school, and a communal dining hall. Farther up, steel wagons, loaded with gray towels and off-white sheets, lined up along another structure. The electric cart hopped over ridges and cracks in the aging asphalt path. Higher on the hillside they passed modest cottages and a children’s playground. The view to the south was dominated by the sheer cliffs of Mount Masada, which stunned Silver with the improbability of their height.

Ezekiel slowed down, his hand waving grandly at the scene. “Beauty and history combined!”

Silver looked all the way up the cliffs. He remembered his son rolling through the air, over and over, screaming. A sob edged up his throat. He turned away, hiding his contorted face.

A helicopter appeared over Mount Masada, above the crumbling ruins at the edge, where the ancient fort clung to the rocks over the abyss.

“This guy’s too close,” Ezekiel commented. “He’ll clip the mountain.”

Choked up, Silver could not respond.

“Here we are.” Ezekiel stopped the cart. “Goodness, this is a big cemetery.”