The Masada Complex (70 page)

The youngest daughter looked up at her father. He crossed himself.

Then it dawned on Rabbi Josh. He rose painfully, shaking his head. “Oh, no!”

Masada got out of the taxi and looked up at the dark shadow of the mountain, its flat top outlined against the night sky. She strapped on the backpack and tightened each one as Oscar had instructed her. She offered to carry Silver’s bag, but he declined, shouldered it himself.

The cable car filled up quickly, and the two of them stood in the corner as the swaying car detached from its docking bay and began ascending through the darkness. A single fluorescent bulb lit the interior.

A woman in shorts and a windbreaker asked, “Aren’t you Srulie’s sister?”

All conversations ceased. Everyone turned to look at Masada.

“Don’t you remember me?” The woman smiled, and the dimples at the corners of her mouth brought out a faint resemblance to a cheerful girl in long braids.

“I remember,” Masada said. “
Galit, Galit, yaffa ke’margalit.
”

“Srulie had a way with words.” Galit passed a hand through her silver-lined, cropped hair. “I no longer remind anyone of a pretty gemstone.”

The cable car shook, passing over a series of rollers on its way up. Silver held Masada’s arm, his fingers digging into her flesh. The ride smoothed out. His grip did not loosen.

“Since that night,” Galit tilted her head at the mountain, “I’ve always wondered—”

“You were one of the hostages?” Silver let go of Masada’s arm and adjusted his white baseball cap. “Must have been terrible!”

Masada thought,
How does he know it was a hostage situation?

Galit nodded.

“I am Professor Levy Silver. I made
aliyah
last Friday!”

Everyone murmured congratulations.

“You must be very brave,” he said, “to survive such an ordeal at a young age.”

Galit pointed at Masada. “Bravery is her department.”

“Bravado, maybe.” Masada’s mind was racing through past conversations with Silver—she had never mentioned a single detail about that night. Only an hour earlier, in the car, he pretended not to know anything, and now he was talking of hostages and their young age. How? It made no sense!

He opened his mouth to speak, but the cable car slowed its ascent and scraped against metal rails as it docked. The door opened, and they filed out onto a wooden landing. Masada reached back over her shoulder and felt up the top of the backpack until her fingers found the antenna. She flipped it aside to turn on the camera.

They followed a path lit by pale lamps. The backpack weighed heavy on Masada’s shoulders, and her knee ached, either from the climb or from the memory of what had happened on this mountaintop.

Silver tripped, and his bag slipped off his shoulder and banged into her.

“Ouch! What’re you carrying? Books?”

“I’m a professor.” He picked it up. “When I stop schlepping books, you’ll know I’m dead.” He patted her backpack. “And what’s in yours? Camping gear?”

“Who told you it was a hostage situation?”

He stopped and leaned against the stone wall, panting. “It’s common sense, right? This place is near the Jordanian border, so it must have been a terrorist attack.”

“The news at the time reported it as an accident with an old grenade. That’s all the public has ever heard.”

“Somebody must have told me.” Silver chuckled. “There are no secrets among us Jews, you know?”

Masada sensed he wasn’t telling the truth. “Who told you?”

He grabbed the railing and continued up the stone steps. “It’s not important.”

She helped him through a hairpin turn made of three steep steps. “Rabbi Josh, told you, didn’t he?”

He didn’t answer.

“You’re playing both sides.” She supported him up the last step. “We’re not children, you know.”

“For me,” Silver panted, “you are children.
My
children.”

They passed though a gate onto the flat expanse on top of Mount Masada. A bonfire burned in the middle of the ancient fort, shedding light on a large bronze plaque:
Again Masada Shall Not Fall!

Rabbi Josh’s denials made little impression on the grandmother, who kept murmuring Christ’s name and touching his face. He removed the bandages from his foot to show her there was no nail hole in it, but the red, bloated foot only intensified her reverence. Eventually, he relented, placed his hands over her head, and gave her a lengthy blessing in Hebrew.

Dr. Salibi was a Christian-Arab internist, holding an Israeli ID card as a resident of East Jerusalem. He brewed strong tea, gave Rabbi Josh a pill that removed the edge from his pain, and cleaned and bandaged his wounds before getting him into the car for the drive.

They descended to the Jordan Valley, past the lights of Jericho. The soldiers at a checkpoint waved them through. Continuing south along the black surface of the Dead Sea, they passed a sign for Kibbutz Ben-Yair. A few minutes later they reached Mount Masada. The car’s clock showed 4:38 a.m.

Parked at the circular driveway were two pickup trucks marked
Kibbutz Ben Yair
and a beige taxicab. A man leaned against the taxi, smoking and talking on a phone. Farther down the access road was a news van with a raised antenna dish on the roof.

Rabbi Josh embraced Dr. Salibi and hurried up the path to the tourist center at the eastern base of the mountain. The place was deserted. He followed the signs to the cable car terminal. A lone operator was reading a magazine against a portable lantern. The cable car was empty. In ten minutes he would reach the top and find Masada. He didn’t care about proving Silver’s guilt—that would come later.

The operator pushed aside a steel-mesh gate and opened the door. The car swayed gently on the tight cable. Rabbi Josh entered. The operator shut the door and returned to his post. The car detached from the dock and began its ascent.

Below, the rabbi saw the operator hold his hand to his ear, his lips moving. He hurried to the wall and hit a button on a control panel. The cable car stopped abruptly, swaying back and forth. He elbowed the window and gestured at the operator, who glanced up, shrugged, and returned to his magazine. Trying to slide the window open, Rabbi Josh realized the windows were fixed, transparent plastic. He banged on it again, but the operator didn’t even raise his head.

“Look at this place! King Herod’s fort!” Silver held on to Masada’s arm, taking in the scene by moving his head from side to side, shifting the blotch. They followed the group along a path marked by candles in brown bags.

“Rabbi Josh is using you.” Masada stopped walking. “Just like he used Al, and as the Israelis are using him. What else did he tell you?”

“Meidaleh, it’s not important.” He pulled her toward the group by the bonfire, determined to derail her line of questioning. “We’re here to honor your brother’s memory.”

“Answer me!”

Silver felt the bulge of Rajid’s handgun. “Masada, dear, your brother walked his last steps here. He deserves your full attention. You deserve it too.”

She glared at him.

“I know,” Silver said softly, “that you’re angry at me, but it’s only because I tell you the truth. Forget Rabbi Josh and Al Zonshine and the Israelis.” He pointed at the burning fire. “This is a sacred moment.” Before she could say anything, he left her and headed toward the group of kibbutzniks singing a melancholic Israeli ballad.

Galit sat on a broken marble column. He sat beside her and hummed the tune, glancing at her. She had once been his hostage on this mountain, had seen him cry for his fallen son and his failed plan. Silver did not recognize Galit, and she clearly didn’t recognize him—it had been many years, and he had worn a mask the whole time. But he felt an odd kinship with this Israeli kibbutznik—their lives had been transformed by the same disastrous dawn in 1982.

She gestured at Masada, who remained standing on the path where he’d left her. “Is she okay?”

“My dear friend has suffered many disappointments lately.”

Silver sighed. “She’s lost everything and has no prospect of recovery. I’m truly worried about her.”

“First time she’s here. All these years I’ve waited to see her.”

“Were you close to her brother?”

“Srulie was wonderful.” Galit took a deep breath. “They were both exceptional. But Masada was my hero, even before the tragedy.”

“She’s my hero too. What happened—”

“Then you understand.” Galit smiled.

Silver nodded. “It’s still hard for her to discuss what happened to him.” He motioned at the circle of men and women sitting around the fire. “Are they all survivors?”

“Relatives, friends. The kibbutz was never the same afterwards. Especially with all the secrecy surrounding the incident. It was hard to mourn, to heal, while the newspapers criticized us for playing with live ammunition, as if we didn’t know, as if we were dumb farm hands who couldn’t tell a hand grenade from a Roman ballista.” She took his hand and put it on her forehead, at the hairline. “Feel it?”

His finger touched an elongated lump under the skin.

“Still there. A piece of shrapnel.”

“It’s the price we Jews pay for freedom.” He lowered his hand. “But that ludicrous rescue attempt, the commander sending a lone woman to attack—”

“He didn’t send her.” Galit’s face glowed against the flames. “It was her initiative. She was the only one who tried to save us. Those Arabs would have killed us all.”

Silver was offended. “Why do you say that? There was no—” He stopped himself from saying more. This wasn’t the place to proclaim the noble intentions of Arab terrorists, even if he knew those intentions first-hand.

“I’m not angry at her.”

“Why should you be?” He was getting close. “So she acted without orders. What happened to her afterwards?”

Galit turned and pointed at Masada. “Why don’t you ask your friend.”