Avraham Azrieli - The Masada Complex

“Tell me,” Al said, “what’s Phase Two?”

“Phase Two,” Silver blew out smoke, “is defeating the enemies of Israel in Washington and reviving the Mutual Defense Act. Our comrades are going to fix what Masada sabotaged.”

Al grinned. “Left her a tasty treat couple of hours ago. She’ll run in circles tonight.”

“We’re beyond that.” Silver stood up to signal the importance of what he was about to announce. “Yesterday the National Council tried and convicted her in absentia .” He paused for effect. “We were ordered to carry out the sentence.”

Al jumped to his feet. “Kill her?”

“It must look like an accident, though other traitors will know-and tremble!”

Al clenched a fist. “Got the perfect accident for her!”

“What?”

“Tell you?” Al shook a finger. “Can you spare a pillowcase?”

Professor Silver paused. “A pillowcase?”

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 naivete.

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 amp;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.”