Avraham Azrieli - The Masada Complex

Professor Silver had spent the night on the basement sofa, awake and despondent, drained of energy and hope. Elizabeth had failed him on both counts-Masada was going to be released in the morning, and he had no green card. He was doomed to blindness.

The irony didn’t escape him. For years he had labored to realize his vision of ruining Israel, and now, when his brilliance had finally brought the Zionist enemy to its knees, his own demise was imminent.

Blind!

From his perch on the sofa, through a thin cloud of smoke, the dark blotch showed against the opposite wall. He moved his gaze to the left and the blotch moved with it. Last week it was smaller, next week it would be larger, and soon his hands would grope for the walls on his way to the bathroom.

He wished he remembered how to pray. “Allah,” he begged, a tremor in his voice, “guide me, tell me what to do!” He went down on his knees. “Don’t begrudge me, Great One, for my absence from your mosque. How could I, when my duty required that I live as an infidel Jew all those years?” He bowed, bringing his forehead to the ground too fast, bumping the concrete floor. “Ay!”

He went upstairs to fetch ice. The early rays of the sun flooded the kitchen. His airline ticket was on the table. He sat down, feeling sick. All his efforts had gone to nothing.

The light was blinking on the answering machine. He pressed Play .

“It’s me.” Elizabeth McPherson’s voice was hushed. “It’s one in the morning. Where are you? I made some calls to the computer people in D.C., made a fool of myself, but got an electronic copy of your green card. I had it stamped and dated. I’ll drop it in your mailbox. And don’t worry about the writer-I’ll accompany her to Canada in the morning. Have a safe trip. See you at my award ceremony.”

He ran outside. A small envelope waited in his mailbox. He tore it open and found a small card. He kissed it, laughing with joy. “ Allah hu Akbar! ”

Glancing at his watch, Silver realized he had about an hour and a half to finish packing, get to the airport, and catch his flight. With renewed energy, he hurried down to the basement, opened the safe, and pulled out the large, padded envelope he had marked Phase Three . It contained a thick binder, the documents divided into sections with printed tabs:

Establish Arab Government over Israel Stage fake Jewish sabotage (i.e., “Reichstag burning”) Issue public-safety directives (cleaning security forces, government, academia) Enact racial-purity laws (for “protection of Jewish religious laws”) Segregate for ‘protection’ (Jews to ‘ghettos,’ Palestinians take over cities, homes) Censure media coverage of security, trials, etc. Set up Jewish fifth-column (kapos, informers, rabbis, ‘peacemakers’) Build COCA-(Concentration Camps, designed to withstand satellite surveillance) Construct facilities for human remains (disposition, recycling) Plan cleanup and media spin re supposed ‘migration’ of the Jews)

Silver packed the documents and his toiletries into a shoulder bag, stuffed all the cash into a money belt, which he tied under his shirt, and packed a suitcase with clothes for a week.

Somewhere over Ohio, Masada finished reading Silver’s book. She closed it and looked out through the window at the vast farmland below. Last night Elizabeth McPherson had called the lockup in the federal court to tell the marshals she would be picking up Masada to escort her to Canada, via New York. Tara went to Masada’s house and packed some clothes, personal items and Silver’s book.

McPherson asked, “Good book?”

Masada gave it to her. “Nazis used laws and regulations to destroy people. Sound familiar?”

The lawyer browsed the pages at random. “You think I’m a Nazi.”

“You’re just following orders, right?”

The Fasten Your Seatbelts sign blinked with a loud ping, as if someone was warning her not to start a fight.

The lawyer contemplated a page for a while. “His theory is simplistic.”

Masada looked at her.

“A domino theory-Hitler’s race laws made life miserable. German Jews tried to emigrate, but had nowhere to go. President Roosevelt convened the Evian Conference to set quotas for Jewish refugees, but no country granted any visas, basically giving the Nazis silent permission to kill the Jews.”

Despite her anger at the woman, Masada was impressed by her quick grasp of the book’s main thrust. “That’s right. The world’s indifference was a green light for the Final Solution.”

Elizabeth accepted a cup of coffee from the flight attendant, placing it on the fold-down tray. “Jews were not the only refugees ignored by the Western world.”

“But the professor is wrong. Had FDR known Hitler was going to kill the Jews, he would have opened America’s gates.”

“Look at this quote from the Peel Commission.” Elizabeth read from the book: “ The British Parliament’s Peel Commission traveled to Palestine in 1936 and took testimony from Arab and Jewish leaders and from British officers and politicians. Especially chilling is the testimony of Winston Churchill: ‘A catastrophe of unprecedented ferocity is hanging over the Jews in Europe, from the white-bearded elder praying in the synagogues to the little children playing in the streets.’ See? Churchill predicted the Nazis’ slaughter of the Jews back in 1936-surely he told FDR.”

“I don’t believe that,” Masada said. “The Americans would have stopped the Holocaust if they knew.”

Elizabeth brought the coffee cup to her nose and smelled in circular motions. “They why didn’t they open their gates to Jewish survivors after the war, when everyone knew what the Nazis had done?”

“They did open their gates.” Masada noticed the woman’s accent turned more prominent, her manner of speaking sharpened. Was she Hispanic? “Where are you from?”

“They didn’t open their gates. They opened Palestine’s gates.” The lawyer put down her coffee. “They didn’t invite the Jews to settle in America or England or France. They sent them to settle in someone else’s land.”

Masada was surprised at her anger. “But Palestine was nobody’s land at the time. It was under a British mandate.”

“Nobody? What are we? Dogs?” Elizabeth’s voice rose, drawing glances from other passengers. “It was Arab land! Our land! That’s what they gave you- our land! Filasteen! ”

Masada suddenly realized that McPherson had not been enforcing U.S. laws or following orders from Washington. She was an angry Palestinian, seeking revenge!

“Now you’re an Israeli refugee.” She sneered. “Isn’t that funny?”

Masada got up and forced her way to the aisle. Elizabeth tried to grab the cup of coffee from the tray, but yelped as the hot liquid spilled into her lap.

Professor Silver sped down Scottsdale Road. He had an hour until his flight’s departure at 8:08 a.m. It was tight, but he felt invincible. He would make the flight to Newark and, after a short layover, continue on to Tel Aviv, landing there around 1 p.m. local time. He would reach Hadassah Hospital by 3 p.m.

He pressed the gas pedal harder, flying through a red light at McCormick Ranch Road. The way ahead was lined with traffic lights, a welcoming string of green beads from Allah, who was removing all the obstacles from his way to Jerusalem. Filled with gratitude, he vowed to attend prayers, to kneel before Allah in the holy city of Jerusalem.