Avraham Azrieli - The Masada Complex

Rabbi Josh pressed his back against the wall at the bottom of the stairs, listening in case Masada returned. What was she up to now? Ingratiating herself with the TV reporter to conjure up the next media attack on Israel? Whatever it was, he had to expose her, and stop her.

He draped the prayer shawl around his shoulders and stepped into the lobby. The front desk clerk was standing at the glass doors watching the departing women. Rabbi Josh noticed Masada’s room key on the counter and snatched it. Before the clerk turned, the rabbi tiptoed to the staircase and headed up, the stolen key in his hand.

“It is with pride and gratitude,” Elizabeth announced, “that I accept this award from the honorable minister.” She marked the spot in her notes to insert the dignitary’s name and full title before the ceremony. “I thank Allah for the opportunity to serve the Palestinian cause. My success in America grew from my modest roots here. First and foremost, I am a Palestinian woman. Celebrating with you today constitutes an affirmation of my commitment to Palestine.”

She lowered the pages of her draft speech and bowed at the certain applause. She looked through the open window at the Jerusalem skyline, which for this rehearsal represented the audience at Kalandria.

“Today I set aside painful memories.” She paused, thinking of the crude midwife who had investigated her repeat miscarriages with thick, probing fingers. “The foundations of my character and success were laid here, at this refugee camp.” She glanced sideways to where Father would stand on the dais, his eyes surely moistened. “I feel-”

An explosion shook the building.

Elizabeth ran to the window and looked for smoke. From her childhood in the West Bank she knew the sound of a bomb. Nine stories below, a small car with flashing lights raced up the street. A moment later, a fire engine passed, its siren wailing. The Jews’ peaceful Sabbath was no more.

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.”