Avraham Azrieli - The Masada Complex

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.”

Elizabeth wasn’t sure about the name. She considered The Palestinian Women’s Freedom League. But Freedom implied that Palestinian women were not free yet, which could insult some. Women of Palestine-Unite! She chuckled. Too old-fashioned. She liked her original idea: The Palestinian Women’s League. But with the abundance of groups, movements, and parties, an organization’s success depended on clarity of message.

The Palestinian Women’s Civil Rights League ? The clerics would resent the Americanized phrase. She needed something more positive, hopeful, yet non-confrontational.

She glanced at the phone, willing it to ring. Once contact was established, she would no longer worry about the arrangements for her award ceremony.

Advancement! She tried it out loud. “I’m honored to announce the formation of The Palestinian Women’s Advancement League , dedicated to creating opportunities for the women of Palestine.”

Satisfied, she decided to brave the hotel lobby again. It occurred to her that a message might have been left at the front desk. With their strange Sabbath rules, the Jews might not ring her room.

The lobby was filled with talk of the explosion. A heavy odor of overcooked food hung in the air. The front desk was vacant, and a sign said: No registration or checkout until sunset.

“Can I help you?” A young woman in hotel uniform approached Elizabeth.

“Could you check if I received a message? My name is Elizabeth McPherson.”

The woman disappeared through a door marked Staff Only .

Rabbi Josh shook Masada’s laundry bag again, but nothing else fell from it. He poked the few clothing items. What was he hoping to find?

Voices in the hallway made him pause. Had the front desk clerk realized Masada’s key was missing?

The voices moved on.

In the closet he found a single blouse and Masada’s remarkably long pants. He went through the pockets, which were empty. Her clothes emitted her unique scent, and he thought of their last kiss.

He dropped her pants on the floor and slammed the closet door. The loud bang reminded him of Al’s gunshot, and he thought of the final flicker of life departing Raul’s eyes. Pain overwhelmed him, and he leaned against the wall, trying to fight back the tide of sorrow. But it was too much. He started crying, unable to hold back, the way Raul had cried over a broken toy or a scraped knee.

A few minutes later he calmed down. There was no point in fighting these abrupt bursts of crying. Having grieved for Linda, he had learned that peaks of sorrow, alternating with valleys of emptiness and eruptions of rage, were part of the mourning process that would continue until he accepted God’s judgment and the permanence of an abominable reality.

He looked around Masada’s room. The bed was not made, the indentation left by her body still visible. He removed the bedspread and felt around the sheets. Peeking under the mattress, he found nothing. The drawers in both nightstands were empty, as were the armoire and the vanity.