Avraham Azrieli - The Masada Complex

“Miss El-Tal?” The clerk’s voice was a pitch higher than usual, as if he also realized something more than a glass bottle had cracked. “A man called for you a little while ago and left a message.” He handed her a note.

She looked at it and groaned.

“Any news?” Silver asked. He had called in the message before leaving the hospital.

“Someone from my old kibbutz.”

“What do they want?”

“There’s a memorial service for my little brother.”

Not so little, Silver thought. “Really? Then we should attend, of course.”

“Of course not.” Masada rubbed her knee through the bulky brace and glanced at the bottle. “You’re losing your eyesight, aren’t you?”

He sighed. “We all have our precious little denials to nurture.”

She leaned over and pecked him on the cheek. “You’re a foolish man, Levy Silver. And in no condition to go to Mount Masada at four-thirty in the morning.”

“I’ve never been there,” he lied. “And with my eyesight going, I’d love to see dawn breaking over the Dead Sea before it’s too late.”

Her face contorted. What could she say?

“And after the memorial, my driver will take us from Mount Masada directly to Hadassah Hospital, and you’ll make a huge scene until they fix my eyes. How’s that?” He gambled she didn’t know the Michener Eye Center would be shut down for renovations.

“Now you’re trading?”

He laughed, threading his arm in hers. “Quid pro quo.”

Elizabeth McPherson stepped closer to her father. “I came to mend fences.”

Father’s shriveled face twitched. “Fences?”

“That’s how we say it in America.” She realized the phrase didn’t work in Arabic. Looking up at the patch of blue through the skylight, she explained, “To fix our relationship.”

“Like this you come?” His gnarled hand motioned at her clothes.

She smiled. “This is how I dress when I talk to judges.”

Hajj Mahfizie mumbled something, and a moment later a blanket was draped around her shoulders, its coarseness scratching the back of her neck, its odor musty.

Elizabeth shook off the blanket, which fell on the floor around her feet. “It’s time you accepted me the way I am, Father.”

A murmur passed through the crowd. Several young men stood up.

“You know what I’ve done for Palestine. I’m a modern woman, very successful in my profession. It’s time you see there’s much to be proud of me.”

“Leave!” Father waved his hand. “Go!”

She stumbled backwards but steeled herself. “We should discuss the ceremony.”

Complete silence was the only response. Two men stepped in to support Hajj Mahfizie.

“It’s not every day that your daughter becomes,” she hesitated, “ Hero of Palestine. ”

The men burst out laughing.

“What’s so funny?” She grew angrier. “You think women can’t be heroes?

Their laughter quieted.

“You think only guns and bombs and suicides demonstrate courage?” She was yelling now. “You’re wrong! The bravest deeds are done quietly. What I did for Palestine no one else could do. And many women can provide unique services too. You cover us up in blankets, but it must change.” She paused, thinking she heard Father say something.

He didn’t move.

“I thought I’d keep it a surprise, but I might as well tell you now that on Wednesday, from the stage on the main street of this camp, I plan to announce the formation of the Palestinian Women Advancement League.”

Father was pointing at her.

“And this organization will dedicate itself to Palestinian women of all-”

Someone shoved her from behind, and she fell to the floor. The rough blanket was thrown over her, and strong hands lifted her.

She struggled to free herself. “Let me go!”

Someone kicked her. The pain made her fight harder. She managed to release one arm and felt her hand slap against a face. “Release me immediately!”

A fist punched her left kidney, paralyzing her.

They carried her, wrapped in the coarse blanket. A door screeched, and she was dropped to the floor, the air knocked out of her.

Through the fog of pain and fear, Elizabeth heard the door being locked.

After returning from Hadassah, Rabbi Josh had visited a pharmacy and bought tiny scissors, bandages, and a tube of ointment. Back in his room, he propped his right foot up on a chair and pulled off bits of skin from each blister, gritting his teeth. In the back of his heel, a large blister had not yet burst. He popped it.

A knock came from the door, and Professor Silver entered. “ Oy!” He gazed at the rabbi’s foot. “What have you done to yourself?”

“Jogged too long in the wrong shoes.” Remembering Tara’s suspicions, the rabbi asked innocently, “How did your eye procedure go?”

“It was postponed,” Silver said. “Could you-”

“Postponed?” He pressed the blister, which oozed clear liquid. “Wasn’t it an urgent thing?”

“Not at all. A little tinkering with one of my eyes. Nothing serious.”

The rabbi glanced at him, wondering why he was lying, and with such ease! “It’s not getting worse?”

“At my age every bodily function is getting worse.” The professor removed his black beret and rubbed his thin hair. “I don’t sweat the little things.”

Rabbi Josh took out the supplies, arranging them on the table. “Nothing serious?”

“Thank God.” The professor touched his black-rimmed glasses.

Fearing his face would betray his dismay, Rabbi Josh bent forward to look closely at his foot. “I’m glad,” he said, feeling the exact opposite. He brought the pointed edge of the tiny, half-moon scissors to the popped blister while pinching the skin between a finger and a thumb to raise it. “I was wondering about what you overheard.” He began to snip at the raised skin, twisting his face as the burning intensified. “Between Masada and Al.” He clipped the skin in a circle, tearing off the last bit, which hurt even more. “Could you tell me again?”

“Again?” The professor puffed air. “They were doing it.”

Rabbi Josh resisted the urge to glance at Professor Silver. “You sure you heard it clearly?” He pulled a loose piece of skin from his toe, and it trailed a patch of healthy skin that detached with the sensation of red-hot iron. He groaned.

“You need a doctor.” Silver peered at the foot.

“Happened before. I get carried away with exercise.” Unscrewing the tube of ointment, he repeated his question, “Did you hear them clearly?”

“I think so.” Professor Silver’s friendly tone was touched by impatience. “It was a very traumatic night.”

The vision of Raul’s white face pounced on Rabbi Josh’s mind like a stalker who had waited for the right moment to strike. He pushed the vision away, but his hand clenched the tube so hard it sprouted a long, gray worm of ointment on top of his bare foot. He smeared it over the blisters, twisting his face at the pain. “It’s important for me to know what she said exactly.”

“That’s a lot to expect from an old man’s memory.” Silver chortled and put his hand on the rabbi’s shoulder. “Joshua, my dear friend, you are suffering. I know, I’ve been there myself, when my beloved son died.” He coughed, clearing his throat. “Grief is a process. Let it take its course.”

“But did she-”

“Forget about Masada. Her errors are rooted in her failure to grieve properly for her loss. She hasn’t healed for decades.” He patted the rabbi’s bowed head. “One day, Joshua, when you recover, when you’re stronger, then you can try to help her. But not now, when you are so tortured.”