Avraham Azrieli - The Masada Complex

A whiff of grilled meat attracted her to a cart, where she bought a pita wrap with chopped lamb, fries, salad, and humus. She paced down the avenue, chewing mouthfuls of Israeli food she had not tasted in decades, absorbing the sounds and smells and sights of the huge gathering. Her knee wasn’t hurting, the head bruises had almost healed, and the staccato of Hebrew made her smile.

Near the Jaffa Gate, hundreds of youths danced in concentric circles to Israeli folk songs, which she recognized from her youth. A banner above the main stage read: Israel-Past, Present, and Future.

Across from the stage she saw a Microsoft banner hanging from a balcony. Motorola was strung between two telephone poles. A Smith Barney flag fluttered from a stoplight, now blinking yellow. Intel flew a mini blimp over the Old City. More banners strung along the avenue-Home Depot, Toys R Us, Starbucks, GMC, IBM, and GE. She understood the subliminal message sent via American TV channels to the senators in Washington: U.S. companies relied on Israel for their research and development, for their competitive edge, which tied American products and jobs to Israel’s fate.

The banners, however, did not end with subtleties:

America + Israel = Democracy + Freedom

One Mistake in a Long Friendship = Forgiveness

Guilty Unless Proven Innocent?

Israel = Bringing American Democracy to the Middle East

America + Israel = Golda Meir And there were contrarians as well:

America, who?

We’re fine. Aid yourself!

And Masada’s favorite, spray-painted on a wall:

How Would Senator Jesus Vote?

She jotted down the wording of the signs. Such authenticity would demonstrate the consequences of what Colonel Ness and Rabbi Josh had done.

“So?” A hand tapped her shoulder. “You still want Israel to be destroyed?”

She turned to see the man with the colorful skullcap who had asked her to speak at the rally.

Rabbi Josh was sure his head was split open, oozing gray brain matter onto the ground. Otherwise it wouldn’t hurt so badly. He parted his eyelids one at a time and saw the world sideways, like a TV standing on its side. The ground pressed against his left temple. He wasn’t at the mosque any longer, but he didn’t remember being moved. He touched the crown of his head, finding it was still covered with the kafiya.

The large cage was made of chicken wire and steel posts. Arab men crouched or stood in clumps of hushed conversations. A bearded man wearing a white knitted cap noticed he was awake and helped him to a sitting position. The rabbi winced, his head pounding. The man said something in Arabic.

An Israeli policeman tapped the bars with his club and pointed to one of the Arabs, who approached a small opening backward and stuck out his hands. He was cuffed and led away.

There was music nearby, blurred against the deep background hum of a huge crowd. Rabbi Josh realized the rally was taking place only a few streets away from here. He looked around, digesting his situation. He was locked up with a few hundred Arabs in a makeshift cage in the parking lot of a police station. Every few minutes, one of them was handcuffed and taken across the parking lot to another cage, whose walls were blocked off with gray tarp. At the current pace, he could be here for hours.

The events at the mosque replayed in his mind. Silver praying to Allah.

He wanted to believe the professor had merely visited the mosque for reconnaissance purposes. But Levy’s expression bore the fervor of a true believer experiencing that rare joy of spiritual unity with his creator. Rabbi Josh knew sincere faith when he saw it, and Silver’s faith in Allah, while utterly unbelievable, was sincere.

The implications were astounding. Professor Levy Silver was a Muslim! But was he an Arab? A Palestinian?

Rabbi Josh rubbed his forehead, trying to clear his mind. He reflected on Silver’s constant use of Yiddish phrases, his inaccurate yet endearing quotations of Jewish sages, his humor- Jewish humor. The professor had put on a masterful act of an elderly Jew, of good-natured resilience, spiced up with jokes and affection. Had he once been a Jew and converted to Islam out of misguided convictions? Or was he a born Arab who had assumed a Jewish identity for clandestine purposes?

Thinking objectively of the elderly man he had so fondly respected, the rabbi remembered Silver’s subtle accent and the softly tanned hue of his skin, both explained away by his Italian roots, yet now hinting at another, ominous possibility. The events of the recent past could be explained by a frightening hypothesis: Silver could be a Palestinian agent! His training, instructions, and money could have come from the Palestinians! It all fit together!

Rabbi Josh closed his eyes, trying to think clearly. Silver must have recruited Al into the imaginary Judah’s Fist organization, bribed Senator Mahoney with Arab money in exchange for sponsoring a pro-Israel act in the Senate, and leaked the information to Masada, whose deep resentment of Israel had conditioned her to write a scathing expose. The senator’s suicide fueled the anti-Israel fire, inciting a vote for the Fair Aid Act that was lethal for the U.S.-Israel friendship. Logically, at the conclusion of the plot, the professor needed to get rid of Al and Masada in order to eliminate any risk of exposure.

The plausibility of this scenario terrified Rabbi Josh. The sounds of the rally nearby proved how brilliantly the Palestinian scheme had worked.

Darkness was settling down on the city. Lights were turning on one by one, illuminating the parking lot. He must warn Masada before she left with Silver for the memorial service!

A policeman approached the lockup and pointed with his club at one of the Arabs. Rabbi Josh got up, wincing as his swollen feet pressed on the hard concrete, and rattled the chicken wire to attract the policeman’s attention. The Arab who was called stuck his hands out to be tied and grunted something in Arabic, likely telling the rabbi he had no reason to rush.

The policeman stepped closer, his club ready. Rabbi Josh cupped his mouth and whispered in English, “I’m an American.” He hoped the noise from the nearby rally prevented the Arabs behind from hearing him. “Let me out.”

“An American?” The policeman banged his club on the bars, making Rabbi Josh jump back. “Do you need my aid?”

Rabbi Josh turned. The whole group was standing, glaring at him. The Arab with the white knitted cap snatched the rabbi’s kafiya and yelled, “ American!” Another Arab came forward and kicked him in the groin. The rest of them launched their bodies toward him, wailing in Arabic.

When the sun went down, Elizabeth heard the muezzin call for evening prayers. While the men gathered in the prayer hall, the women set long tables in the courtyard for the iftar . They carried bowls of rise and lamb stew, baskets of pita breads, and jugs of ice water. A smoky fire kept away the flies.

Aunt Hamida had gone to bring another dish, and Elizabeth stepped to the side of the courtyard, observing the commotion. The evening communal eating during Ramadan was familiar, even after so many years. Fasting from sunrise to sunset during the long, hot summer days was taxing, which probably contributed to Father’s impatience and the harsh punishment.

She realized no one was paying attention to her. With all the men in the mosque, who was going to stop her from running off?

She inched along the wall toward the exit from the courtyard, but paused. Now that her punishment had been meted, what was the point of running away? Tonight, after the iftar , she would demand a private audience with Father. Caressing her tummy, Elizabeth was determined that her child would have a grandfather.