Avraham Azrieli - The Masada Complex

“I took over at midnight.” The clerk’s acne turned angry red. “From my brother.”

Silver, in a white baseball cap but no glasses, clapped his hands. “Identical twins!”

“Not exactly,” the clerk said. “I read books, my brother plays electronic games.”

Taking Masada’s arm, the professor asked, “That’s the only difference?”

The clerk’s face turned even redder. “My brother likes blondes, I like older women.”

“Like aged wine,” Silver said, chuckling.

“Very funny.” Masada held the door for him.

“Meidaleh,” he patted her hand, “for me you’re a kid.”

The street outside was as busy as in midday. “Our driver is late.” Silver put down his shoulder bag and strained to see farther down the street. “Is this the punctuality of a retired army sergeant?”

“I’m going to buy a mobile phone tomorrow. Do you want one too?”

“Perhaps.”

Masada noticed how small and frail the professor looked. “I don’t have a good feeling about tonight. Let’s go back to sleep.”

Rabbi Josh ran up Jaffa Street. He knew the quickest route to the Ramban Hostel, but his pace was hampered by the human mass that filled the wide road, pressing against the storefronts, swelling into side streets.

He looked at someone’s watch. 2:29 a.m.

The intersection at Jaffa and King George was packed with dancing circles that turned in opposite directions within tight confines, resembling the inside of a clock. A woman grabbed his hand to pull him into a circle. He groaned in pain, retrieving his bloody hand.

She yelled, “Sorry,” and disappeared in the mayhem of leaping feet and singing, “ Am Yisrael chai, the Nation of Israeli lives,” as if their voices could be heard all the way to Washington.

Rabbi Josh moved sideways, leading with his right shoulder, making his way up King George Street. At the top of the hill he paused and glanced back at the sight of thousands upon thousands of joyous Israelis, dancing ecstatically, hands locked in unity. Masada’s made-up news report had confronted them with the fragility of Israel’s existence. It had marginalized all political differences and unified everyone in yearning for Israel’s perseverance. Rabbi Josh watched in awe. He knew this sight was unlike anything he would ever see again in his lifetime.

He forced himself to turn away. At this moment, his concern wasn’t for Israel or for the Jewish people, but for one woman in mortal danger.

Farther along the street, the Jewish Agency compound sported a blimp in the shape of a yellow Statue of Liberty holding a torch whose flame was a Star of David. A youth ran by and dropped a yellow hat on the rabbi’s head, hitting the lump left by the police baton earlier.

“Nonsense!” The professor took her hand. “Don’t be a pessimist. This is an opportunity to reconnect with old friends, make peace with the past, relieve the guilt that’s been festering-”

“I heard you the first time.”

“But I hear nothing from you! As your friend, I’d like to know what happened to your family. I could understand you better, be helpful. Were you in America already when your brother was killed?”

“You don’t want to know.” Her eyes followed a family marching by, the father carrying the little girl, her head resting on his shoulder.

“But I do.”

“Beware.” Masada bent to tighten the straps of her knee brace. “I bring bad luck. Anyone close to me gets hurt.”

“I am not afraid.” Silver pointed. “Ah! Here’s our taxi.”

Rabbi Josh turned onto Ramban Street, his feet on fire, and kept running. Halfway down the street, a long line formed at a bus station, blocking his way. He yelled, “Move!” and plowed through. Cars and buses traveled up the street, their headlights in his eyes. The hostel was close, and he prayed the taxi was late.

A slight curve to the right, and he saw the front steps in the distance. He zigzagged between pedestrians, searching for Masada’s tall figure. Please, let her be there!

And there she was, stepping off the curb into the open door of a taxi.

He ran faster. “Masada!”

Professor Silver got in behind her and slammed the door.

Rabbi Josh waved his arms.

The taxi moved, merging into traffic toward the rabbi.

Leaping into the road, he ran in the narrow gap between the moving vehicles and the sidewalk. As the taxi drew near, he saw Masada in the rear seat, her head bowed, looking at the floor. He stepped into the road in front of the taxi, blocking the way, and waved at the driver to stop. The taxi swerved, avoiding him. He jumped sideways, the bumper missing him by a thread. “ Stop! ”

The taxi sped away, Masada looking down, not seeing him.

Professor Silver’s face appeared in the rear window. He smiled and waved.

When he saw the rabbi charging down the street like a madman, Silver thought, So much for Rajid’s assurances. As Ezekiel drove off, merging into traffic, Silver reached between the front seats, turned up the music, and yelled, “Oy! I dropped my medicine!” He peered at the floor by Masada’s feet. “Do you see it?”

Masada bent down, searching the floor of the car. Silver looked up just as Rabbi Josh jumped in front of the taxi. His hands were red, as if he had dipped them in paint, his hair wild, his mouth opened in a yell that was drowned by the loud music.

“Hey!” Ezekiel swerved around the rabbi. “What a meshugge .”

Silver rested a hand on Masada shoulder, keeping her down.

“Did you find it?”

“It may be under the seat.” Masada reached down, feeling the carpet.

“Is it?” He glanced over his shoulder and waved at the rabbi.

Rabbi Josh tried to chase the taxi, but it was no use. Running back to the hostel, he considered calling the police but realized he had nothing to tell them. Professor Levy Silver was a respected Jewish academic-vouched for by the rabbi himself. The only way to save Masada was by catching up with the two of them and confronting Silver face-to-face in front of her.

There was no answer at any of the taxi companies except one, where the dispatcher said that all his drivers had taken the night off to attend the rally.

The clerk gave Rabbi Josh a first-aid kit. Back in his room, he used tweezers to remove the glass shards from his hands. He took off his socks and cleaned all his wounds with alcohol. He bandaged his feet over a thick layer of ointment and applied antiseptic lotion over the lacerations on his palms before bandaging his hands. He changed his shirt and forced his feet into running shoes, which he could not tie with his bandaged hands. He used a wet cloth to wipe the dirt off his face. He could do nothing about his hair.

Downstairs, the clerk showed him a map of Jerusalem, tracing the way to the city’s eastern exit, where he could hitch a ride to the Jordan Valley and the Dead Sea. “Make sure you stay out of the Arab neighborhoods,” the clerk tapped at the colored sections in the northern and eastern parts of the city, “and don’t go into a car unless you’re sure they’re Jews.”

“How can you tell the difference?” Rabbi Josh headed for the door, thinking of Professor Silver’s effective deceit.

The 3 a.m. news found them on the road, descending among dark hills into the desert. Masada tried to stretch her legs in the small car while the Voice of Israel tallied the likely votes in Washington based on the tone of each of the senators’ speeches. So far, it was forty-seven to twelve in support of the anti-Israel act. Even the opponents of the wholesale suspension of aid and cooperation did not object to the imposition of penalties as long as they were tied to the findings of an investigation. Only a lone senator from Connecticut, an observant Jew with a record of political independence, called for complete scrapping of the punitive legislation, arguing that the Israeli government’s official denial of guilt entitled it to an presumption of innocence until proven otherwise. The radio replayed Senator Mitchum’s earlier comments and predicted a final vote by 6:00 a.m., Israel time.