The Masada Complex

grief as a true, caring friend. It made no sense, but it was a fact. “Enough, Levy. Please.”

He kept crying, hunched over, his back to her.

Suddenly it dawned on Masada: He was putting on another one of his sympathy-generating acts. Soon he would hug her, tell her how her suffering broke his heart. Blah. Blah. Blah.

“You’re so full of shit!” She forced Silver around, grabbed his wrists, and tore his hands from his face, expecting to see his eyes dry.

But the professor wasn’t faking it. His face contorted with sorrow, his lips trembled with his sobs, and heavy tears rolled down his right cheek.

Only his right cheek.

The tip of the red sun cleared the mountains across the Dead Sea, illuminating his face. Masada peered at his left cheek. It was completely dry. “What’s this?” She let go of his wrists and took his jaw in her hands, twisting his head left and right, alternating the reflection of the sun in his eyes.

The answer was coming to her, too bewildering to accept. In his right eye, moist and tearful, the rising sun reflected as a red ball, glistening and angry. But in his left eye there was little moisture, and the sun reflected as a sharp point of red, as it would in a curved glass mirror. “No!” She forced his face left and right again. “It can’t be!”

“Ah.” Silver pulled something from his pocket and wrapped it around her wrists. “Please step back, dear.”

Masada looked at her wrists, cuffed with a plastic strap locked in a one-directional slit.

“As I once said,” Silver mused, “too bad it has to end like this.”

“You!” Masada lifted her cuffed wrists over his head.

He pushed at her. “Let go!”

With her wrists locked behind his neck, Masada pulled him to her.

“Stop it!” He pushed harder, trying to wriggle out of her grip.

She pressed on the back of his neck, forcing him closer. She planted her lips on his left eye, pressed his head to her, and sucked violently. The bulb of his eye popped into her mouth. It felt smooth, cold, and hard.

The wail of the muezzin woke Elizabeth up from a dream in which she held a smiling baby girl in her arms. She sat up. “It’s okay, sweetie.” She rubbed her belly. “I love you whether you’re a boy or a girl.”

The scarf had slipped off her head. She touched the cool skin of her scalp and reassured herself the hair would grow back. She covered her head, smoothed the front of the yellow robe, and went to the bathroom. After washing her face in the leaky sink, she joined the women in the kitchen to clean up from the pre-dawn meal the men had eaten before morning prayers. The women glanced at her while scrubbing the pots and plates.

On a small TV, set on a chair in the corner of the kitchen, a reporter appeared against the background of the Senate rotunda in Washington, where it was nighttime. He explained that a final vote on the Fair Aid Act would take place within minutes. Based on the positions expressed by the senators during the long debate, there was a clear majority for the anti-Israel legislation. After a brief transition by the anchorwoman in Atlanta, they cut to a black reporter in Jerusalem, shown against the background of Jews in yellow shirts, who had been dancing all night. “While the Israeli government has remained silent,” the reporter said, “the Israeli public has closed ranks in a rare show of unity, expressed in wearing yellow and exhibiting high spirits. But only few here expect the optimism to last, considering that the long friendship with America is about to suffer a devastating setback, and an uncertain future awaits this nation.”

One of the women approached Elizabeth and pressed a piece of paper into her hand. “My son, Salim,” the woman whispered, “is very ill. He’s only eleven. Pray for him.”

Elizabeth looked at the note, bewildered.

“Please,” the woman begged, closing Elizabeth’s fingers over the note, “tell Allah he’s a good boy, my Salim.”

Aunt Hamida led away the woman, who said over her shoulder, “Please! Allah will listen to you!”

Sharp pain shot through Silver’s empty eye socket. He bowed his head, slipped out of Masada’s locked arms, and shoved her as hard as he could. She stumbled backwards and landed on the dirt floor, her backpack hitting the opposite wall.

“Give back my eye!” He drew Rajid’s handgun.

The white porcelain eyeball appeared in Masada’s mouth. She turned her head and spat it over the edge.

Silver aimed the gun at Masada. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

She looked up at him, her mouth still gaping.

“Yes, I am Abu Faddah.” He found a rock to sit on, aiming the long silencer at her.

“You!”

“Listen!” He had to somehow control Masada until she told him about the woman soldier. “Your brother fell accidentally. I had no intention of killing any of them.”

“Murderer!” he began to get up.

“Your brother started fighting with-”

“Shut up!” She stood, wincing in pain, and took a step in his direction.

“Do you want to know how he died?”

Masada hesitated. She leaned back against the wall, staring at him.

“I came here in order to succeed where my fellow PLO fighters, with all their deadly attacks on Jewish kibbutzim, had failed miserably.” It was strange to tell her the truth, liberating in a way that made him feel young again. “It was a brilliant plan. I was sure it would work. I meant no harm to those kids. And I didn’t ask the Israelis to release any prisoners.”

“Save your lies.” Masada seemed ready to leap at him, no matter what happened to her. “You killed my brother. You!”

“I’m not the same person I was! For God’s sake, Masada, it’s almost three decades ago!”

“For me, it’s like yesterday.”

“Okay,” he said, raising his free hand to stall her, “I caused his death, I admit. I did a horrible thing. God has made me pay for it.” He waited, letting his expression of regret sink in. “For what it’s worth, I would like to tell you about your brother’s last moments. He was a brave boy-I swear, it’s the truth.” He put a hand to his chest. “Allah’s honor.”

Masada flinched, as if she could not yet comprehend the name of Allah coming from someone whom, until seconds before, she had known as an elderly Jewish professor.

“All I ask in return,” he said, “is that you tell me about the woman who killed my son.”

Her eyes widened. “Your son?”

“I knew the Israeli army would show up by helicopter.” He motioned at the open roof. “I tied up a sheet and placed the tallest hostage at the open side over the cliff, so they wouldn’t shoot in. It worked, but your brother attacked my son and got hold of the gun. Faddah wasn’t a fighter-that’s why I tried to recover our family home for him. I rushed to separate them. Faddah fell here,” Silver pointed at the dirt floor, “and your brother fell over there.” He pointed at the open end. “Allah is my witness, I tried to catch your brother, but he went down.”

“Liar!”

“Why are you always butting heads with reality? We both lost our dearest, but I was here, I saw what happened, you didn’t. And I accept responsibility for starting it, for causing the situation, but it should have ended without bloodshed. The disaster was solely due to the Israelis’ arrogance, the games they always play. You begrudge them too!”

“They didn’t push Srulie. Or throw a grenade.”

“It was an accident! I swear on Faddah’s grave!”

“You threatened to kill a hostage, and you acted on your ultimatum.”

Silver was surprised she knew about his ultimatum. The authorities must have told her after that night. “Empty threats, I assure you. I was an intellectual, not a man of action.”

“You killed him. You!”

“Enough!” Silver aimed the gun. “Your brother was arrogant, like you. It was his