The Masada Complex

Elizabeth found the keys and unlocked her car.

The man emerged from the black sedan and said, “Good evening.”

In the dim light she saw black-rimmed glasses under a dark beret, a gray goatee, and suspenders over a white shirt. He was not young, maybe sixty or seventy.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said, handing her a piece of paper.

It was a photo of this man with his goatee and black beret standing next to a stooped man in a white robe and a checkered headdress. On the back, a hand had scribbled a sentence in Arabic: Daughter, help this important friend in whatever he asks of you. Allah is great.

The signature below resembled the endorsement signatures on the monthly checks that came back with her bank statements. In disbelief Elizabeth turned over the photo and looked closely at the face.

“Your father,” the man said, “sends his love.”

Elizabeth pointed to the white building. “Seventeen years I have worked here. Before that, seven years of night shifts at Circle K while attending college and law school. Whatever I’ve made, ten percent has gone to him. But not a word of thanks.

Ever!”

The man nodded. “Hajj Mahfizie praises you every day.”

“Not a word in twenty-four years.” She shook the photo in the man’s face. “Now this?”

“A new beginning perhaps?” He raised his black-rimmed glasses and dabbed his right eye with a white handkerchief. “Allah works in mysterious ways.”

She tilted the photo under the street lamp. “He looks old. Is he ill?”

“Your father is tired, his strength drained by decades of struggle against the Israelis. But he is optimistic about the future-an independent Palestine for our children.”

Elizabeth fought back her tears. “Children were not my strength. He probably told you.”

“You are his child, Elzirah.”

“What do you want from me?”

“Hajj Mahfizie is proud of his prominent daughter.”

She shrugged.

“He is the conscience of the refugee camp, especially for the young men, who are filled with hate. The West Bank is still a place of suffering. You know about suffering, yes?”

Elizabeth leaned against her car, feeling weak. “As they say, you can take the refugee out of the camp, but you can’t take the camp out of the refugee.”

The old man smiled. “You miss him.”

“He sold me like a sheep.”

The man bowed slightly, as if in apology. “Your father regrets letting you marry so young.”

“He regretted having to pay Hassan back the money he had gotten for me.”

The man tugged on his goatee. “Your father did his best.”

“He sold a sixteen-year-old girl, who spoke only Arabic and had never left the refugee camp, to a fifty-year- old butcher, who took me to America. I lost half my weight in four months and as many pregnancies.”

“I understand.” The man crumpled his beret. “He prayed for Allah to bless you with your own family in a free country.”

“Hassan accused me of causing the miscarriages, and Father believed him. Do you know the punishment for abortion under the law of Sharia?” She choked. “I was a child myself!”

The man dabbed at his eye again. “Your father begs Allah’s forgiveness every day.”

He was wrong, of course, but Elizabeth had no will to dredge up the pain. “Who are you?”

He bowed. “Here, I am known as Professor Levy Silver.”

“A Jew?” She had assumed he was a Palestinian who had lost his accent after many years in America. “My father sent me a Jew?” She reached into the car and pulled out her purse. “How much?”

“No, no!” He put his hands up. “Money is not a problem.”

“Then what is the problem?”

He pointed at the building. “I seek permanent resident status.”

“File an application. If you have a job, your employer can sponsor you.”

“My employer is you.”

She looked at him. Was he mad?

“I work for you and the rest of the Palestinian people. My work is secret, of course.”

Elizabeth entered her car.

“I need a green card, and you are in the best position to fix it.”

“Fix it?”

“Hajj Mahfizie was told of your position. Such a title entails lots of power.”

“It entails a duty to enforce the law, Professor, not to break it.” She started the engine. “For your sake, I will forget this conversation ever happened.” She began to close the door.

He grabbed it halfway and leaned into her car, emitting a smoker’s breath. “I’ll meet you tomorrow night, ten-fifteen, at McDonald’s on the corner of Indian School and Twelfth Street.”

She was paralyzed. How did he know her Tuesday night routine?

“Meal number three.” He smiled, adjusting his black-rimmed glasses. “With strawberry shake. To go.”

Elizabeth McPherson watched the professor get into his black sedan. She gripped the steering wheel to stop her hands from shaking and wondered, Does he know what I do on Wednesday nights?

Tuesday, August 5

Rabbi Josh stopped by to check on Masada, who was already up, unpacking boxes of books. She was barefoot, in loose jeans and a white tank top, smelling of shampoo. She offered him her cheek.

“Good book.” He pointed to The Case for Israel by Allan Dershowitz.

“He got it all wrong.” Masada pulled a bunch of volumes from the open box and lined them on the shelf.

He noticed the circles under her eyes. “How did you sleep?”

She shrugged.

“Nightmares are common after a traumatic event.”

“You’re talking from personal experience?”

“I’ve worked with veterans.”

She stacked more books on the shelf. “Don’t psych me. I’m not one of those lunatic veteran the U.S. military is so good at producing.”

He knew she was referring to Al Zonshine, who had stalked her after her lecture at Temple Zion, having convinced himself that Masada was interested in him. It had taken the rabbi’s intervention and a threat of a restraining order to keep Al away. “Vietnam crippled a lot of souls,” Rabbi Josh said. “It’s not like serving in the Israeli army.”

“How do you know that?”

“Am I wrong?”

She grabbed her keys from the counter. “Let’s go for a drive.”

The garage was hot. Masada started the Corvette and turned up the AC.

“Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome,” Rabbi Josh said, “isn’t a cause for shame. Some people are fine for years, able to suppress the memories, live with an emotional time bomb. Then something happens.”

“Like a car flying into a ravine?” Masada pressed the gas, revving the engine.

“Or witnessing a violent suicide.” He glanced at her. “A new trauma saps the mental energy needed to contain the old trauma, which then explodes to the surface.”

“I left my ticking bombs in Israel.” She reversed out of the garage.