to participate!”
“Shush!” Silver was gripped by fear, not from this pathetic Jew, who obviously thought Silver had rendezvoused with a Judah’s Fist representative, but from Rajid and his suppressed violence.
“Let me meet them! Know stuff you don’t!”
Silver walked faster. If Rajid saw this, he would conclude that Abu Faddah had lost control of the operation.
“Slow down!” Al ran a few steps to catch up. “Give me another heart attack!”
Silver waved his hand. He got into his Cadillac, locked the doors, and started it. Air blew through the vents, hot at first, cooling down. His hands shook, and he had a hard time getting the drops into his right eye. He sat back, eyes closed, taking deep breaths.
When he drove off, Al’s white van appeared in his rearview mirror.
A half-hour later, down in Silver’s basement, they rolled joints and lit, smoking in silence. Al was slumped in the big chair, belly rising and falling with his draws.
The professor pointed with his joint. “Next time you sneak behind my back, I’ll have you expelled from Judah’s Fist.”
Al turned red. “Wanted to know, that’s all!”
“And I want to know what madness possessed me to risk my standing with the organization for you!”
“Meaning what?”
Silver drew in, enjoying the excellent weed, prolonging Al’s bewilderment.
Al sat at the edge of the sofa, watching him.
“As your commander, I recommended you for the second-highest decoration, previously awarded to only three members in the secret history of Judah’s Fist, all of them
“Really?”
“My recommendation was accepted in a secret meeting of the National Council.”
The Jew was buying this nonsense with wide eyes.
Standing up, Silver declared, “On behalf of the National Council of Judah’s Fist, in recognition of your exceptional courage and readiness to make the ultimate sacrifice, I hereby anoint you Member of the Order of Ben-Yair.” Silver pinned a tiny brass fist to Al’s shirt. “Mazel tov!”
Al couldn’t take his eyes off the small pin. “Thought they’d be angry with us, no? Meaning, after the bitch exposed the whole thing, all that money, wasted on Mahoney?” Between his pudgy face and bald head, the Jew now had the shape and color of a ripe eggplant.
“The National Council concluded, based on my input, that your courage should not be discounted on account of Masada El-Tal’s treason. I told them that you are a true believer, that you stand ready to make any sacrifice for the Jewish people.”
Al stood erect, as much as his belly allowed. “Five years in Nam, hell on earth, and they gave me nothing. Decorated Mahoney instead.
Rolling new joints, Professor Silver said, “You expect the goyim to decorate a Jew?”
They smoked together as comrades. Silver pretended not to notice how Al caressed the tiny brass fist on his chest. It had cost Silver two dollars in a Phoenix flea market.
“Tell me,” Al said, “what’s Phase Two?”
“Phase Two,” Silver blew out smoke, “is defeating the enemies of Israel in Washington and reviving the Mutual Defense Act. Our comrades are going to fix what Masada sabotaged.”
Al grinned. “Left her a tasty treat couple of hours ago. She’ll run in circles tonight.”
“We’re beyond that.” Silver stood up to signal the importance of what he was about to announce. “Yesterday the National Council tried and convicted her
Al jumped to his feet. “Kill her?”
“It must look like an accident, though other traitors will know-and tremble!”
Al clenched a fist. “Got the perfect
“What?”
“Tell you?” Al shook a finger. “Can you spare a pillowcase?”
Professor Silver paused. “A pillowcase?”
Masada sat stoically while the officer wrote her a ticket for speeding. When she turned on the engine, the cold AC made her realize she was wet with sweat. Before she could do it herself, Rabbi Josh took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped her forehead.
“I worry about you,” he said.
“A worried optimist? It’s the ultimate oxymoron.” She had a hard time hiding the tremor in her voice, surrendering to his touch as he wiped her temples and her neck. “If you love Israel so much,” she said, “why don’t you move there?”
“I’d love to make
“Who’s stopping you?”
Rabbi Josh put away his handkerchief. “Are you trying to pick a fight with me?”
“Are you avoiding the question?”
He laughed, then turned serious. “I agonized over it, but decided that Israel is not the best place for a little boy whose mother I’ve already lost.”
“The statistical risk of dying in a terrorist attack is tiny.”
“It’s not about statistics. I would do anything for Israel, but Raul is five. I think of the daily risks, the new language, and mandatory military service, all those things. I can’t make such a decision for him. I’ll raise him here safely, and when he’s an adult, God will help him make the right choice.”
“You don’t trust God to watch over him in Israel?”
“The Master of the Universe would have to work much harder to keep Raul safe there.” He paused. “In your nightmares do you go back to jail?”
Masada felt her guts clamp up and lifted her foot off the accelerator, slowing down. A glimpse of the women’s penitentiary came to her, the view from her cell-a concrete wall, dry grass, and pink bars, someone’s idea of a feminine touch. “Eight months,” she said. “Felt like eight years.”
“Only eight months for manslaughter?”
“I got three years, but my conviction was cancelled. I signed an oath of silence, and came here on a student visa.”
Rabbi Josh shifted in his seat. “And now they’re using the conviction to discredit you.”
Masada turned into her street, letting the car cruise downhill.
“Please tell me more,” he said softly.
She drove into the garage, but did not turn off the car. In all the years since she had left Israel, not once had she spoken of what had happened on Mount Masada. “I grew up on Kibbutz Ben-Yair by the Dead Sea. As teenagers we used to hike to the top of the mountain, camp all night among the ruins of King Herod’s palace, sing songs by a bonfire until dawn.” Masada smiled. “It’s the most beautiful sight, when the sun clears the peaks of the Edom Mountains and reflects in the flat water of the Dead Sea, paints it as red as blood.”
Rabbi Josh nodded. “One day I hope to see it myself.”
She thought of Ness and his staged video conference over Srulie’s tombstone. “It’s a magical place. My parents were Holocaust survivors who became Zionists, devoted to communal life in an independent Jewish state. They worked in the salt factory six days a week, fourteen hours a day. When I was twelve and my brother seven, a dock collapsed. Several kibbutz members were trapped underneath. It was poorly built and they were overworked. There were no safety precautions, no life vests, no first aid gear. Dad pulled Mom out, and went under to save others. The saltwater killed him. Mom lived until the next morning. Her lungs were ruined.”
Masada recalled her mother’s face with blisters the size of grapes, lips cracked like burst tomatoes. “Before she died, I promised her I’d take care of my brother. It wasn’t hard. Kids on a kibbutz grew up in one big, happy family, sleeping in coed dorms. Srulie spent days by Mom’s grave, writing poems, but he got over it. In 1981, it was
