The Masada Complex

They drove to Masada’s house and parked Al’s van in the dry wash in the back. They crossed her backyard and reached the dark patio unnoticed. Al put on surgical gloves and forced a flat screwdriver between the aluminum-framed glass doors.

Inside, moonlight cast shadows through the three large skylights in the high ceiling. Al checked every room, closing doors. With a purposeful air, he knelt by the closed garage door, unzipped a black bag, and took out a miner’s lamp on a headband, which he put on. From a box of long matches he selected three and banded them together with a strip of blue tape. “Fuse,” he explained, taping the matches head-down to the bottom of the door, the ignitable heads almost touching the floor. He tore an empty matchbox and stuck it to the stone floor at an angle, making sure the blue tape did not cover the ignition strip.

“Done.” Al stood up, grabbing his bag. “She’ll park her car in the garage, come to the door, turn the knob, and push it in. The matches will scrape the pad, ignite, and boom!”

“Right,” Silver said. Together with the house and the memory stick hidden somewhere within these walls. Then it would be Al’s turn to go, and Silver already had a plan.

In the kitchen, Al fumbled with the stove. He didn’t notice Silver going to Masada’s bedroom.

A mattress lay on the floor, wedged between the wall and a single night table. The light from the hallway fell on a book on the floor by the mattress. He picked it up and noticed a pair of holes that perforated his left cheek in the back-cover photo. He opened the book. The pin holes ran to page 67, and a light-brown stain had spread around each hole, as if something had been injected into the book.

Rejoining Al, he watched him turn a knob on the stovetop. An automatic starter began ticking and a flame appeared. Al lowered the flame, took a water bottle from his bag, unscrewed the top, and poured water in a circle over the burner, dousing the flame. Gas hissed slowly, spreading a sour smell.

They left through the patio, shutting the tall glass doors.

Silver said, “Good work, soldier.”

“Yes, sir!”

“What if she smells gas in the garage?”

“Solid wood door with tight rubber seal. Built to prevent gases from coming into the house from the garage. Works both ways.”

They got over the back fence and hurried through rocks and thorny brush to the path that ran down the middle of the dry wash. The neighbors’ homes were dark and lifeless. Huffing and puffing, Al glanced at the book. “You’re going to read it?”

“I wrote it.” Silver walked faster to keep up.

Al unlocked the van. “What’s it about?”

“About the German Jews in the thirties, under the Nazis.” He held on as Al drove off. “They wanted to escape Germany, but had nowhere to go. President Roosevelt called a conference of many countries in Evian, France, to discuss visas for Jewish refugees, but not a single country opened its gates. So Hitler concluded he could exterminate the Jews without interference from other nations.”

Al drove slowly, as Silver had instructed him, to avoid drawing attention. “They’re all anti-Semites.”

“That’s too simplistic. Many people admire the Jews for their intellectual achievements and national resilience.”

“They should.” Al pulled off his gloves and threw them in the back. “I mean, look at you, writing a book like that. How many goyim can write a whole book?”

“A few have.” Silver chuckled.

Al rotated his left arm, massaging his shoulder. “Pain’s driving me nuts.” He pulled a cigarette out of a pack and pressed in the lighter on the dash. “Suckers, that’s what we are. We work for the goyim, build universities and hospitals, find cures for diseases, and fight in their wars. And then they dump us, like they kicked us out of Sweden-”

“Spain, not Sweden.” The cigarette lighter popped, and Silver pulled it out and held it for him. “Portugal also, and England and France.”

Al drew deeply, blowing out enough smoke to momentarily hide the road ahead. “Screwing Israel is the new anti-Semitism. With help from traitors.” He spat out the window. “Going to burn, that bitch.” Al puffed a few times. “Wish I could watch her skinny ass getting barbecued.”

The image sickened Silver. “Al, please!”

“She’ll sizzle. Tssss! Tssssssss!”

“You’re taking it too personally.”

Al tossed the burning stub out the window. “Without America Israel is fucked. Fucked! ”

Silver felt his lips curl into a grin. “You’re right,” he said. “When you’re right, you’re right.”

Elizabeth watched the sun ease up over the rooftops, lighting up the dark sky with a tinge of red. Soon the balcony floor would also be red. The knife rested in her lap. She was ready. When the sun cleared the rooftops, she would open her veins and let the blood pour out with all her agony.

Elizabeth examined Father’s face in the photo. The flesh had gone from under his skin, which had the color of dry parchment. He would never again carry her on his back through the dirt roads of the camp or surprise her with a discarded toy he had found or sit her in his lap while she tickled his neck, making him laugh.

She put the photo down next to the knife. David had betrayed her, destroyed her dream of a happy family, of a happy future. She had no reason to live any longer.

The sun showed itself in full.

Tears rolled down her cheeks. Father was right. I am cursed.

Her hand grasped the black handle. She saw David with painful clarity, his good looks as deep as the mascara on a street-corner prostitute. He had used her to rise through the ranks, soared beyond her sphere of influence, and discarded her. Could she work in the same office with him? No! But what else? Private practice? Whoring her expertise to the fraudulent Mexicans she so despised? In a single day, her career and hopes had been crushed.

There was no future.

A dead end.

Cursed.

Elizabeth brought the knife to her wrist. She was determined to do it right, not to be another attempted suicide, a call for help. In her will, which she had written by hand, Elizabeth instructed that her body be cremated without an autopsy. She cringed at the thought of colleagues finding out she was pregnant.

She placed her wrist on the armrest and leaned hard on the knife. The skin parted with a burning sensation that reached her brain with alarm. Her pulse quickened. She realized a smooth blade would have worked better than this steak knife.

Just do it! Inhaling deeply, she began to saw her own flesh.

Something-someone! — poked at her belly. Elizabeth jumped, and the knife fell. She looked down in disbelief. It happened again. She grabbed the hem of her dress and pulled it up to her armpits, exposing her abdomen.

A little mound appeared near her belly button, as if a thumb stuck from within. It disappeared and poked out again, slightly higher, as if signaling a message. I want to live!

She bunched up the cloth of the dress and pressed on the wound to stop the flow of blood.

Sinking to her knees, Elizabeth looked up at the brightening sky. “Thank you, Allah,” she said, and began to sob.

The mask was grinning while its left eye squirted blood. Srulie’s bone protruded from the hole like a serrated monocular. The mask laughed. It melted into the face behind it, first the chin, then the lips and nose.

I know this face!

Masada lost her grip and fell backward into the void while the mask continued to laugh.

Who are you?