The Masada Complex

Command at the IDF, the Organization of Bereaved Families, the Disabled Veterans Agency, and the IDF’s Pensioners Command. But none of them had ever heard of Ness.

“He was my commander in the army,” Masada told a secretary at the Payroll Department in the Ministry of Defense. “He must exist somewhere!”

After a long silence, the secretary asked, “Have you tried finding him in the phone book?”

Elizabeth had finished unpacking when the phone rang. It was Bob Emises. “Flavian Silver is staying at the Ramban Hostel. Do you need a ride?”

“No, thanks.” She wrote down the address and telephone number.

The front desk clerk at the Ramban Hostel answered the phone in Hebrew, but switched to accented English. Professor Silver had just left for a funeral and would return in approximately two hours. Elizabeth asked for directions from the Kings Hotel.

“When you leave your hotel,” he explained, “turn right and keep going for five minutes. You can’t miss us. Good Sabbath.”

“And to you,” she said.

A colorful tourist magazine on the night table advertised day tours to the Old City, Israel Museum, art galleries, and archeological sites. Overnight trips went to Tel Aviv, Haifa, Nazareth, and the Dead Sea. After the ceremony, she could travel to those places, get to know her homeland in a way she had not been able to as a child.

Rabbi Josh watched the men in black coats and black hats pushing the gurney up the gravel path to the open hole in the ground. The dug-up soil formed a mound next to the grave. It was the soil of the Promised Land, the sacred soil in which Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob were buried, in which Jews were buried without a coffin, lying in wait for the Messiah to arrive and resurrect the righteous.

A prayer shawl covered Raul, showing the outline of his small body. Rabbi Josh wanted to pick him up and cuddle him, talk him back to life.

One of the black-garbed men jumped into the grave and pulled one end of the gurney down into the hole. With practiced motions, he slid the white-shrouded body from under the prayer shawl into the grave, laying Raul flat on the bottom, while the other man pulled out the gurney.

Rabbi Josh kneeled by the open grave. He removed the plastic wrapping from the two blood-stained flags that had once stood together by the Ark of the Torah at Temple Zion, symbolizing American Jews’ joint loyalty to the two nations. The U.S. and Israeli flags were still attached to each other with Raul’s congealed blood as the rabbi reached down into the grave and placed them on his son’s shrouded chest. He imagined Raul’s face under the cloth of the shroud.

One of the Orthodox men shoved an open prayer book into his hand, tapping the page.

Rabbi Josh looked around for the wood sections he had cut from the temple dais. They weren’t there.

He left the graveside and walked through the tombstones to the bottom of the hill, where the station wagon was parked. He opened the back door, lifted the package, and groaned under the weight. It had not become heavier, but he had weakened with grief, little food, and a long journey without sleep.

Someone came to help him, but the rabbi shook his head. This was his burden to bear. He bowed, shifting the wood pieces onto his shoulders.

Bent over, he made his way up the hill, placing each foot ahead of the other in the narrow spaces between the tombstones. His back ached. The wood rubbed his skin raw over his shoulder blades. Sweat dripped down his face.

He lowered the wood sections into the grave, placing them upright by Raul’s legs, and recalled his son playing on the temple dais as an infant during sermons, crawling to the Ark and banging on it with his little hands, or tugging on his father’s pants while he read from the Torah. He wiped his eyes and recited the verses of Psalms, forcing from his mouth these words of praise for God and His justice while feeling nothing but anger at His cruelty.

Professor Silver stood by the rabbi’s elbow and repeated the words, sniffling.

Before he recited the Kaddish, Rabbi Josh looked around, searching for Masada. He didn’t blame her for Raul’s death, which was God’s doing. But did she blame herself? Probably, and this was the time for her to beg Raul’s forgiveness, as mourners traditionally did, speaking directly to the deceased by the graveside, bringing closure.

Disappointed that Masada wasn’t there, he kneeled at the grave alone. “I’m sorry,” he said, his vision misted. “I beg your forgiveness, my son.”

Masada found sixteen entries for Ness in the phone book. One was D. Ness at 60 Ibn Ezra Street in Rehavia, not far from the Ramban Hostel. She grabbed her bag and left.

It was a small, one-story house. A young woman with curly dark hair answered the door, two little boys holding on to her skirt.

An older woman in a plastic apron appeared. “Welcome!”

“I’m looking for Colonel Dov Ness.”

“Of course. My husband will be back shortly. Please come in.”

Masada sat at the edge of a cloth sofa. Her mouth watered at the smell coming from the kitchen-something sweet, like the honeyed carrots served at the kibbutz on Friday nights.

Mrs. Ness brought tea. She stopped the boys as they ran past. “Have you said Shalom to our guest?”

They wriggled free and sprinted out of the living room.

Masada sipped from the teacup. “How many do you have?”

“My daughter has these two and a baby girl. We are blessed.” Mrs. Ness smiled, and her gaze rested on a photo of a young Colonel Ness on the upright piano against the wall.

The boys dashed into the living room, circled their grandmother, and scurried off before she could catch them. “Little devils,” she laughed.

A grandfather clock chimed once. It was 6:30 p.m. The Sabbath was about to begin. Masada put down the teacup. “Perhaps I should come back another time.”

“No, please.” Mrs. Ness pushed off a lock of white hair that fell over her forehead, a slight gesture that offered a glimpse of her former beauty. “It’s no bother at all. Dov loves visits from his former soldiers. He misses the old days.”

Masada bit her lips, wondering how many other hearts Ness had broken in the old days. “How did you know that I served with him?”

“It must be painful for you, dear, to return to Israel after so many years. A lot has changed since you left.”

Masada put down the tea cup, which rattled in her shaking hand.

“Dov shouldn’t be long.” The colonel’s wife sighed. “At least on Fridays the funerals are short.”

Funerals?

“And don’t mind the boys. I took away their water guns.”

Once the grave was filled, and Rabbi Josh recited the Kaddish, Professor Silver joined the others in two parallel lines. The black hats pointed at the setting sun and hurried Rabbi Josh up. He removed his shoes and walked between the lines. Everyone said out loud, “God shall comfort you among all the mourners of Zion and Jerusalem.” The rabbi nodded, his hands clasped together at his chest. For a moment, Silver was flooded with grief. The boy should not have died. First Faddah, and now Raul. Two boys. Two beautiful lives. Lost forever.

What have I done?

Enough!

It was an accident!