“True,” Ness said. “When President Nixon accused Golda Meir of suffering from the Masada Complex, Golda responded,
The headphones crackled. Ness put them on and listened.
“Positive,” he said, “we’re on our way.”
“Look at the ramp,” Tara said. “What an engineering wonder.”
Ness flipped a few switches overhead and the engine started. “The Romans perfected siege technology. They knew how to break down the greatest fortifications and the most rebellious spirits.” The rotors sped up, and he raised his voice over the noise. “And to defeat the zealots on Mount Masada, Caesar sent his most brilliant general: Flavius Silva.”
Professor Silver kneeled at Faddah’s grave and promised him that, as soon as the State of Israel ceased to exist, his remains would be transferred to a new Palestinian National Cemetery in Jerusalem, along with all the other martyrs who had sacrificed their lives for the cause.
The helicopter reappeared over Mount Masada, but Silver paid no attention. With renewed clarity of purpose, he followed the rows of gravestones from the entry, looking for the four dead kids. He stopped at a grave that bore a familiar last name:
Despite the heat, Silver felt a chill.
The roar of the helicopter made him look up at Mount Masada, and it hit him. Of course! Her parents must have named her for the mythical mountain they had seen out of their window every day!
As the initial shock passed, he realized this was a stroke of luck. Surely Masada knew about what happened in 1982, maybe even the name of the woman soldier who had killed Faddah!
Where was her little brother? She had always spoken of the three deaths in the same sentence, implying they had died together. But the next grave did not carry the name El-Tal. Was the boy only injured, dying weeks or months after the parents? The next few gravestones had other names. Had her brother been buried somewhere else?
Several rows down, he reached a stone dated
He wrote down the names, translating the Hebrew letters into English:
Three girls. The fourth, he knew, would be the boy he had accidently pushed off the mountain. He jotted the first name:
And the family name:
Silver stopped writing and peered at the stone:
How could it be? He touched the letters, tracing each one, the concrete rough against the nerve endings of his fingertip.
The roaring engine startled him. The helicopter descended from the mountain and flew across the arid valley, raising a dust storm that stung his skin in a thousand pricks. Fearing for his eye, he buried his face in his hands, bowing down until his forehead rested on the slab that covered Masada’s little brother.
“These tomatoes go to Europe.” Ness pointed at the greenhouses. “The hot weather and our advanced irrigation techniques give four crops a year. They use multi-level soil boxes to multiply field surface six times.” The helicopter hovered above a water tower. “The whole of Israel is smaller than Lake Michigan, so we have to produce more tomatoes per acre than any country in the world. Add efficient air transport and access to retail outlets, and you have speed and freshness. Within forty-eight hours of being picked, these tomatoes reach European consumers’ salad bowls.”
“And within another four hours,” Masada said, “their toilet bowls.”
Ness pushed on the stick, taking them low over the red roofs of Kibbutz Ben-Yair. She caught glimpses of her childhood-the narrow asphalt paths, the dining hall where members had met for hours to argue over socialism, the children’s house higher on the hillside, with swings and a tree house, now painted red, yellow, and green rather than the peeling white she remembered.
They came full circle over the crest of a hill, returning to the kibbutz cemetery, facing the blue water and the mountains across.
“It’s gorgeous,” Tara said. “Absolutely magnificent!”
Masada nodded. “The best spot is always reserved for our dead.”
“Let’s make a stop,” Ness said, “and pay our respects to your parents and brother.”
“No!”
“It’ll be good for you.” Ness maneuvered to land at a field bordering the cemetery. “Somebody’s down there. Let me land before he chokes on dust.”
She reached over Tara and pushed his hand on the stick. The helicopter tilted upward, and the engine uttered a tortured clattering.
“Hey!” Ness shoved the stick forward. Red lights flashed on the instrument panel. They lifted sharply, swayed from side to side, and dropped to the right, toward the ground.
Tara screamed.
The rotors cut the air faster, and the rate of descent slowed while the view disappearing in plumes of dust.
A buzzer joined the ruckus.
Ness pulled a lever over his head, which seemed to increase the noise. He shifted the stick sideways, back and forth, and held it in place as they began to ascend. The swaying reduced to shaking until they stabilized, finding themselves over the water.
He turned off the buzzer and increased power, moving up in a stable, direct course toward the mountains. Soon the kibbutz was only a green patch in the brown desert.
“Are we safe yet?” Tara peeked though her fingers.
Ness glared at Masada. “If you want to kill yourself, do it alone!”
The helicopter finally departed. Professor Silver pulled himself up and made his way through the graves. A
