Marcus made his way to Bank Hapoalim where he exchanged dollars for shekels. He followed signs to the arrival area, stepped from the cool of the air-conditioned terminal into the heat of the morning in Israel.
Marcus looked for the rental car signs when a white van pulled up next to the curb. The driver got out and approached. An unkempt reddish beard sparsely covered his youthful face. The clothes seemed to hang on his lanky frame. He wore a black kippah on the back of his head. Wide smile.
“Welcome to Israel, Mr. Marcus. My name is Elam Mandel. I am here to take you to Jerusalem, to the hotel. Professor Kogen asked me to drive you.”
“How did you recognize me?”
“Professor Kogen described you well.”
“I’ve never met him.”
“Maybe he has a picture of you.”
“I don’t think so.”
Elam smiled. “You are to receive the Nobel Prize for Medicine so your picture is available. Maybe Professor Kogen got it from the Internet. Here, let me take your bag. I work as an intern in the Hebrew University.”
He reached for Marcus’s small suitcase, lifted it to an empty seat in the van and said, “Please, get in. The journey is not too long.”
Marcus sat on the passenger side in the front. The driver put the engine in gear and began driving east, traveling on Highway 1 — the road to Jerusalem. They drove in silence for a few minutes. Soon, the hotels and commercial buildings near the airport bowed out of sight and the barren landscape appeared.
Marcus looked at the countryside, and he thought about its history. Rusted and discarded armaments, military relics from wars past, were still there. They dotted the landscape as if aged soldiers were lost in time and anchored in weeds, rocks, and forgotten battles. It was a rolling backdrop where hostilities held the country hostage and armies left scars that still cut to the bone of the land.
“Will you have a chance to explore Israel, Mr. Marcus?”
“No, this should be a short visit.”
“Too bad. There is nowhere else in the world with the unique history that you can discover here. May I ask, what is it you do? Medicine I suppose? Are you a doctor?”
“No. I guess I’m between careers.”
“I understand. The American economy is not what it used to be. Perhaps you can find work here. I would imagine that being a Nobel winner looks impressive on a resume, yes?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“While waiting for your plane to arrive, I read a little about your accomplishments. I spend more time on my tablet than I do reading papers in the coffee shops. To break genetic codes is like unlocking deep secrets sheltered in the human body. How do you train for such a thing?”
“In my case, it was a career change brought on by my daughter who was ill.”
“I hope your efforts help make her well.”
Marcus said nothing.
“Are you a scientist now?”
“No.”
“What do you do?”
“I have a small farm.”
“A man of the soil.” Elam grinned. “Maybe you are here because a possible ancestor of yours was here.”
“Ancestor? What do you mean?”
“History is my major. We are traveling on part of what was called Israel’s Burma Road during the war.”
“Which war?”
“The 1948 siege of Jerusalem. This road allowed convoys through to Jerusalem. Had they not made the journey, the remaining Jews in the city would have starved to death or been forced to surrender. An American helped build the road. I assume you know his name, maybe you are related to him.”
“Who?”
“His name was David Marcus. Is this a coincidence or a relative?”
“No relation.”
Elam shrugged. “He was so important in the war that Ben Gurion, our former president, named David Marcus as a general in the Israeli army. He was the first general in two thousand years. Imagine that, an American as our first general.”
“What happened to him?”
Elam released a deep sigh, his dark eyes scanning the land. “He died here. Probably around your age.”
“How’d he die?”
“It is most tragic. He did not live to see peace he’d worked so hard to achieve. Six hours before the cease-fire, in the village of Abu Ghosh near Jerusalem, Marcus left his quarters at night. He told someone he couldn’t sleep. The night was cold, so he wore a white sheet around his body as he went for a walk. Maybe he looked like a ghost. An armed sentry, a young Jew, saw a man in what appeared like an all-white robe coming closer. In Hebrew, he called for him to halt. Marcus spoke, but the guard didn’t seem to understand, and he killed him. David Marcus was a great man, and today he remains an important figure in the history of Israel. He opened this road to Jerusalem.” The driver grinned. “I wonder what roads your genetic research will open for the world.”
The van reached the top of a small hill, and Jerusalem waited below. Descending down a twisting road lined with an old stonewall, Marcus watched Jerusalem appear like a vast mirage scattered across the land. The rocky hills were dotted with cedar and date palm trees. As they came closer to the old city, the sun reflecting from the Dome of the Rock made it look as if a torch was smoldering in the distance.
Marcus thanked Elam for the ride and entered the lobby of the Mount Zion Hotel, the Damascus Gates to the Old City nearby.
Marcus took in the lobby, narrowing his attention down to the tuxedoed piano player softly playing Gershwin’s Summertime near the ornate bar where guests were being served pastries, sandwiches, coffee and wine. There were dozens of overstuffed couches and chairs with people clustered in intimate circles, sipping drinks and laughing, discussing events in one of the oldest cities on earth.
One man sat alone, and he didn’t glance up from his newspaper when Marcus approached the reception area.
“Yes sir,” said the desk clerk, smiling, his dark hair neatly parted.
“I’d like to check in. Name’s Paul Marcus. I have a reservation.”
The clerk typed the keyboard, nodded. “Although your room is prepaid, we will need your credit card on file for incidentals.”
“How long is the room prepaid?”
“Um…looks open-ended, sir. Your room has a balcony and a nice view of David’s Tower, Mount Zion and the Mount of Olives. And, you are within walking distance to the city’s main cultural, historical and religious sites.”
Marcus smiled. “I’ve had a long flight, how far is my walk to a bed?”
“Not far, sir. Take the lift to the fourth floor. Your room is on the right when you exit the lift.”
“Thank you.”
Marcus stepped to the elevator. The man sitting alone in the lobby folded the London Times in his lap, sipped a cup of tea and watched the elevator doors. Marcus rode alone to the top floor. The man reached inside his coat and took out a phone. He punched in a number.
“He’s here.” The man nodded. “Yes, I understand.”
FIFTEEN
The next morning, Marcus took a taxi to the Hebrew University of Jerusalem Library and abruptly stopped when he entered the front door. The stained glass windows were like none he’d ever seen. He stood in the cool of the lobby and stared at the far wall. The stained glass rose from floor to ceiling, three separate panels at least thirty feet wide. The primary colors were blood red, blue and chalk white. But it wasn’t the colors that caught Marcus’s eye — it was the images, abstract yet distinct in shape and form. Floating planets. Half-moons. Symbols of the universe layered with what looked like a page of Hebrew text.