Professor Silver exited the sanctuary and chased after his inept accomplice. Al had already turned on the engine when Silver pulled open the passenger door and climbed into the van.
“Shooting there is wrong!” Al panted, pressing his chest. “The Ark! I’ll go to hell!”
“Take a deep breath.” Silver fiddled with the climate control knobs to increase the flow of cold air. “You’re doing fine.”
Al grabbed a stained rag and wiped his forehead. “Can’t do it.”
Silver forced his voice to stay even. “There’s nothing to fear.
We are doing God’s work.”
“What if I hit the Ark?”
Screw the Ark, Silver thought. “Didn’t you read this week’s Torah chapter? An eye for an eye. That’s our Lord’s command.”
Al clutched his chest. “Ahhh!”
Silver opened the glove compartment and found the bottle of pills. “Here, take one.”
Hands shaking, Al placed a pill under his tongue and sat back, eyes closed. Beads of sweat covered his face.
Silver prayed silently. I beseech you, Allah. Don’t take him yet. A few more minutes, and you can burn his soul in eternity.
Al’s breathing slowed down.
“Would you rather die of a meaningless heart attack? Or do you want a hero’s end?”
“Hero.” Al wiped his face again.
“Show me the gun.”
His paws were too big for his own pockets, and he struggled to extract the weapon.
“Cock it.”
He did.
“Keep it in your hand, down by your leg, and walk right up to the dais. Understood?”
“An eye for any eye!”
“That’s the spirit! Don’t look at anyone. Focus on Masada. When you reach the edge of the dais, aim at her chest and pull the trigger. “Then you end it, like Mahoney.”
“I’m a soldier!”
“Soldier of Judah! Our people will tell your story to their children for generations!”
“Judah’s Fist!” Al closed his eyes. “Give me a minute alone.”
“One minute, soldier!” Professor Silver left the van and returned to the building. The foyer was lined with glass displays of Jewish trinkets. He stopped at the open door to the sanctuary and watched.
Rabbi Josh was back on the dais, seated next to Masada, who noticed Silver at the door and smiled at him.
“I have to respond to what was said before the interruption.” The rabbi put his hand on his son’s red head. “Why do I live comfortably in America while preaching aliyah? Because of this.” He leaned over and kissed the top of his son’s head. The boy twisted his freckled face in displeasure, making people laugh.
Silver glanced at the white van outside. He had to shift his gaze slightly, as the blotch hid the van. It was parked under a street lamp, Al still at the wheel.
“I owe it to my late wife,” the rabbi continued, “to raise our son in safety, not where people brave terror attacks, where rockets rain down without warning, where the Arabs’ hate of our people still burns hot. I must give our son a secure, happy childhood. I cannot put him in harm’s way.”
“I’m not afraid,” Raul said, earning a round of applause.
The rabbi laughed. “When you’re eighteen, you can make aliyah of your own volition, and I’ll join you.”
“So,” Masada said, “you’ll make aliyah when the kid goes to college.”
Silver shook his head in amazement. At least she was going out with a bang.
“I am ashamed,” Rabbi Josh said, “that I put my son before my religious duty. I fear for him. That’s the downside of being a parent. You’re always afraid.”
“But if you believe in God,” Masada argued, “Arizona or Israel are the same. Isn’t Raul’s safety in God’s hands, Rabbi?”
Silver held his breath in awe. What a waste, to have to kill such a brilliant woman. She had the rabbi prostrated on the cutting board, sliced up like a green cucumber.
Rabbi Josh raised his hands. “I can only aspire to Abraham’s faith, as he tied his son to the altar. One day I will settle in the Land of Israel and defend our Jewish state with my own life.”
Back at the van, Silver could see the interior lights come on as Al had opened the door.
“Your life?” Masada stood, facing him. “That’s a psychological condition: The Masada Complex.” She pulled a piece of paper from her pocket. “Rolef’s Political Dictionary of the State of Israel gives a definition of this term: Masada Complex is the conviction that it’s preferable to fight to the end than to surrender and acquiesce to the loss of independent statehood.”
The rabbi spread his arms. “Guilty as charged.”
“The Masada Complex,” Masada said, “is the cause of death for thousands of Jews in Israel. It’s the reason otherwise sane men talk about sacrificing their lives. The Masada Complex is Israel’s national mental illness.”
“Americans sacrifice their lives for their country.” The rabbi pointed to the Ark, flanked by the U.S. and Israeli flags. “Are they also mentally ill?”
She faced the congregation. “The U.S. army is strictly voluntary. Most Americans wouldn’t agree to serve, let along die for it. Americans pursue individual success, self-fulfillment, and acquisition of personal wealth. This country exists for the people’s safety and happiness, and it’s secured within its natural borders, free of viable enemies. But Israel is stuck in perpetual existential danger since its establishment because it is but a futile attempt to implant a western democracy in a region whose soil will never support it. Israelis will continue to die unnecessarily because of an illusion, a dream of an independent Jewish state living in peace with its neighbors. But that dream can never become a reality. It’s unfair, a tragedy, a historic injustice, but it’s true.”
As much as he agreed with Masada, Professor Silver was shocked by the relentlessness of her attack on the rabbi. He glanced at the van, shifting his head slightly to move the blotch aside, and was relieved to see Al approach the temple. In a moment, Masada and Al would die-a murder-suicide that no one would question, with a victim and a killer conveniently available to eliminate any search for a culprit.
Al approached in a stiff walk, his right hand glued to his side.
“And until they realize it,” she said, “Israelis will continue to suffer from the Masada Complex!”
“And I think,” Rabbi Josh declared, “that you are afflicted with the Masada Complex.”
They faced each other, similarly tall yet so different-Masada thin and erect, black hair flowing down to her shoulders, the rabbi muscled and tanned, softened by his golden ponytail.
“You think I suffer from a Masada complex?” Masada laughed. “That would take a bunch of Talmudic hoops.”
“Try it for size,” the rabbi said. “Exchange independent statehood with human rights, or whatever else you’re crusading for, and you fit the definition.”
Silver tore himself from the captivating scene on the stage to watch Al, who passed by him without a word and entered the sanctuary.
“That’s ridiculous,” Masada said.
Rabbi Josh quoted from memory: “The conviction that it is preferable to fight to the end than to surrender and acquiesce to the loss of a scoop. Immigrants’ rights? Freedom of speech? Government corruption?” He looked up from the paper. “You’ve sacrificed everything for your work. You have no husband, no children, no love-no life, really.”
Silver watched Al advance down the aisle toward the dais.
“But I don’t,” Masada said, “prefer to die for these it.”
“But you are willing to sacrifice yourself.”
Al reached the foot of the dais and raised his arm, pointing the gun at Masada.
Hilda Zonshine screamed, and the rabbi turned and saw Al’s gun.
“So shall all thy enemies!” Al coughed, struggling to complete the sentence.
Rabbi Josh threw himself across the dais to shield Masada. At the same time, Hilda Zonshine rolled off her seat in the front row and launched her stocky frame at her husband, yelling, “Alfred!” She collided with him just when a shot exploded.
The entire congregation erupted in shouting and screaming. A stampede headed for the doors. Silver stepped aside just in time to avoid being trampled.
When the flow of Jews dwindled to a whimpering trickle, Silver stepped to the door, only to be knocked down by a man running out. It was Al, who tried to say something but could not make his mouth work.
Silver pointed to the gun. “Remember Mahoney!”
Al turned and ran.
Through the sudden quietness, Silver heard a man shouting. It took him a moment to recognize the rabbi’s voice.
He pulled himself up and entered the sanctuary.
“Help,” Rabbi Josh cried, “somebody help!” He was kneeling on the stage, his back to the hall.
Coming down the aisle, Silver saw the boy’s legs on the dais. Stepping closer, he saw blood pooling under the crouching rabbi, who looked up and wailed, “No! Please God! Not my son!Not Raul!”
A chair was toppled over, a large hole in the backrest. Blood had sprayed across the two national flags flanking the Ark of the Torah.
Silver mounted the dais and circled the rabbi.
The entry hole was small, as if a finger had poked into the boy’s chest. But Silver knew the exit hole in the back was bigger than a finger, bigger than a fist, or a basketball. He had chosen the bullets exactly for that effect.
The rabbi’s cries turned to sobbing as he cradled his dead boy. “Raul. My baby. Please don’t! Raul!”
An memory came to Silver of his own torment, laying over the edge of a bleak precipice, wailing for his son, his heart tearing apart with the realization that Faddah was gone forever.
A siren sounded in the distance.
The room started spinning. Silver tried to reach a chair, but his legs folded under him. The wood planks of the dais rose and collided with the side of his head. Darkness descended.