“My fellow Palestinians,” she addressed her reflection, “family and friends. It is with humble pride that I stand before you today to accept this award.” She paused for the applause. “While my work must remain secret, our national future is for the whole world to admire. The Zionists will soon be brought to their knees, and all of Palestine shall be free.”
She glanced at the photo of her father and the professor, which she had taped onto the corner of the mirror, and imagined Father smiling through moist eyes. “I thank Allah,” she continued, “for the opportunity to serve Palestine, to build a just and free society on our land.”
Her eyes shut, Elizabeth imagined the tricolor flags flapping in the gentle breeze along the dusty main road of the camp. She listened to the cheering crowd, the band breaking into the Palestinian national anthem, her father’s hand resting on her shoulder.
Masada listened as the doctor informed her that the MRI of her head showed no internal bleeding. The severe bruises left by Al Zonshine’s beating would heal, but there was still a risk of a clot travelling through her blood to her lungs or brain. They would keep her for observation for a few days.
She managed to shower herself and hoped the trickle of vaginal bleeding would stop before it was noticed by the nurses. She couldn’t bear the thought of anyone knowing what had happened with Al. They would ask prodding questions, examine her private parts, and fill out reports that would make their circuitous way to the media. It was a risk she would not take.
Professor Silver came to visit, bearing flowers and chocolate. He sat by her bed, held her hand, and told a funny story about a Jewish man who tried to learn how to water-ski while wearing his prayer shawl and yarmulke. After sharing a brick of chocolate, they discussed Al’s death. According to hospital gossip, his heart had given up. “Better that way,” Silver said, “Such a tortured soul.”
“I haven’t been able to sleep,” Masada said. “My mind keeps racing through what happened.”
He patted her hand. “I’ll ask them to give you something.”
After consulting with the physician on call, the nurse gave Masada two sleeping pills.
Silver closed the door, dimmed the lights, and adjusted her bed. “Now old Levy will watch over you. Good night, now.”
For the first time since Al’s attack, Masada began to calm down. He made her feel like a little girl tucked in for the night by her daddy. She closed her eyes, and he kissed her forehead. “Sweet dreams, meidaleh.”
Professor Silver waited until close to midnight. The hallway traffic had quieted, and Masada was snoring lightly. He stood over her and listened to the rhythm of her breathing. She was sound asleep.
He cracked the door and peeked outside. All was quiet, the nurses’ TV throwing blue haze on the walls.
Back at Masada’s side, he pulled out the second syringe he had bought earlier, tore the wrapping, affixed the needle, and uncapped it.
Unlike Al’s central line, which was thicker and fed drugs straight to his heart, Masada had a thin tube that traveled from the IV bag above the bed down to her arm. It would require a larger amount of air, which would have to travel all the way to her lungs and heart, in order to kill her. And because she didn’t have Al’s heart condition, her sudden death would be harder to explain. On the plus side, however, she was not attached to a heart monitor, so her death would likely remain unnoticed for hours, long after he would have departed through the stairway on the opposite end of the hallway.
Holding up the syringe in the dim light, Silver pulled the piston all the way back, filling the syringe with air. The blotch forced him to tilt his head to see the point of the needle as he tried to stick it into the thin IV tube. He missed, stabbing his finger.
“Ouch!” He sucked on his finger for a moment, trying to calm down.
As he held the tube to try again, Masada stirred. He feared she would feel the bubbles travel through her blood vessels. Would she wake up with sudden pain? Would she open her eyes for the last time and see him standing over her with the incriminating syringe? Would she scream? Just in case, he prepared a strip of tape to stick over her mouth.
But there was something in Masada’s face he had not seen before-a calmness that softened the contours of her mouth almost to the point of a smile. He bent closer and gently caressed her dark hair, clearing it from her bruised forehead. His hand lingered, and he watched her, enjoying the beauty endowed by her unusual state of peacefulness.
Shaking his head, Silver ordered himself to concentrate. He held the IV tube between a finger and a thumb, staring at it from the corner of his eye, and carefully brought the point of the needle to the tube. He felt the needle touch the tube and pushed it in, relieved.
His gaze was drawn back to Masada’s face. Framed by her dark hair, she seemed pale, angelic. He placed his thumb on the pump, ready to inject a syringe-full of air into her veins, and looked away from her face, up at the ceiling, where he aimed the blotch at the dimmed nightlight to remind himself that this woman’s life stood between him and a cure.
Do it!
He stole another glance at her. A thought crossed his mind. Was Masada’s peacefulness due to her trust in him? Old Levy will watch over you.
Enough!
He pressed the piston all the way, emptying the air into her IV line.
Shaking badly, he watched her face for the first sign of shock, of sudden pain and fatal terror.
Masada continued to breathe.
He searched for a sign of distress, of her body responding to its imminent death with a jerk, a convulsion, something!
He bent over to look closely at the syringe and the IV tube. It was hard to see. He lifted the line close to the dimmed light and saw the point of the needle sticking out the other side of the tube. He had pushed it through the tube, injecting air into the air!
No longer able to breathe, his hands trembling beyond control, Professor Silver pulled out the syringe, shoved it in his pocket, and ran out of Masada’s room.
Monday, August 11
The custodian at the Heavenly Pines Cemetery demanded an early-bird premium. Professor Silver paid without haggling. An hour later, he watched the two Mexican laborers dig Al’s grave while the groggy mourners sipped coffee from Styrofoam cups. He had called a bunch of Temple Zion members, explaining that Al’s funeral would be held early to beat the heat and the media. But his real reason was to bury Al before someone asked for an autopsy.
When the coffin was placed over the grave, everyone came closer, two of the women supporting Hilda. In the rabbi’s absence, Silver took the lead. “We have gathered here today,” he said, “to say farewell to an old friend. Alfred Zonshine showed his courage as a young man in the United States Marine Corps, fighting bravely to bring democracy to Vietnam. He returned from captivity an impaired man, physically and mentally, and had struggled for a normal life, fencing with the demons of war and captivity. His private quest for internal peace was won day by day with the support of his soul mate.”
Hilda sniffled behind the black lace that hung from the brim of her hat.
“Al was a mensch,” Silver declared, “who fought for ideas, argued for just causes, and sometimes made mistakes. But today we remember only his virtues and his long effort to remain upstanding despite the rushing current of the river we call life.”
He paused, glancing at the men and women around the grave, suppressing a grin. If they only knew how comical all this really was-a Palestinian agent eulogizing the Jewish schmuck he had killed only hours earlier.