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!
Allah’s hand!
Rabbi Josh sat on a low stool, and Silver stood next to him, nodding as each of the strangers paused to offer condolences. His attention was drawn to a tall young woman pushing a wheelchair up the path to Raul’s grave. A wreath rested on the crippled man’s lap: From the State of Israel with sympathy.
Silver was impressed with the Israeli absorption ministry. They were clever to send an elderly amputee as a not-too-subtle hint that others had sacrificed no less to establish and defend the state. Clever Jews.
A blonde woman came over and spoke with the legless man and his companion. Silver couldn’t see her face. He strolled down the path, passing the group, and recognized Tara, the TV reporter from Arizona. A sense of alarm washed over him. Why was she in Jerusalem? And so quickly! Was she helping Masada’s investigation?
“Levy,” Rabbi Josh beckoned him closer. “Any idea why Masada didn’t come?”
“I’m disappointed too,” Silver lied. “The least she could do. Show some remorse. I’m going to have words with her.”
The rabbi unzipped his guitar case and put one knee down on the soil by the grave. At first, it was difficult to hear the words, but Silver recognized the tune of Leha Doddi. “Go forth,” the rabbi sang, “bride’s groom, receive your betrothed; Let us welcome her, the Sabbath.” His voice broke, and he let the strings of his old guitar sing for him.
Surprised at his own pain, Silver wiped tears. He hoped the boy could hear his father from above, welcoming the Sabbath together for the last time. He prayed that Allah in His compassion had not yet relegated Raul to hell, where all the Jews were destined.
The reporter had finished her discussion with the crippled man and noticed Silver. “Hi, Lenin,” she said, waving.
He nodded and turned away, realizing with a sinking heart that his attempts to divert Masada’s investigation toward Rabbi Josh might not succeed. Tara’s mind was not clouded by grief and passion. She was dangerous.
The sun had set, and in Elizabeth’s window the Old City glowed with lights, surrounded by the softly illuminated ancient walls. A cool breeze came in, reminding her to take a jacket.
Downstairs, the lobby was packed with Jews in their best clothes. Being shorter than most, she could not see the exit and found herself in the dining room, where families were taking their seats around tables with white linen and silver utensils. She stood, frozen in place, unsure what to do.
An olive-skinned waiter carrying a water pitcher said something in Hebrew, beckoning her to enter.
She asked in English, “Where’s the exit?”
“Where do you want to go?”
She recognized his accent. “Mnain il-khurug!”
His eyes lit at the sound of Arabic. “Khurug min Hotel?”
“Aiwah!”
He put down the pitcher and led her to a side door, down a short corridor to another door, which opened to the street.
“Shukran,” she said.
The waiter bowed with a smile.
She recalled the directions and turned right, telling herself to calm down. Traffic was sparse. Groups of Jews strolled, chattering with each other. She hoped Professor Silver had returned to the Ramban Hostel.
Colonel Ness rolled his wheelchair into the living room. “What a pleasant surprise! Sorry you had to wait.”