Complete silence was the only response. Two men stepped in to support Hajj Mahfizie.
“It’s not every day that your daughter becomes,” she hesitated, “Hero of Palestine.”
The men burst out laughing.
“What’s so funny?” She grew angrier. “You think women can’t be heroes?
Their laughter quieted.
“You think only guns and bombs and suicides demonstrate courage?” She was yelling now. “You’re wrong! The bravest deeds are done quietly. What I did for Palestine no one else could do. And many women can provide unique services too. You cover us up in blankets, but it must change.” She paused, thinking she heard Father say something.
He didn’t move.
“I thought I’d keep it a surprise, but I might as well tell you now that on Wednesday, from the stage on the main street of this camp, I plan to announce the formation of the Palestinian Women Advancement League.”
Father was pointing at her.
“And this organization will dedicate itself to Palestinian women of all-”
Someone shoved her from behind, and she fell to the floor. The rough blanket was thrown over her, and strong hands lifted her.
She struggled to free herself. “Let me go!”
Someone kicked her. The pain made her fight harder. She managed to release one arm and felt her hand slap against a face. “Release me immediately!”
A fist punched her left kidney, paralyzing her.
They carried her, wrapped in the coarse blanket. A door screeched, and she was dropped to the floor, the air knocked out of her.
Through the fog of pain and fear, Elizabeth heard the door being locked.
After returning from Hadassah, Rabbi Josh had visited a pharmacy and bought tiny scissors, bandages, and a tube of ointment. Back in his room, he propped his right foot up on a chair and pulled off bits of skin from each blister, gritting his teeth. In the back of his heel, a large blister had not yet burst. He popped it.
A knock came from the door, and Professor Silver entered. “Oy!” He gazed at the rabbi’s foot. “What have you done to yourself?”
“Jogged too long in the wrong shoes.” Remembering Tara’s suspicions, the rabbi asked innocently, “How did your eye procedure go?”
“It was postponed,” Silver said. “Could you-”
“Postponed?” He pressed the blister, which oozed clear liquid. “Wasn’t it an urgent thing?”
“Not at all. A little tinkering with one of my eyes. Nothing serious.”
The rabbi glanced at him, wondering why he was lying, and with such ease! “It’s not getting worse?”
“At my age every bodily function is getting worse.” The professor removed his black beret and rubbed his thin hair. “I don’t sweat the little things.”
Rabbi Josh took out the supplies, arranging them on the table. “Nothing serious?”
“Thank God.” The professor touched his black-rimmed glasses.
Fearing his face would betray his dismay, Rabbi Josh bent forward to look closely at his foot. “I’m glad,” he said, feeling the exact opposite. He brought the pointed edge of the tiny, half-moon scissors to the popped blister while pinching the skin between a finger and a thumb to raise it. “I was wondering about what you overheard.” He began to snip at the raised skin, twisting his face as the burning intensified. “Between Masada and Al.” He clipped the skin in a circle, tearing off the last bit, which hurt even more. “Could you tell me again?”
“Again?” The professor puffed air. “They were doing it.”
Rabbi Josh resisted the urge to glance at Professor Silver. “You sure you heard it clearly?” He pulled a loose piece of skin from his toe, and it trailed a patch of healthy skin that detached with the sensation of red-hot iron. He groaned.
“You need a doctor.” Silver peered at the foot.
“Happened before. I get carried away with exercise.” Unscrewing the tube of ointment, he repeated his question, “Did you hear them clearly?”
“I think so.” Professor Silver’s friendly tone was touched by impatience. “It was a very traumatic night.”
The vision of Raul’s white face pounced on Rabbi Josh’s mind like a stalker who had waited for the right moment to strike. He pushed the vision away, but his hand clenched the tube so hard it sprouted a long, gray worm of ointment on top of his bare foot. He smeared it over the blisters, twisting his face at the pain. “It’s important for me to know what she said exactly.”
“That’s a lot to expect from an old man’s memory.” Silver chortled and put his hand on the rabbi’s shoulder. “Joshua, my dear friend, you are suffering. I know, I’ve been there myself, when my beloved son died.” He coughed, clearing his throat. “Grief is a process. Let it take its course.”
“But did she-”
“Forget about Masada. Her errors are rooted in her failure to grieve properly for her loss. She hasn’t healed for decades.” He patted the rabbi’s bowed head. “One day, Joshua, when you recover, when you’re stronger, then you can try to help her. But not now, when you are so tortured.”
Rabbi Josh looked at his left foot, which was still laced up in his shoe, and dreaded what was waiting in there.
“Oh, almost forgot. You remember the package I gave you at Newark Airport?”
The rabbi hopped to the suitcase that lay open on the floor. Digging under shirts and socks and underwear, he found the package. “Here it is.”
Silver held it with both hands.
It occurred to the rabbi that he should have looked inside it. “No contraband, I hope.”
“I only deal in words.” The professor grinned, pushing up the thick glasses. His hand searched for the doorknob. “Good night.”
“Levy.” He waited for the professor to turn. “Rabbi Yehudah Ben-Tabai said: Don’t be like the lawyers; when the accused suspect comes before you, treat him as guilty, and when he repents, treat him as innocent. In other words, if a guilty man exhibits sincere regrets, he’s entitled to be treated as innocent.”
The professor stood at the door, holding the package, his thick glasses preventing Rabbi Josh from reading his expression. “The problem is, my friend, that nobody is innocent.”
Masada beckoned the bartender. “I can’t wait for the Senate to vote. I’m tired of Ness’s tricks. You want to hear the latest?”
Tara ordered two beers. She cradled her chin in her hands, elbows on the table, and listened to the story of how Ness had purportedly stopped Silver’s surgery.
“Lenin isn’t so innocent.” Tara punched a key, and her laptop came to life.
“His name is Levy, not Lenin.”
“It’s not Levy, either. It’s Flavian.”
A teenage boy passed between the tables handing out yellow flyers for the protest rally at the Jaffa Gate tomorrow evening. Masada wrapped it around the sweating beer glass to soak up the moisture. “I know him as Levy. Must be his Italian birth name. How did you find out?”
“I called the absorption ministry.” Tara hit another few keys on the laptop. “Remember the interview in your garage, when you gave me lousy answers?”
“You asked lousy questions.”
“Before the interview, we were adjusting light and sound.” Tara turned the laptop to face Masada. “Priest e-mailed this clip to me.”
The screen showed Masada’s garage, the light-blue Corvette in the background. Tara walked into the frame, counted numbers, raised four fingers in the air, and appeared brighter as the lighting was changed. A voice said, “Don’t mind me. Just getting something.” Professor Silver passed behind Tara and got into the Corvette.
“He was searching your car. What for? A memory stick”
“I don’t blame him. He begged me to give it back to him or destroy it, and I risked his life by keeping it.” Masada brought the beer to her lips but lowered it before drinking any. “He was desperate. He had to look for it himself.”
“Behind your back?”
“He was afraid. He’s got no one in the world.”