Rabbi Josh stood up. Masada should be aware of this possibility. Neither of them had known Silver for long, but she was a professional, capable of investigating. Could Silver’s warmth and intelligence hide such extreme ideology?
He heard voices in the lobby. The front desk clerk said, “Sure, Professor, use the phone in the office.”
The rabbi glanced at the desk, where a telephone rested by the computer screen that displayed the End of Days web site.
They led Elizabeth through a corridor, past a kitchen lit by the blue glow of a TV, under an arched entrance, and into the main sanctuary of the mosque. When her eyes adjusted to the bleakness, she saw three men seated at a table. Father was in the middle, hunched over an open book, murmuring. She was made to stand before them, the odorous blanket draped on her shoulders.
The man on the left, with a red band securing a checkered kafiya to his head, asked, “Why did you come here, woman?”
She recognized him. Imam Abdul, the school principal in her day. “I provided a service for our national cause. Our leaders invited me to be honored.”
“Where?”
“A senior Palestinian official will present me with an award at a ceremony in the main plaza on Wednesday. They must have notified you.”
Father shook his head, his lips continuing to silently recite from the book.
“Nobody knows about this honor.”
She felt her face flush. “I’m a very important lawyer in America. You think I would waste my time coming here to be treated like this? Pick up the phone and call Ramallah.”
“Silence!” Imam Abdul pointed at her. “Do not issue orders to this tribunal!”
Elizabeth was about to snap when the baby moved. “Father,” she said, “I didn’t mean any disrespect with my inadequate dress. I didn’t expect to meet you here, in the mosque. I looked for you at our home. But it’s in ruins. At least we can rebuild our relationship, right?”
Imam Abdul glanced at her father, who stopped murmuring and looked up from the book.
“I apologize,” she continued, “and wish to start my visit afresh. I will dress appropriately when I return. We do have an exciting event coming up, and-”
Father whispered, and the red-banded Imam asked, “What service?”
Elizabeth balked. “Excuse me?”
“What did you do for Palestine?”
“I am not at liberty to discuss it, but it’s of great value, which is why I’m being honored.”
“The honor, yes.” The imam showed the yellow teeth of a habitual smoker. “And who asked you for that service?”
“Actually, my father did.” She unzipped her purse and took out the photo, placing it face up on the open book before her father.
Father’s lips stopped moving. He bent closer, examined the photo, and shook his head.
“Turn it over. There’s a note in your handwriting.”
Father glanced at the scribbled message and grunted.
“A forgery.” Imam Abdul took the photo. “Who is this man?”
Elizabeth felt weak. Why was Father denying his own writing?
“He is my father’s friend. Don’t you see the request on the back?”
“Hajj Mahfizie doesn’t know this man.” The imam threw the photo on the floor between them. “You were tricked. Foolish woman!”
She picked up the photo. “This man is Abu Faddah, a brilliant Palestinian who is running the most important operation in our national history.”
The imam and the bearded man exchanged rapid whispers over Father’s head while he continued his recital of the holy book. The bearded man said, “We’ve never heard of this Abu Faddah.”
They whispered to each other again, nodding in agreement.
Imam Abdul declared, “You’re an Israeli spy.”
“Or an American spy,” the bearded man added. “Or both.”
Professor Silver entered the office and paused at the sight of Rabbi Josh hunched over the desk, his back to the door. “Hello, Joshua,” he said.
“Oh, hi there.” The rabbi turned, the computer screen going blank before Silver could see what he had been looking at.
There was an awkward moment, and Silver asked, “Will you go to the rally later?”
“I’m still in the shiva period. No festivities allowed.”
“Hardly a celebration. It’s more of a national protest.”
“Why not celebrate? The suspension of American aid means true independence, right?” Rabbi Josh’s voice had a touch of sarcasm, as if it were a trick question.
“That’s an interesting-”
“Kind of a biblical isolation? A preordained fulfillment of Israel’s destiny?”
The rabbi’s tone was contentious, but what debate was he trying to win? Silver sighed. Between these three Jews-Al, Masada, and the rabbi-a psychiatrist could have kept busy for years. “Joshua, I’m not sure what you’re talking about. May I use the phone, please?”
“Sure. We’ll talk later.” Rabbi Josh left the office.
Silver called Ezekiel to arrange a ride to Mount Masada at 2:30 a.m. He reminded the driver that a lady friend would be joining. “Please don’t ask her questions. Her life is in shambles. She is fragile.”
“Of course,” Ezekiel said. “Say no more.”
“It’s important that you understand.” Silver assumed the cabby would be questioned by police after Masada’s death. “I’m worried about her. I told her not to go, but she insists. What good would it do, to open up old wounds? She’s so depressed as it is. Who knows what can happen?” Silver sighed. “Two thirty in the morning then.”
Masada stood in line at a food market down the street from the Ramban Hostel, holding a basket with oranges, apples, and dried figs. A wide-screen TV mounted above the cashier reported that large police forces were gathering in preparation for more than a million Israelis expected to attend the national rally in Jerusalem to protest the vote in the U.S. Senate. The anchor mentioned the rumor that the writer Masada El-Tal, who recently made aliyah after losing her American citizenship, might speak at the rally tonight. Her photo appeared.
“The goyim kicked you out.” A man with wild white hair rattled a bunch of grapes he was holding. “We should crucify you at the gates of the city, like we used to do with traitors.”
“Oh, shush!” a fat woman in the back of the line said. “Leave her alone! What do we need the goyim for anyway? They can keep their money.”
“America is not the goyim,” the cashier said with a Russian accent, moving items over the bar-code reader. “America is a Yiddisher country. Who do you think calls the shots in the White House? The smart Yids with PhDs, that’s who. Like Kissinger.”
“Henri Kissinger?” The fat woman laughed. “He retired thirty years ago. Is he still alive?”
“That’s what the anti-Semites say.” A bespectacled man looked up from his newspaper. “The Elders of Zion control the world. It’s absurd. We’re the victims!”
“We are victims of Jews like her.” The first one rattled his grapes at Masada again. “Spreading lies, telling the goyim that Israel pays dirty money for a pound of legislation. That’s anti-Semitism! Shame on you!”
Rabbi Josh stood by the office door, eavesdropping on Professor Silver’s conversation. Why would he take Masada to the memorial service? Why was he telling the driver she was depressed? The professor’s protective tone contrasted with the ominous falseness of what he was saying.