Incessant knocking woke up Elizabeth. The clock by her bedside read 12:06 a.m. Someone was at the door to her apartment, and the first thought that came to her mind was the professor’s immigration file. She had been exposed!
Getting out of bed, she tried to think. How had they found out? What mistake had she made that raised a red flag?
The knocking continued. She had to open the door before the neighbors woke up. But what would she say? Let me call my lawyer. But I am a lawyer!
Elizabeth found her slippers and went to the door.
Professor Silver stumbled inside.
She leaned on the wall, weak with relief. “What happened to you?”
“Hell happened to me.” He went to the kitchen and dropped into a chair.
Elizabeth gave him a glass of water. It occurred to her that he was putting on an act to regain her sympathy. “Do you know what time it is?”
He took her hand and kissed it. “Ya aini, tfaddal!”
Elizabeth paused. My dear, please? The confident manipulator had turned into a frightened old man, begging for kindness. “For your sake, I hope you’re not playing games with me.” She refilled his glass and sat down. “What happened?”
He glanced at the door as if expecting someone to burst in and gripped his trembling hands together. “It’s a long story, but I had to use a stupid Jew as a conduit to bribe the senator, whom he know from Vietnam. That same idiot had just tried to shoot the Israeli writer in a fit of jealousy, but instead hit a little boy.”
“How badly?”
“Killed him.”
Elizabeth pressed a hand to her mouth.
“The rabbi’s son. Five years old. Terrible!” Professor Silver put on his eyeglasses. “If they arrest him, he’ll sing like a bird, and the whole story will come out. Can you imagine the backlash? The Jews will shed crocodile tears about how they were victimized again by the Arabs, that we were liars and cheaters, that we peddled fantasy, that our national saga-the Palestinian narrative we’d recited for half a century-was a fable!” He stood up, pounding her kitchen table. “And we’re so close to ending American support for Israel!”
“Our people have survived worse.”
“It’s over. I might as well shoot myself and save our brothers the trouble.”
“Pull yourself together.” Elizabeth knew that this man’s fate was tied to hers. If the professor was arrested and unmasked, his immigration file would be examined. Her forgeries might hold after years in the archive, but an immediate investigation would reveal the fresh paint on her creation. And then? Dismissal, criminal indictment, trial, and jail. Elizabeth grabbed her purse. “Come, Abu Faddah, let’s find your crazy Jew.”
Marti Lefkowitz blew his nose into a handkerchief embroidered with yellow flowers. “I grieve for Al too,” the florist said to Masada. “He’s ill, mentally speaking.”
She watched the police investigators mark up the dais.
“The real Al wouldn’t hurt a fly,” Lefkowitz insisted, his chins shaking. “He’s gone meshugge. Now, look at this!”
Masada was numb. When Mahoney shot himself, she had deflected any guilt by focusing her mind on his crookedness of a money-grabbing politician. But now, less than a week later, another bleeding body rested before her, and Masada could muster no strength to deflect the darkest remorse. Raul’s death was her doing, as if her own finger had pulled the trigger. She had missed all the clues pointing to Al. If not for her incompetence, Raul would be alive.
“I’m also worried about Levy,” Lefkowitz kept talking, “fainting like this, then refusing medical attention and running off. At our age one cannot be too careful. I told him, but he left anyway.”
Two officers lifted the small body bag onto a stretcher.
Rabbi Josh walked behind the stretcher as it was wheeled toward the door, where the officers paused to pull open both doors. He began to cry again, calling his son’s name.
Masada fought her tears with self-recrimination. She had lost her focus, allowed feelings to get in the way of her work. Raul’s freckled face came to her, smiling. Why are you crying?
Outside, cameras flashed at them like lightning strikes. She helped the florist’s weeping wife into their car. Marty Lefkowitz said, “Come stay with us until they catch him.” She shook her head, unable to speak.
Professor Silver directed Elizabeth to his house, and they parked down the street to wait for Al. She asked, “What car does he drive?”
“A white van.” Silver glanced over his shoulder.
They waited. A few cars came and left, but not Al’s van.
“There’s another possibility,” Silver said.
“What?”
“He could be heading to her house.”
“The Israeli writer?”
“It’s possible.”
“To make another attempt on the same night? Is he that stupid?”
Despite the situation, Silver laughed. “Elzirah, ya aini, you don’t understand! Allah gave me the stupidest Jew in history!”
Masada entered her house, which still smelled of the fire. She turned on all the lights. Guilt and anger boiled inside her. She had failed to make the connection, to predict Al’s next crime. Was she failing again? What if Al came here to finish the job? She wasn’t worried about her own safety; she worried about failing to catch him. He could tell her who had really been behind Mahoney’s bribe!
Masada carried a tall stepladder back to her bedroom. She brought over a ten-gallon paint container, which she had bought the day before, planning to spend Saturday painting her scorched walls. The bedroom door was solid oak, eight feet tall, attached to the door frame with three brass hinges. She closed the door, but not completely, leaving a narrow opening, and climbed the ladder, pulling up the paint container rung by rung. She balanced it evenly on top of the door, the side of the container leaning against the wall above the door frame. She slowly let go.
The trap was set, the heavy bucket of paint ready to drop on Al’s head should he dare to invade her home.
When she got into bed, Masada reached for Silver’s book on the nightstand. It wasn’t there. She turned off the reading light and closed her eyes. Immediately she heard Raul trying to startle her, the big smile on his little face.
Are you brave yet?
She saw Rabbi Josh holding the dead boy in his arms, pleading for help.
Curled into a fetal position, Masada sobbed.
Elizabeth steered her Toyota through construction barriers on Scottsdale Road. “If he’s so dumb, why did you use him?”
“Dumb isn’t the right word.” Silver considered Al’s role in all that had happened. “He’s isolated and confused, especially after I convinced him to stop taking his medications. You see, my plan required a prominent senator with a dark secret. They all need cash, but I had to have a stick too.” Silver held the door handle as the old car rattled loudly over a stretch of bad asphalt. “I provided the criteria, and our brothers in Ramallah did the search. They followed a rumor that Mahoney wasn’t the hero he claimed to be, that while he was a prisoner in Vietnam he broke down under torture and spilled military secrets that cost American lives. Our brothers found a lead, a veteran who shared a cell with Mahoney at Hanoi Hilton. I came to Arizona a couple of years ago and joined the same synagogue. I befriended Al and gained his confidence by recruiting him into the imaginary Judah’s Fist organization, so he doesn’t question why we always met in secret. He told me the truth about Mahoney. Apparently Mahoney’s father, who was a marine admiral, pulled strings to save his son’s reputation, and Al, being the only person who knew about Mahoney’s treason, was ordered to keep mum about the whole thing.”
“That explains everything,” Elizabeth said. “Mahoney took the bribe because he feared Al would tell the media about what had happened all these years back.”
“Sometimes the carrot is also the stick, and vice versa.”
As Elizabeth turned onto Echo Canyon Road, a police car suddenly appeared in her rearview mirror.
“Keep going,” Silver said, “they’re here to catch him, not us.”
Elizabeth began to turn around the cul-de-sac.
Flashing lights came on.
“Go farther up,” Silver commanded. “I don’t want Masada to wake up and see us.”
She stopped at the curb.
A female officer came to Elizabeth’s window. “A bit dark for sightseeing, isn’t it?”
“We’re checking on our friend,” Silver said from the passenger seat. “We couldn’t sleep, worried about Miss El-Tal. We’re glad to see you’re here, keeping her safe.”
“And you are?”
“Levy Silver. I’m a member at Temple Zion, where the tragedy occurred.”
The officer nodded. “You two go home. We have it under control.”
Elizabeth drove slowly up the street and turned left.
Silver peered into the darkness, where the dry stream cut a wide swath behind the back fences. He caught a glimpse of white. “Stop!”
The moonlight was enough to help him navigate through the thorny shrubs and hunched desert trees. Al’s van was parked behind a cropping of prickly pears not far from the rear of Masada’s backyard. The van was empty. The professor looked at Masada’s dark home and whispered, “Go ahead, Al. Finish her off.”
Masada tried to yell, but a callous hand smothered her. A blunt object pounded her head, which felt as if it had split in half. She couldn’t see anything. The pain turned the darkness into white haze. Was this the whiteness described by dying people?
Anger filled her. I’m not ready to die! I can’t let them win!
She tried to breathe and realized someone was sitting on her chest.
Laughter came through the fog. A voice said hoarsely, “Won’t fail again.”
With one arm free, she tried to push him off. He was too heavy. She twisted her body and discovered he had tied her ankles together.
“Prepare yourself, bitch! He breathed stench into her face. “For a real man!”
She craned her neck and tried to bite him.
He hit her head again. The pain exploded, worse than before. She fought for air. Her body arched, but his weight kept her down. He hit her again, harder.
Masada stopped moving. Was this another nightmare?
It felt real.
Al got off her chest. She gulped air in short, heaving breaths. He shoved his knee between her legs to force them apart. She tried to press her legs back together, but he crouched between them. Leaning forward on top of her, he sniffed her neck. “God,” he whispered, “you smell good, traitor!”
She tried to think. Her vision cleared, and she saw the window, which was missing its glass like the rest of her windows. So much for her clever trap. The knee brace was out of reach, in the bathroom. She had no weapon.
His weight forced her thighs even wider apart.
“I have AIDS.”
Al uttered an edgy, tense laughter. “I’m dead already.”
She looked aside, told her muscles to relax, her mind to go elsewhere. She felt his hands on her breasts, over the cotton nightgown, which he tore apart. He licked the inside of her ear, groaning, rubbing his crotch on her stomach. His saliva left pungent odor that made her gag.
Think of something else.
Of what?
Mahoney? Ness? Rabbi Josh? Raul?
No!
He slurped her ear. “Show you. A real man.” His hand forced its way into her underpants.
She tried to push him off. “It won’t work.”
“Works already.” He folded her legs, her knees forming opposite triangles with her bound ankles, and tore off her underpants. “Oh, yes. It works.”
She felt him nibbled her left breast. His stubble burned her skin. She gasped when his hardness pressed against her.
“Told you it works.” He was panting now, his smell engulfed her.
“Don’t.” Her voice betrayed her. “It won’t go in.”
“Will go,” he boasted, rubbing against her, “all the way to your evil brain.”
She tried to close her legs, but his girth was keeping her apart, open, exposed.
He stabbed into her, and pain exploded. She cried, clenching her teeth. Tears flowed from her eyes.
His movements became frantic, fueling the fire that spread up through her abdomen to her chest and head. His breathing turned to panting. Acid rushed through her body, her skin rubbed by sandpaper. She retched, but nothing came up. He thrust his hips against her parted thighs again and again in rising intensity, his breath shrieking, whizzing, as if he was starved for air.
Suddenly he released a throaty grunt and pushed into her one last time, as deep as he could.
When his belabored breathing slowed, Al rolled off and lay on his back beside her. “See how a real man does it!” He coughed hard and spat a mouthful of phlegm.
Masada pulled the comforter up to cover her body. She began shaking.
Al stood, pulled up his pants, and buckled his belt. He picked up the gun and aimed it at her. “Shalom, traitor,” he said. “Enjoy the fires of hell.”
“Hey there!” A voice yelled from somewhere in the house.
Levy! Masada tried to think. She had to warn him! “Don’t come in!”
“Surprise, surprise,” Al said. Keeping his gun on her, he crossed the room and pulled the door open.
The paint container landed on his head with the sickening sound of a cracked egg. His gun-holding hand jerked up, and a shot pounded her ears like a hammer. The bullet hit the pillow by her head, sending up a flurry of feathers.
Through the cloud, in the dim light from the window, Masada saw Al collapse.
A figure appeared at the door.
“Levy!” Masada sat up and brushed feathers off her face with a trembling hand.
Professor Silver kneeled next to Al and lifted his limp hand, still clasping the gun. He sighed. “After all we’ve been through, too bad it has come to this.” He looked at the gun. “Oy, meidaleh, what an unfortunate ending.”
“Police!” The voice came through the open door. A female officer appeared, both arms forward, pointing a gun at Professor Silver. “Drop it!”
He obeyed.
“Raise your hands!” The officer flipped the light switch on.
“That’s the intruder.” Silver pointed at Al. “He’s out cold. Thank God.”
The officer lowered her gun. “You’re the guy in the car. How did you get here?”
“I saw his van in the back. I was just in time.” He bent over Masada, caressing her head. “My poor girl. It’s really too bad it had to come to this. If only Al sought some mental help, all this wouldn’t have happened.”
Professor Silver went with Masada in the ambulance, holding her hand while inside he was fuming. If you want to shoot, shoot; don’t talk. All he had to do was to press Al’s finger on the trigger and drop the idiot’s hand. Masada would be dead, and Rajid’s order to monitor her would die with her. But his hesitation took away a singular opportunity, and now she and Al were going to the hospital and needing even more monitoring than before.
He sat by Masada’s bed in the ER. The sun was rising outside when a young doctor came to examine the bruises on her head. While they took her for a scan, Silver went to look for Al.
He found Hilda in the ICU, standing at the foot of Al’s bed. A blood-stained bandage covered most of his head. His eyes were closed, and he breathed laboriously. Several IV bags hung from hooks over the bed, the lines joined to a single tube that entered the side of his neck. A sack of urine hung low, just above the floor.
Silver said, “Blessed be He, Master of the Universe, healer of the sick and infirm.”
“Amen,” Hilda said, wiping her eyes. “Thank you for coming, Levy.”
“What did the doctor say?”
“He’s a mess. Concussion, trauma to his vertebra, a heart attack. Don’t ask!”
“Masada isn’t doing so well either.”
“Don’t get me started! That woman drove him over the edge. She played him like a puppet.”
“I agree. It’s outrageous!”
“She should go to jail.”
“Absolutely,” Silver said. “For life.”
When he arrived back home, Silver locked himself in the basement, rolled a joint, and sat at the computer to check the Israeli embassy web site. To become eligible as a new citizens, he would need evidence that he was Jewish, such as a signed letter from a rabbi.
At noon, he went outside to check the mailbox and found a large envelope from the U.S. government. Standing by his mailbox, Silver ripped it, eager to hold his green card. But inside was a thick booklet. Internal Revenue Service-Information for New Permanent Residents.
Silver tore it up, cursing in Arabic.
Next to him, a man said, “Your Arabic is quite good for a Jewish professor.”
Stumbling back, Silver lost his balance. Rajid grabbed him before he fell.
“Salaam aleikum.” Silver regained his composure and kissed Rajid on both cheeks. He beckoned the younger man into the living room.
“Shukran.” Rajid put aside his briefcase and sat down. “Ramallah sends regards.”
Knowing that the handler observed the fast of Ramadan, Silver didn’t offer refreshments. He assumed Rajid had come for an explanation about last night’s events, which had become national news. Fortunately, his presence at Masada’s house hadn’t been mentioned anywhere.
“Those Jews,” Silver said, shaking his head, “are emotional basket cases. I had no idea Al was going to make an attempt on her life at temple, let alone try again later.”
“We got word about another book you have written.”
“Excuse me?” Silver felt fear. How had they found out? He made a dismissive gesture. “A preliminary draft merely, some ideas about international sanctions.”
“You’ve submitted the manuscript to a publisher.”
He didn’t respond.
“Are you free from the chain of command?”
“It’s part of the plan.” Silver made himself chuckle lightly. “I was hoping to brief our brothers in person when I visit Jerusalem.”
“Taking action without prior approval?”
“Never.” Silver was starting to hate the cologne the agent was wearing-an imitation of budding citrus.
“The United States Senate moved up the vote against Israel to August nineteen. The White House announced that the president will sign the bill as submitted, saying that Congress has the administration’s support in its autonomous authority to take punitive actions over attempts to corrupt it. The next ten days are crucial. We don’t want any interference.”
Silver rubbed his goatee. “My plan is working even faster than expected. There is no problem.”
Rajid opened his briefcase. “There is a problem. You sent a manuscript to a publisher, drawing dangerous attention. You think the Israelis are asleep? They have eyes everywhere, including in New York publishing houses. Your actions could undermine the operation.”
“I am an academic. That’s what I do. Write. And this second book is part of my plan.”
“Your plan?”
He took a deep breath, struggling to control his anger. “We’re about to complete Phase One successfully. The Fair Aid Act will snip off Israel’s lifeline of American support. My second book constitutes the intellectual foundation for Phase Two-applying the South African precedent to Israel. The process has already started by Jimmy Carter’s book about Israel-Peace or Apartheid.”
“That’s right. Allah knows we’ve paid President Carter enough millions for his,” Rajid feigned quotation marks, “Peace Institute.”
“And the U.N. Anti-Racism Conference in Durban? We’ve got momentum against Israel. Phase Two is the apartheidization of Israel!”
“It’s a tricky argument. Israel has almost two million Muslim and Christian citizens with full rights, just like Jews.”
“No, no,” Silver raised a finger, “I’m talking about their immigration policies. Only Jews are entitled to become new, voting Israeli citizens. That’s racial discrimination.”
“Good point.” Rajid held a thumb up, which seemed almost humorous.
“Without an American veto, the international bodies will go ahead with it-the United Nations, European Union, NATO, Organization of African Countries, the Asian bloc-they’ll impose an economic boycott of Israel like they did with South Africa.” Silver rubbed his hands. “Just imagine-no trade, no raw materials, no access to financial markets, no new weapons, no tourism. Israel will choke! And for the world to release its chokehold, just like with South Africa, Israel will have to end its apartheid, grant Palestinian refugees the right of return, make them full citizens, and give them the vote.”
“You think they’ll allow Fatah and Hamas to run for the Knesset?”
The professor smiled, though he really wanted to smack him across the face. “We will form a new political organization-The Palestinian National Congress.”
“Like the African National Congress.”
“Exactly. Israel would have no choice. Then, with all the new Arab citizens going to the polls, Jewish rule will end. Just like the white Afrikaners in South Africa, the Israeli Jews will become a minority overnight. After the elections, we’ll control their Knesset and form a government. Without a single bullet we will own the State of Israel-Jerusalem, Jaffa, Haifa, Acre, Nazareth-even Dimona! We’ll unify the land with the West Bank and Gaza, and take over Jordan, finally winning back all of Palestine. As Mohammed said, You shall inherit the infidels.”
For the first time in the two decades Silver had known Rajid, the Palestinian handler was speechless. He nodded thoughtfully. He looked up at the ceiling. He checked his sunglasses against the window. Finally he said, “I admire your creativity, Abu Faddah, of which Allah has blessed you aplenty. But we are soldiers in an army, yes?”
“As Allah is my witness, my intentions are pure.”
“Then you must obey the orders.” Rajid turned his briefcase around. It was empty. “Bring all the copies of your book manuscript and all other documents you have.”
Seething, Silver went to the basement and brought up a box. He sat down, watching Rajid arrange the papers in his briefcase.
“That’s all?”
“Phases One and Two,” Silver said.
“Is there a Phase Three?”
“No disrespect to you,” Silver said, standing up, “but Phase Three I shall only discuss face-to-face in Ramallah.”
“I’ll trust you to erase your computer memory.” Rajid closed his briefcase. “Now tell me what happened with the writer.”
Silver sat down. There was no way for them to know the truth, especially with Al Zonshine unconscious in the hospital. “The Jew, whom you have selected as a conduit to the senator,” he paused to let the implication sink in, “is a petulant and vindictive man, completely primal in his obsessions. He pretended to heed my unambiguous orders to leave the writer alone but persevered in his private vendetta nevertheless.”
“You had no hand in the attacks?”
“If I had,” Silver attempted a chuckle, “would she be alive?”
“We hold you responsible,” Rajid said, “that the writer is not harmed again. If she is, the Senate might delay its vote pending an investigation.”
“Have you told Ramallah that I must be at Hadassah Hospital on Friday?” Silver removed his glasses and wiped the lenses on his shirt. “The writer is hospitalized, out of commission.”
“You will monitor her and the other Jew to prevent any interference with the vote in Washington.” Rajid looked at him, not blinking. “That’s an order.”
Silver felt cornered. “If I go blind, how shall I continue my work?”
Rajid smiled. “An intellectual wins battles with his mind, not with his eyes.”
Masada thanked the nurse for bringing Jell-O and toast. While she ate, Drexel appeared at the door with a large bouquet of flowers in a pink vase. “You look terrible,” he said, pecking her cheek.
“You, on the other hand.” She motioned at his purple jacket and matching tie. “What’s this style? Meticulously casual.”
“You have a good eye.” He smoothed down his hair. “You must feel like you’re back in the army, with all the gunfire going on around you.”
“And no money.”
He cleared his throat. “Darling, I called corporate several times, but they’re slow.”
“I need to fix my house and,” she patted the bed, “pay medical bills. I can’t do any work while starving.”
“The fate of a freelancer.” Drexel clicked his tongue. “Feast or famine. I’m doing my best, but the next payment is not due until you submit a draft.”
“Don’t be technical, especially with all your new subscriptions.” Her head began to throb. She rested back on the pillows.
“Masada darling, I’m on your side, but perhaps you could take a mortgage on your house in the meantime. Nobody owns a house debt-free in this country.”
“I don’t like debt.”
He punched a number on his iPhone. “Campbell Chadwick wants to talk to you.”
“Quite a night you had,” the lawyer said cheerfully, as if Masada had gone barhopping.
“Just trying to stay alive.”
“Dropping a bucket of concrete on an old veteran’s head?” Chadwick chuckled. “What can I say?”
“It was paint, not concrete. And it dropped when he invaded my bedroom in the middle of the night.”
“Police says you set a trap and lured him in through the window.”
“He broke in.”
“Without waking you up?” The lawyer sighed. “The jury isn’t going to buy it.”
“Jury?” Masada raised her voice. “What jury?”
“D.A. announced possible indictment against you for first-degree assault.”
Masada couldn’t believe it. “Al Zonshine tried to shoot me at Temple Zion!”
“He threatened you, that’s true, but according to his wife the gun discharged accidentally when she bumped into him. She says that you’ve seduced and manipulated him and caused him to dump his medication.”
“That’s nonsense. I have a restraining order against him! And he broke into my house, beat my head in, abused me, and shot at me again!”
“Technically,” Chadwick interrupted her, “he couldn’t break into an open house.”
“Because he blew out my windows on his previous attempt to kill me!”
“There’s no evidence he was behind the gas explosion. According to the D.A., the explosion seemed like an inside job. There was no evidence of break in. There is evidence, however, that after the shooting in the synagogue you declined an invitation to stay the night with friends. As your legal counsel, I strongly recommend that you do not dismiss the risk of a criminal indictment.”
“You must be joking.”
“Also,” the lawyer continued, “please refrain from discussing with anyone facts or allegations related in any way to the incident or the previous incident that resulted in manslaughter-the one in Israel.”
“This is right out of Kafka,” Masada said.
“We face grave legal risks, not only to you, but also to Jab Corporation and its respective publishing enterprises.”
“Since when does the victim go on trial?”
“Victim status is a subjective thing. You’re a beautiful, successful, famous, and-pardon me for saying-self-righteous writer, while an elderly veteran, whose history of mental illness was known to you, is fighting for his life. I suggest you pray for Mr. Zonshine’s full recovery, or we’ll be defending a wrongful death claim, as well.”
When the sun went down and the Sabbath was over, Rabbi Josh forced himself out of Raul’s bed and drove to Temple Zion. He called the funeral home about transportation of the body. Finding a phone number on the Internet, he reached the burial society in Jerusalem, where it was already Sunday morning. The Israelis had a well-oiled process for accommodating dead Diaspora Jews. He paid for three plots, so that Linda’s remains could follow later. Going onto the Continental Airlines web site, he bought a one-way ticket for himself on a flight to Israel via New York. By e-mail he informed his colleagues around town of his imminent aliyah and asked them to fill in for him at Temple Zion until the congregation hired a new rabbi. Next he began to draft a letter to the members of his congregation.
The office door opened and Professor Silver entered, mulling his black beret in his hands. “Oy vey, Rabbi,” he sniffled, “my heart is broken.”
Rabbi Josh nodded. “The Lord gives, the Lord takes, may His name be blessed.”
“Amen.” Silver put on his beret. “This brings back memories of my son, his memory be blessed. Oy, oy, oy!”
“Your son?” The rabbi felt tears emerging from his eyes. “Levy, I didn’t even know you had a son.”
“I never speak of him. Too painful.” Silver straightened his hunched posture. “But I made a decision. My place is in Israel. I decided to make aliyah immediately.”
Rabbi Josh knew he should feel joy at this news, but he felt nothing. “You can join me. I’m flying on Thursday morning. Continental Airlines.”
The professor sniffled. “I heard they’re adding flights because so many Jews suddenly want to move to Israel.”
“What about your affairs here?”
“I put myself in God’s hand. America is like Germany in the thirties. The goyim just needed an excuse, and their fists already rise to hit us. You said it in your sermon: Zionism is Judaism.”
Rabbi Josh felt grateful to this frail man, who was following the last sermon his rabbi would ever deliver. He hugged him. “The Lord’s blessing shall accompany you on your travels and acclimation in the Promised Land.”
“Rabbi, what about the funeral?”
“In Jerusalem.” Rabbi Josh felt a stirring inside. God had taken a step, albeit small, to comfort him by sending this good friend to accompany him on the painful journey. He went with Silver to the door. “My son didn’t die for nothing, now that two Jews are making aliyah because of it.”
Silver pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. “Blessed be His name.”
“Amen,” Rabbi Josh opened the door.
“There’s a small thing, the Israeli immigration office requires a letter of reference.”
“I’ve done it before. I have a form on my computer. I only need your parents’ names and place of birth.”
“Jacob and Leah Silver. Both born in Rome.”
“The city of Rome,” the rabbi said, “had Jewish inhabitants before it had the Vatican.”
“I cherish lovely childhood memories.” Silver smiled.
Closing the door behind the professor, Rabbi Josh imagined him as a young boy, walking the streets of Rome, holding his father’s hand, looking up to his father with love and admiration, just like Raul.
The rabbi pressed his forehead against the door and broke down crying.