An Accidental Messiah

by Dan Sofer

  An Accidental Messiah

  The Dry Bones Society

  Book II

  By Dan Sofer

  Copyright ©2017 Dan Sofer

  All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN: 0-9863932-4-X

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9863932-4-2

  dansofer.com

  Cover Design: Damonza.com

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  CHAPTER 1

  The tour guide had just welcomed his first group of the day to the Mount Herzl National Cemetery when he saw the naked man. Among the bushes at the edge of the Jerusalem Forest, the pale streaker scratched his head and stroked the stately brown beard that fell to his chest.

  Despite having been trained to handle this exact situation, the tour guide choked up, and his group of Japanese tourists, with their matching yellow hats and oversized cameras, chattered among themselves and eyed their catatonic guide with concern.

  He had approached the rumors with a healthy dose of skepticism at first—after all, dead people didn’t spontaneously rise from their graves—until early one morning a fellow guide had discovered a man, naked and alone, among the tombstones of the military cemetery. The former soldier had saved his brothers-in-arms by diving onto a grenade during the Second Lebanon War. A camera crew had arrived to immortalize the moment of his return, and the number of visitors to the park had spiked—resurrection tourists mostly—but after a few days life on Mount Herzl had returned to normal.

  Over the following weeks, however, more casualties sprouted from their graves: shell-shocked tank drivers of the Yom Kippur War; commando fighters of the Six Day War; and then the waves of gaunt Eastern Europeans mowed down during the War of Independence.

  The phenomenon, bizarre and surreal by any standard, soon became routine, and they no longer bothered to notify the media when a long-deceased Jew turned up among the hedges. They did notice one trend: as time progressed, the arrivals returned from further back in the past, and the guides placed bets on which of them—if any of them at all—would welcome back to the land of the living the personage enshrined at the heart of the national park.

  Today was this guide’s lucky day.

  “One moment,” he told the Japanese tourists in English, as he hurried over to the bushes.

  The naked man looked him over with suspicion. By God, it’s him! the guide thought. He had seen a hundred photos of the man and studied his life in detail, but today the statesman had stepped out of the pages of history—and the grave—and into the present.

  The man held his head high, despite his embarrassing state of undress. “Wo bin ich?”

  “Pardon me?” For the first time since graduating from university, the guide wished that he had studied German as a third language instead of Arabic.

  The man sighed and switched to English. “Where am I?”

  The guide delivered the good news with glee. “In Jerusalem, sir, the capital of Israel—the Jewish State!”

  A satisfied smile curled the man’s lips and a fire burned in his dark eyes. “We did it!” He clenched a victorious fist in the air. Then he winced and massaged his temple. “Mein kopf!”

  Remembering his training, the guide reached into his shoulder bag and tore open the DBS First Responder Kit. He helped the man into the thick spa gown with the words Dry Bones Society sewn onto the back and then handed him the two Acamol tablets and the small bottle of mineral water.

  The man popped the pills and washed them down, then blinked as cameras flashed. The Japanese had caught up and were documenting the historic event.

  “Friends,” the guide said to his audience. “I present to you Mr. Theodore Herzl, the Visionary of the State!”

  Herzl stepped out from the bushes, bowed his head, and posed with the guide for the cameras.

  Then he gazed at the sculpted gardens and stone paths. “What is this place?”

  “Mount Herzl, the national cemetery named after you. Your tomb is over there, in the center.” The guide pointed. “I’ll show you.”

  Herzl slipped on the pair of spa slippers, also courtesy of the DBS, and they walked along a path of rock slabs.

  “When was the State established?”

  “1948.”

  “So late?”

  “The road to nationhood was long and winding, but I think you’ll be proud of the result. The land has thrived, the desert bloomed. Jews have returned from all over the world. We have an Israeli government and army, technology and culture.”

  “And yet you do not speak German?”

  “Hebrew is the official language, along with Arabic and English. English has become the language of science and culture.”

  “English? How strange.”

  “Times have changed. You died over a hundred years ago.”

  “A hundred years? Incredible!”

  They arrived at the large central plaza of white Jerusalem stone and approached the prominent slab of black granite in the center of a circle of grass. The name Herzl was etched into the tombstone.

  Herzl sucked in a deep breath. A summer breeze ruffled his hair as he stared at his own grave. Tearing up, he turned to the guide and shook his hand. “I thank you for fulfilling my wishes and bringing my remains to the Jewish State. But how did you revive me?”

  Once again, the guide leaned on his training. The instructor from the Dry Bones Society had warned the guides not to overwhelm the new arrivals with information. “You have many questions,” he said, using the instructor’s words. “We will answer them in time as best we can.”

  “A hundred years,” Herzl repeated. “My children must have passed on already. Their children too. Tell me—what role did they play in the founding of the State?” A hopeful smile made his lips tremble. “Was my son the first chancellor?”

  The guide swallowed hard. He had hoped to avoid that topic.

  “Tell me, please,” Herzl continued. “Are they buried here as well?”

  The guide grasped at the shred of positivity. “Yes, they are. Over there.”

  Herzl gripped the guide by the shoulders. “Show me!”

  This was a very bad idea but how could he refuse the Father of the Jewish State?

  He led the newly resurrected visionary along another stony path. He needed to call the Dry Bones Society to arrange a pickup but stopped himself. The instructor had warned against using modern technology such as mobile phones, which might disorientate the new arrival.

  He stopped before a row of three plaques. “Here they are. Paulina, Trude, and Hans.”

  Herzl appraised the markers in solemn silence. “The dates,” he said, startled. “Paulina and Hans died in the same year—and so young!”

  The guide hesitated. “Paulina suffered from depression. She overdosed on heroin. Hans shot himself on the day of her funeral.”

  “Depression,” Herzl muttered. “The scourge of our family. And little Trude? Died 1943. Did she, at least, live a happy life? And why does she not have a gravestone?”

  He was right. Behind the plaque with Trude’s details, and between the two large rectangular gravestones of her siblings, lay a gaping empty space.

  The guide shook his head. He had already said too much.

  “Tell me!” Veins throbbed on the forehead of the resurrected statesman.

  “We don’t have her remains. She died in the Holocaust.”

  “Holocaust? What Holocaust?”

  “During World War Two.”

  “A world war—and two of them? Please continue. I must know.”

  There was no holding back now. “The Germans and their collaborat
ors systematically murdered Jews throughout Europe.”

  “The Germans? If you had told me the French I would have believed you, but the Germans? How many Jews died?”

  “A great many.”

  “Tell me, boy—a thousand, ten thousand?”

  “Six million.”

  Herzl ran his fingers through his mane of hair. “Dear God. 1943. But you said that the State was established in 1948—only five years later. Five years too late! We didn’t work fast enough.”

  He lurched backward and the guide steadied him. He called on two of the Japanese who had followed them to support the distraught man. He should never have shown him the Herzl family plot.

  “Wait here, sir. I’m going to call for help and I’ll get you something to eat.”

  He dashed off toward the snack store and called the Dry Bones Society on his way. A team of their volunteers was on the way.

  Theodore Herzl himself! The guide’s skin prickled all over. The recent resurrection had raised hopes for the dawn of a new utopian era, and who better to lead the nation into a brighter future than the spiritual father of the modern Jewish State? The Visionary of the State had returned with perfect timing.

  When the guide returned to the Herzl family plot with a handful of Mars bars and a covered paper cup of sugared tea, however, Herzl had vanished.

  “Where is he?”

  The Japanese chattered excitedly and pointed toward the forest. The guide shielded his eyes with his hand and scanned the thick press of trees. In the distance, between the tall trunks, a bearded man in a white gown sprinted and disappeared.

  CHAPTER 2

  “We should set a date for our wedding,” Moshe Karlin’s wife said as she drove her white Kia Sportage down Emek Refaim Street early Tuesday morning.

  “Right,” said Moshe Karlin, who sat in the passenger seat. Outside the window, Egged buses hissed and growled through the heart of Jerusalem’s German Colony. Cars honked their horns as commuters rushed to their jobs.

  Ordinarily, a man was not required to marry his wife twice, but these were not ordinary times and, technically, their first marriage had terminated with his death.

  “This time,” Galit continued, “I think we should try a different venue.”

  Moshe agreed. Three months ago, Moshe had awoken in the Mount of Olives Cemetery to discover that his best friend, Avi, had invaded his home and taken over his family business. Make that ex–best friend. Moshe’s struggle to win back his life had culminated in a dramatic attempt to stop Avi from marrying Galit at the Ramat Rachel Hotel in South Jerusalem, the very same venue where Moshe and Galit had first tied the knot. The time had come to paint new memories on a fresh canvas.

  “What do you think of Mamilla?” Galit asked.

  Moshe almost choked. A ceremony at the luxury Mamilla Hotel across the road from the Old City would be a beautiful and memorable affair. The bill, on the other hand, would empty their bank account ten times over. Their savings had run so low that, if he didn’t deposit a paycheck soon, Moshe, Galit, and little Talya would have to get used to life without electricity and flowing water.

  “That would be wonderful,” he said, when he could draw breath.

  Despite serving as the CEO of a thriving organization, Moshe was penniless. As a pre-deceased man in bureaucratic limbo, he was still unable to draw a salary. He could not vote or drive a car either. But today, all of that would change.

  On the street, store owners rolled up the security gates of cafés and boutiques, while pedestrians hurried about the errands of their daily lives. At 9 AM today, finally, Moshe would join their ranks, and not a moment too soon.

  “I can speak with Rabbi Yosef,” Moshe said. “I’m sure he’ll be happy to officiate.”

  The neighborhood rabbi had taken Moshe off the street and into his home despite fierce opposition from both his wife—the rabbanit—and the ultra-Orthodox rabbinate. That good deed had cost the rabbi his teaching position at Daas Torah Primary, and so Moshe had hired him as Spiritual Counselor at the Dry Bones Society.

  “Sure,” Galit said. “I’d like that.”

  “Good,” Moshe said, and crossed off one expense from his mental list. The kindhearted rabbi would probably conduct the wedding pro bono.

  Galit maneuvered the car into downtown Jerusalem and along the quaint back roads of Nachlaot.

  Moshe felt his pockets for his cue cards. In the mad rush of preparations ahead of today’s event, he had not found time to rehearse his speech.

  “Nervous?” Galit asked.

  He found the cards. “A little. So much is riding on today. And we’ll be on national television.” Butterflies had roamed his stomach that morning and killed his appetite at breakfast.

  “You’ll be great. Like last time.” She was referring to the Channel Ten documentary about the Dry Bones Society, the non-profit that Moshe had founded to assist the influx of newly resurrected Israelis.

  This broadcast would be different, though. This time, he was making history.

  As they descended the ramp to the parking bay beneath Clal Center on Jaffa Street, the butterflies launched from his stomach into his rib cage and his breath caught in his lungs. Seeing that Moshe’s first life had ended in cardiac arrest, the sudden pain in his chest did not bode well. Not again! Today, of all days?

  “You OK?” Galit said, her face tight with concern. She had just parked in a spot marked DBS when she noticed him cramp up.

  Moshe lowered his hands from his solar plexus.

  “Heartburn,” he said. “That’s all.” He managed to produce a reassuring grin. “Couldn’t be better.”

  His heart pounded like a battle drum, but the pain had subsided. There was no need to scare her. After today’s event, he’d be eligible for medical aid and he’d see a cardiologist pronto.

  Reassured, Galit turned off the ignition and winked at him. “Time to conquer the world.”

  CHAPTER 3

  The hubbub of excited human activity echoed down the central pier of Clal Center on Jaffa Street, and the decaying shopping mall seemed to quiver with anticipation.

  Moshe and Galit took the small, cranky lift to the third floor, and the murmurs grew louder as they made their way down the corridor. Moshe ran his fingers over the proud silver lettering on the frosted glass of the door: The Dry Bones Society. The sign had once read, “Karlin & Son.”

  “There you are!” Irina hurried over to them. The tall Russian with the short blond locks and sparkling fairy eyes had been Moshe’s closest friend in the darkest hours of his early afterlife.

  “What do you think?” She pointed to a table dressed in blue and white at the edge of the cubicles of the call center.

  Behind the table, a man in a black suit and fedora stood on a plastic chair and taped a banner to the wall above a large Israeli flag. The large black letters read, “The Ministry of the Interior and The Dry Bones Society.”

  “Looking good,” Moshe said. “Great job, guys. Morning, Rabbi Yosef.”

  The rabbi stepped off the chair and shook his hand. “And well done to you, Moshe,” he said. “This is all thanks to you.”

  Moshe picked up the single printed page that lay on the table beside two ballpoint pens, and reviewed the copy. The Minister of the Interior’s secretary had mounted the revised text on official ministry stationery and forwarded the declaration to Moshe’s email yesterday. With a few strokes of a pen, Minister Dov Malkior would change the lives of all resurrected Israelis forever.

  Moshe returned the sheet to the table. “All set.”

  A tap on the shoulder made him turn. “Moshe!” Shmuel, retired reporter and fellow founder of the Society, shook his hand. He patted the remaining strands of gray hair on his head and looked unusually formal in his blue suit. “Can you believe the day has arrived?”

  “Almost,” Moshe said. Another middle-aged man stood beside Shmuel, a press card clipped to his shirt pocket. “Eran, thank you for joining us.”

  Shmuel’s former colleague s
hook Moshe’s hand. “Thank you, Mr. Karlin, for another exclusive.”

  Men in Channel Ten T-shirts adjusted large video cameras on tripods and set up microphones.

  The flat-screen television on the wall read 8:45 AM, and indicated that two callers—resurrectees in need of help or donors eager to support their cause—waited in line for the operators.

  Moshe nodded greetings at the clump of volunteers and Society members who hovered beside the cubicle dividers, and he slipped his speech from his trouser pocket. The cue cards trembled in his hands. A historic day, he read, for our brothers and sisters across the nation—

  “Moshe, dear,” said a grandmotherly voice. “Have some breakfast. You need your strength for the big day.” Savta Sarah, Galit’s grandmother and the Society’s in-house caterer, peered up at him, her sad eyes filling the lenses of her thick glasses, as she shoved a plate of gefilte fish at him. The sharp scent from the purple swirl of chopped horseradish cleared his sinuses at two paces.

  “Thanks, Savta, but I’ll eat later.”

  Galit came to his rescue. “Savta,” she said, “I wanted to talk to you about catering our wedding,” and she herded her grandmother toward the buffet tables. Early wedding preparations had their benefits after all.

  Moshe returned to his cue cards. To you, Minister Malkior and your dedicated staff, our thanks and heartfelt appreciation. But ten seconds of uninterrupted speech rehearsal was too much to expect.

  “Moshe!” Samira, the young, olive-skinned woman in the green hijab, was the third resurrected Israeli they had discovered and the first Arab. “Will we receive our identity cards at the ceremony?”

  “Not yet. But within a few days Minister Malkior will set up special procedures to speed up the process.”

  Samira smiled and wandered off.

  Moshe cleared his throat and continued his rehearsal. For allowing us to start our lives anew with dignity and with hope—

  “Mazel tov, Moshe!” This time Rafi’s rasping voice had interrupted Moshe’s speech. At this rate, he’d have to ad lib at the podium, which would probably make for a far shorter speech. There was a bright side to everything.