“I need an explanation myself,” I admitted.
“Okay, let’s start with inspiration. Masada, a little mountain near the Dead Sea,” Danny took a deep breath. “It’s about thirteen hundred feet at its highest point, a large, flat plateau.”
“How large?” I asked.
“Large enough for nearly a thousand Jews to build a small fortress after the Romans invaded and conquered Israel in 70 CE,” Danny explained.
“Why did the Romans invade Israel?”
“Why does anyone invade anywhere?” Danny grumbled. “For the land, the money, the power . . . and for the hell of it.”
“Bad question,” I apologized.
“Actually, it’s a good question,” he said. “I just don’t have a good answer.”
“So, why is Masada inspirational?” I asked, changing direction.
“Sigari Jews - religious fanatics - occupied Masada after the Roman invasion and refused to surrender. It took the Roman army over a year to defeat this small group.”
“Why so long?” I asked.
I noticed that Buford was listening.
“It was a thirteen-hundred-foot uphill battle for the Romans,” Danny explained. “Eventually the Romans built a ramp up the mountain using Jewish slaves as human shields. It was only a matter of time.”
“Did the Romans kill the Jews when they reached the top?” I asked.
“No. The Jews had killed themselves rather than become slaves,” Danny said.
“Bullshit,” Buford interrupted. “I don’t believe it.”
“I don’t care what you believe.” Danny looked at him. “That little mound in the desert is meant to be a symbol for Israel. It reminds then that Masada will never fall again.”
“It’ll fall. All you gotta do is drop a bomb on it,” Buford said.
“Israel has bombs, too,” Baker said patiently. “Very big bombs. If Masada should fall, the entire world would fall with it.”
Buford said nothing.
“Let’s talk about meditation,” I said, clearing my throat and trying to clear the air.
“For meditation, I’d take an enemy to Ya’d Vasham,” Danny continued.
“What’s that?” Buford asked.
“Ya’d means ‘a place,’” Danny explained. “Vasham means ‘and a name.’”
“A place and a name for what?” Buford asked Baker.
“A place and a name for victims of the Holocaust,” Danny answered.
“There was no Holocaust,” Buford said confidently.
“At Ya’d Vasham there are sixty-eight million pages of documentation, three million names of victims, five thousand names of communities destroyed, and living testimony.”
“The testimony of Jews means nothing,” Buford challenged Baker.
Danny gritted his teeth. “It’s not just the testimony of Jews. In the Avenue of the Righteous at Ya’d Vasham there are over twenty thousand names of gentiles who helped Jews during the Holocaust. Were they lying, too?”
“I don’t care what you say,” Buford said stubbornly. “It never happened.”
They had a staring contest, which I interrupted.
“You said something about perspiration,” I shifted gears.
“I was referring to all the hard work and technology Israel dedicated to turning the desert into a garden,” Danny said, moving on with me.
“Yeah, on stolen land,” Buford snapped.
“We took back our own land,” Baker said. “Besides, the Arab territory is six hundred and fifty times greater than Israel and their population is only fifty times larger. That hardly seems unfair.”
“Bullshit,” was all the Nazi could come up with.
Baker’s face darkened and I thought he might be seeing red spots.
“What about Hadassah Hospital?” I segued into another subject.
“It is one of the finest medical facilities in the world,” Baker said, checking his temper. “It’s a monument to education and civilization. At Hadassah Hospital, Arabs and Israelis are treated side by side.”
“You expect me to believe that?” Buford smirked.
“Seeing is believing,” Baker said. “That’s why you’re going to Israel. And now if you’ll excuse me, I need to rest. Your ignorance is tiring.”
We slept for a while, ate again, and finally felt the tires hit the runway accompanied by the sound of soulful music. I glanced at Buford. He was just waking up. When the plane came to a complete stop all the passengers began clapping.
“Why the applause?” I asked Danny Baker, who was stretching and yawning.
“It’s for safe arrival in our homeland,” Danny says. “It happens every flight.”
I heard singing from the main cabin and then singing began in our compartment. The voices blended with the music from the plane’s loudspeakers.
“What are they singing?” I asked Baker.
Buford looked nervous again.
“‘Hatikvah,’” Danny said. “It means ‘The Hope.’ It’s the Israeli National Anthem.”
“I can’t understand a damn word,” Buford complained.
“They’re singing in Hebrew,” Danny explained.
“What does it mean?” I asked, a little embarrassed that I didn’t already know.
Danny translated:
As long as within our hearts
The Jewish soul sings,
As long as forward to the East
To Zion, looks the eye -
Our hope is not yet lost,
It is two thousand years old,
To be a free people in our land
The land of Zion and Jerusalem.
“I know about Zion,” Buford blurted. “Zionists are bad.”
“More wisdom from the village idiot,” Danny sighed.
We could hear the bustling of passengers in the main cabin preparing to disembark. A male flight attendant came up the stairs.
“Mr. Perlmutter,” he said to me. “Please remain seated until all the other passengers have deplaned. Someone will come for you.”
Danny Baker stood and retrieved a backpack from the overhead bin. He reached down to shake my hand.
“It was nice talking to you, Mr. Perlmutter,” the young man said.
“Thanks for the education,” I said, looking up and smiling.
Baker turned to Buford.
“I have advice for you,” Baker said.
“I don’t need your advice.”
“In this country, you do,” Baker told him. “You should not express the same hateful sentiments to your Israeli supervisors as you did to me. I’m an American. Many Israelis have zero tolerance for your ignorance.”
“Yeah, so what are they gonna do, kill me?” Buford said with disdain.
“Yes,” Danny Baker said, and he disappeared down the stairs.
I turned to Buford. “I want you to listen to me carefully,” I said quietly. “When we get off this plane you’re going to be surrounded by people you hate and people who hate you. Some are peaceful and some are violent. The trouble is we won’t know who’s who. So, keep your eyes open and your mouth shut. I didn’t bring you here to get killed by some fanatic who doesn’t like your attitude.”
“Why did you bring me here?” he asked.
“To teach you how to coexist with people different from you,” I said.
“You’re wasting your time,” Buford said. “I am who I am.”
“That’s too bad,” was all I could think of to say.
“Mr. Perlmutter,” an IDF soldier approached. “It’s time to go.”
Together we went into the land of Israel.
We followed the soldier into the busy airport.
A siren sounded.
“Stop,” the soldier said, and held up his hand.
“Shit,” Buford said, surprised.
“Sheket,” the soldier snapped.
Sheket sounded like “shut it” so Buford and I stopped speaking, and everyone stopped moving. I surveyed our silent surroundings. Ben-Gurion Intern
ational Airport looked like a display at Madame Toussard’s Wax Museum. All the figures were lifelike, but they were as motionless and mute as mannequins.
Two full minutes passed before the sound and movement returned.
Our soldier began walking again, and we followed.
At the end of the long airport corridor, I saw a familiar face. Simon Kane, the Israeli Minister for International Agreements, was dressed casually in slacks and an open-necked shirt. He didn’t look any less formidable than the day I met him in the Palm Beach chambers of Judge Jacobs. Kane was flanked by two armed soldiers. The soldier closest to Kane’s right was a woman. As we approached, Kane stepped forward to greet me with his hand extended. Buford was detained by our guard.
“Mr. Perlmutter, it’s nice to see you again.” He smiled and shook my hand with both of his own. “Did you have a pleasant flight?”
“Yes, and an informative one,” I told him. “I sat next to a former IDF soldier from Massachusetts.”
“A Mahalnik.” Kane’s smile grew wider. “We’re very proud of them.”
The soldiers flanking Kane nodded their agreement. I noticed the young woman was remarkably attractive and appeared to be in her early twenties. She had black hair and smooth brown skin offset by bright, beautiful green eyes. She had a sturdy athlete’s body with perfect posture. I must have been staring because Kane cleared his throat to regain my attention.
“Were you alarmed by the siren?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said immediately. “I thought it was an air raid. What was it?”
The soldier guarding Buford moved him forward toward the minister so the Nazi could hear.
“Today is Yom Hashoah, Holocaust Remembrance Day,” Minister Kane explained. “It is the reason I asked that Mr. Buford be delivered today. We thought it would be a perfect date and time for a Holocaust denier to visit us. Remembrance Day always falls on the twenty-sixth day of Nissan, according to the Jewish calendar.”
I nodded my understanding. “Why did everyone in the airport stop walking and talking?”
“Everything everywhere in Israel stops for two minutes in memory of the six million victims of the Holocaust,” Minister Kane told us.
I glanced at Buford. He was staring at the floor.
“National radio and television stops. Buses stop. Cars stop. People get out of their vehicles and stand still in the middle of the road,” the minister said. “There are remembrance ceremonies all over the country. The national observance started last night in Jerusalem at Ya’d Vasham. It’s the sixtieth anniversary of the Holocaust this year. Time is passing. We don’t want people to forget.”
“I know I’ll never forget,” I said honestly.
“And you, Mr. Buford?” Kane asked.
I hoped Buford would not forget my advice to keep his opinions to himself. To his credit he just shrugged in response.
“That’s the most intelligent answer he’s given since we left Miami,” I said. “What’s the plan from here?”
“Buford will be sent to a receiving center,” Kane explained. “We are taking you to a hotel in Jerusalem where you will stay for a few days. Your short itinerary is well planned, and you will be kept busy.”
“Will I be seeing Buford again while I’m here?”
“Probably not,” Minister Kane said. “Mr. Buford will be going through intensive training from this point on. You have another agenda.”
I looked at Buford. He looked scared, and although we certainly weren’t friends, I think I was the closest thing to a friend he had in Israel. I wondered if I would ever see him alive again.
“Sergeant Oz will take charge of Mr. Buford,” Kane announced.
I was surprised to see the young woman step forward and stand next to Buford. They were about the same height.
“Buford is violent,” I said. “No offense intended here, but is Sergeant Oz the best person for this job?”
“She is a krav maga instructor,” Kane said. “She’s an expert in close combat, capable of inflicting the maximum amount of damage in the minimum amount of time. She is a lethal weapon. Mr. Buford would be well advised to mind his manners with Sergeant Oz.”
I looked at Oz. She was the most beautiful professional killer I had ever seen.
“I understand your concern,” Kane continued. “Sergeant Oz does not look the part of a weapon, but I assure you she is deadly and motivated. Her grandparents are Holocaust survivors who immigrated here in 1947. She is a Sabra, a native-born Israeli. Very beautiful and very dangerous.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” I said, and held out my hand to Sergeant Oz.
She gripped it firmly and looked me in the eye. She exuded strength and confidence.
“I’m Eddie Perlmutter,” I introduced myself.
“Sergeant Zivah Oz,” she said in a low, professional voice. “Are you prepared to hand over your prisoner?”
“He’s all yours.” I held out my arm like a head waiter. “Do you need any special instructions from me?”
“I am very familiar with Mr. Buford,” she said, looking at him without emotion. “I have studied his file and totally understand who I am dealing with.”
She convinced me.
“I would only like to add, Mr. Perlmutter,” she continued, “that I think what you are trying to do with this man is very commendable and I promise to do everything I can to help. Unfortunately, I am not confident we can change such a person but I will do my best.”
She gripped the kid’s arm and his knees buckled. Oz held him upright with minimal effort and physically guided him in the direction she wanted him to go. A tall, armed soldier accompanied them as they entered a room with no sign on the door.
“Where are they taking him?” I asked.
“He is no longer your concern,” Kane said. “You don’t need to know.”
“He is under orders to e-mail me once a week with a report of his activities,” I reminded the minister.
“And he will, Mr. Perlmutter, I assure you,” Kane said.
Minister Kane and I were escorted outside by the two remaining soldiers. I was led to a large green IDF Hummer. I saw that my luggage was already in the vehicle. I sat in the backseat with Kane. The two soldiers were in front. The interior of the Hummer was all metal except for the seat.
“Bulletproof,” Kane told me, rapping his knuckles against the window.
“Where are we going?” I asked, ignoring the inherent danger in a bulletproof car.
“We’re going to check you into the King David Hotel and give you a couple of hours to relax,” Kane told me. “Then we’ll show you some sights.”
“I don’t want you to go to a lot of trouble.”
“It’s a pleasure,” Minister Kane insisted.
The ride from Ben-Gurion Airport to Jerusalem took thirty-five minutes without traffic. The hotel’s six stories of pink sandstone were in the middle of the New City. The soldiers checked me into the hotel and Kane escorted me to my room. The suite had a living room and bedroom, and was larger than my apartment in Boca. I had a magnificent view of the Old City and King David’s gardens.
“Very impressive,” I said.
“You are our special guest,” Kane smiled. “Please join me on the terrace.”
I had an unobstructed view of the old wall of Jerusalem.
“It’s quite a sight, isn’t it?” Kane said proudly.
“It certainly is,” I agreed.
I heard a distant chant emanate through an unseen loudspeaker.
“Allah u Akbar . . . Allah u Akbar”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“That’s the Muslim call to prayer,” he explained. “It’s called the Adham, and the man singing is a muezzin. It happens five times a day.”
“What does it mean?”
“Allah u Akbar . . . Allah u Akbar,” was repeated for the fourth time.
“It means God is great,” Minister Kane translated.
“Ash-hadu al-la ill-Allah,” was chanted.
“Ash-hadu anna Muhammadan Rasulullaah.”
“I bear witness that Muhammad is Allah’s Messenger.”
“Hayya la-se-saleah, Hayya la-se-saleah.”
“Hasten to the prayer.”
“Haya la-l-faleah.”
“Hasten to real success.”
“Allah u Akbar,” three times.
“God is great. God is great. God is great.”
“La llaha ill-Allah.”
“There is no divinity but Allah,” Minister Kane said, breathing a sigh of relief. “That’s it.”
“That’s enough,” I said.
“That was just a call to prayer. The serious praying hasn’t even started yet.” Minister Kane went back into the room and walked to the front door. “It’s noon,” he said. “Rest a while, freshen up, and meet me in the lobby in two hours.”
“Okay,” I said. “Can I ask again where Buford is going?”
“I don’t want to tell you too much,” he said. “It’s better if you don’t know everything. But I will tell you that he is heading for a receiving base near Tel Aviv. They will give him a physical to determine his health. Then he will be issued a uniform and toiletries. Tomorrow he will be transferred to an education base in the north where he will begin his training.”
“Will Zivah Oz be with him the whole time?” I asked.
“She will be with him every step of the way during his training,” Kane told me.
“Is that good or bad?” I asked.
“We’ll see,” Simon Kane said, and he closed the door behind him when he left.
I returned to my balcony to behold Jerusalem.
How the hell do Hitlers and Holocausts happen? How does a leader convince followers that killing six million people will make the world a better place?
LEADER: Let’s kill six million people.
FOLLOWER: Why?
LEADER: We suck because of them.
FOLLOWER: Really? It’s not our own fault we suck?
LEADER: No . . . it’s their fault . . . and if we kill them we won’t suck as much.
Boca Mournings Page 24
