The Galilean Secret: A Novel (13 page)
Read The Galilean Secret: A Novel Online
Authors: Evan Howard
With the hopeful lyrics echoing in his ears, Karim noticed a stocky man in a gold shirt peek in the door. The man surveyed the group and locked his eyes on Karim’s. He recognized Ahmed Marzouqa. As Ahmed turned and walked away, Karim signaled Rachel and Brother Gregory that he was ready to leave. Fortunately the group was breaking up. When he reached the corridor, he watched as Ahmed hurried to his son’s room, a cell phone pressed to his ear.
Karim feared that the call was to Sadiq Musalaha and waited for Ahmed to disappear before heading for the elevator. He motioned for Rachel and Brother Gregory to follow, trying not to appear rushed. They caught up outside the doors as Karim pressed the down button. He glared at the light that tracked the elevator’s ascent, silently cursing its slowness.
Rachel and Brother Gregory were still talking about the gathering in the community room. “I think we just experienced what Jesus wrote about in the letter,” Brother Gregory said. “The love he describes unites people across all barriers.”
Karim pressed the down button several times. Rachel, oblivious to his plight, said, “Unfortunately, it’s easier to sing about peace than to live it.”
“Agreed,” Brother Gregory said. “The music brought us together, as did seeing the unity of the Israeli and Palestinian doctors and nurses. But religion often does the opposite. Rather than unite us to fight evil and suffering, it may fuel the fires of hatred and injustice. This trend has afflicted humanity through the ages.”
The elevator bell rang as the door whooshed open. Karim breathed a sigh of thanks as they entered—doubly so because the elevator was empty.
“Why is so much evil done in the name of God?” Rachel asked, her brow furrowed as the elevator descended to the lobby. Her voice sounded as if it had steel in it. “The influence that a radical Zionist named Itzak Kaufman has on my brother breaks my heart.”
Brother Gregory cleared his throat, his eyes flashing. “Religion can inspire great evil, but also great good. This hospital is a mission of Lutheran Christians to heal the sick. We must not give up on religion because it has been misused. We must seek greater understanding for questions such as why the stories about Isaac and Ishmael in Judaism and Islam are different. The Jesus letter affirms that the Creator of us all is merciful, loving and just. The only way we can know and please God is to embody these qualities ourselves.”
Karim shifted his weight from one leg to the other, hot with stress. The ride seemed endless. Were they descending to the earth’s core? In an effort to stop thinking about Abdul Fattah possibly being in East Jerusalem and coming after him, he said, “The jihadists will never become merciful, loving or just. They think they please God by killing infidels in his name.”
Brother Gregory gave him a determined glance. “To make peace we must win the war of ideas, and that’s where the Jesus letter can help.”
“The jihadists will mock the letter,” Karim said over the hum of the elevator. “It is not Islamic and it advocates peace for all.”
Brother Gregory cocked his head in a studious pose. “Why not take a more hopeful view? Jihadists long to drink from the spring of inner intimacy that Jesus describes in the letter, but they don’t realize it. If they knew the depths of love, they wouldn’t promise suicide bombers seventy-two virgins in paradise. They would teach them to find the fullness of God’s love within. Jesus promises that this love will win in the end. Then peace will come at last.”
Finally the elevator stopped moving. Karim waded through the people waiting to get on, cautiously scanning each face. He warned himself not to do anything rash. He didn’t know if Ahmed Marzouqa had reached his father—or had even called him. If he had, it would take time for his father to contact Abdul Fattah and for Abdul to find him. Karim rehearsed his plan to walk Rachel to her Jeep and say good-bye without raising questions.
She and Brother Gregory caught up to him, still discussing the letter. “I don’t understand,” Rachel said. “All three of our religions teach that Adam and Eve lived in paradise but then lost it. You’re talking about getting paradise back. But how? Because, let’s face it, the West Bank and Gaza are hell on earth.”
Karim held the front door. As Brother Gregory passed through, he said, “We all believe in one God, whom we call by different names, and our three religions trace their roots to Abraham. We are members of the same family—brothers and sisters. We should treat one another fairly and share this land and its holy sites.”
Karim surveyed the rows of cars in the parking lot. He knew that Abdul Fattah drove an older-model black Mercedes. He saw several in the lot. Thankfully, none were occupied. Rachel had parked in the far corner. As Karim led her toward the Jeep, Rachel said, “Every attempt to make peace in this land has failed. I’m committed to this work, but I worry that time is running out.”
Brother Gregory said, “If the letter is real, perhaps a new opportunity is within our grasp. Jews, Christians and Muslims revere their scriptures but don’t emphasize the shared teachings they contain. Maybe the discovery of the letter is God’s way of inspiring this search for common ground.”
Rachel stopped as if struck by a new thought and grabbed Karim and Brother Gregory each by an arm. “We’ve got to prove it’s genuine. The original can be tested to determine its age, but unless we can prove that the revelations about Jesus and Mary Magdalene are true, we’ll have no evidence that the letter is authentic. Its value will remain in doubt.” She stopped and turned to Karim. “Let me help with the research. Please.”
Karim placed his left hand on hers. Could he trust her? He gazed into her depthless eyes, as dark as black satin, and thought he saw character and integrity and compassion. If Rachel were Palestinian, he would have no problem trusting her. But she was Israeli. He left her question unanswered as he turned toward the Jeep, glancing nervously at the entrance to the lot.
She pulled him back so that he faced her again. “Please, Karim. Let me help.”
This time he caught a glimpse of longing in her eyes. A longing he had seen before but couldn’t place. As he held her gaze, he did remember. He had seen this same longing in his father’s eyes, a longing for his wife who had died in childbirth. A longing for the mother whom Karim still wept for—the mother who had remained hopeful until the end like
Rajiya
, painted on the wall at A-Ram. He drew a quick breath, wondering if Rachel had seen longing in his eyes and decided to help him in Bil’in because of it.
Here in this unremarkable place, a parking lot, he finally knew he could trust her—and fully confide in her about the letter. “Yes, Rachel, I accept your help.” He embraced her before he led her to her Jeep. He hesitated as she opened the door and got in. “When will I see you again?” he asked, regretting having to let her go.
She wrote her cell phone number on a slip of paper and gave it to him. “I have some ideas about how to start researching the letter. Give me a call. Okay?”
“Soon,” he said, “and thank you again for all you did.”
She said good-bye and drove out of the parking lot. Karim caught a glimpse of a car entering. A black Mercedes. He followed Brother Gregory to his Ford Escort. “We need to leave now.” Karim ducked into the passenger seat and reclined it. “Abdul Fattah may be in that Mercedes.”
Brother Gregory took a right out of the parking lot. Karim heard the screech of tires behind them. He kept his head down as the resourceful monk began to weave in and out of traffic. Karim said a brief prayer. Whether they would make it the eight kilometers to Holy Angels Monastery was in Brother Gregory’s white-knuckled hands.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Roman Times
THE MOMENT GABRIEL SAW NICODEMUS BEN GORION’S FACE, HE KNEW SOMETHING WAS WRONG. The wise old Pharisee had entered the marketplace in Jerusalem and was weaving through the crowd. Gabriel moved toward him, guiding his four-wheel pushcart, half full of Passover supplies for his market, around the bustling shoppers. He hadn’t seen Nicodemus’ brow so furrowed since they found Mary Magdalene in Samaria.
Gabriel dodged a man carrying a sack of grain and thought of Mary. He wondered how she had fared when she returned to Jesus. The memory of Mary’s heartbreak made him think of his own. It had been more than a month since Judith and Dismas eloped, but Gabriel’s grief was as raw as the beef in the market’s butcher shops. He saw the displays of fine silks and imagined how lovely Judith would have looked in her wedding dress. The jewelry reminded him of the ring he would never place on her finger.
He passed two women balancing baskets of vegetables on their heads and gripped the pushcart tighter. He had sought to forget Judith but failed. Nor could he forgive. Each time he tried, his hurt got in the way. The piercing stings of the pain kept him awake at night and distracted him during the day.
He steered the cart around some children playing in the street and again raised his hand to wave at Nicodemus. Never had he seen his friend’s eyes so anxious or his jaw so tense. Gabriel yelled to get Nicodemus’ attention, but his voice got lost amid the haggling of customers and merchants, the shrieks of the children, the pleas of the beggars.
Finally he caught the old man’s eye. Nicodemus rushed over, took Gabriel’s arm and led him into an alley beside a bakeshop, its fresh bread emitting a rich yeasty scent. “Something awful has happened,” the Pharisee said, his voice trembling. “Pilate had his soldiers kill four Galileans and mix their blood with the sacrifices in the Temple.” Nicodemus’ deep-set eyes were wet, his round cheeks flushed. “I fear what might happen because of this outrage.”
Gabriel drew a hand to his mouth to stifle a cry. The baking bread no longer smelled inviting but offensive. He stared at the worn stones of the alley, which was only wide enough for an oxcart, and struggled to contain his rage. “Why would Pilate provoke our people like this? He knows we have rioted over less.”
Nicodemus grabbed Gabriel’s arms and stared into his eyes. “The priests say that Pilate suspected the Galileans of planning a revolt. He won’t tolerate even the hint of insurrection.”
Gabriel held Nicodemus’ gaze. “How did the Sanhedrin respond?”
Nicodemus gave a frustrated shrug. “Caiaphas protested, but he dared not say much; the Romans might close the Temple for good. I’m outraged by what happened, but I am also worried about Jesus. He, too, is Galilean and popular with the masses. If Pilate suspects him of helping the Zealots, he may try to kill him.”
Gabriel had planned to have a meal with Nicodemus, but he was no longer hungry. He, too, was thinking about Jesus and drew a cleansing breath. “We need Jesus’ message of peace, but it will only succeed if he lives morally and preaches with power and passion.”
The old man shot him a wary glance. “As heinous as Pilate’s actions were, they’re further evidence of the truth of Jesus’ gospel.” Nicodemus kept his voice at a whisper. “Jesus warns of the darkness in each of us. It makes us do dreadful things. The only way to contain this dark side is to increase our awareness of it, and to work tirelessly to bring it into the light. Few people do this. Most of us condemn the sins of others without examining our own. My fellow Pharisees are especially good at this. Pilate has sinned, but before we condemn him, we must acknowledge the evil in our own hearts.”
Gabriel glared at him. “I could never do what Pilate did.”
“Perhaps not, but we all have our weaknesses and hatreds.” Nicodemus gave a weary sigh. “Our discontent comes from the disowned part of ourselves. If we deny our darkness or remain unaware of it, we will blame it on others or act it out in harmful ways. The result increases our pain and makes us vulnerable to actions that betray our souls. This is the way to terrible suffering. In order to find healing, we must befriend our darkness and let the light illuminate it. This is the way to true enlightenment.”
Gabriel reached for Nicodemus’ hand. “I don’t feel like eating. Please come with me as I finish shopping; then we can walk home together.”
Gabriel led him from the alley into the open market, pushing his cart across the uneven stones through the noisy crowd. In the next block they came to a produce stand. There he and Nicodemus loaded the cart with apples, grapes, figs, walnuts and bitter herbs. As Gabriel was paying the merchant, he noticed that a group of people had gathered in front.
Nearly thirty men were standing in rows in a tight semicircle, with two bearded men in soiled animal skins facing them. Both were rugged, with athletic builds and dirty faces. One was tall, with a wide forehead and large ears. The other was of medium height, with pockmarked skin and several missing teeth. They held crude daggers. The taller man waved his as he addressed the group in a low voice.
Gabriel quickly grasped who these men were and what they were doing. The tall one said in Aramaic, “This time Pilate has gone too far. How long will we allow the Romans to kill our men and mock our religion? My friend and I are Galileans. We’re helping the great Barabbas to organize a revolt, and we need every able-bodied man to fight with us. On the first day of Passover we’ll strike at the heart of Roman military power and oppression—the Antonia Fortress. Pilate will pay for his blasphemy. This time we will fight him to the death.”
A murmur swept through the group. Gabriel felt his stomach drop as if he had stepped off a cliff. Rage burned hot in his throat. These Galileans were the kind of men his brother had joined. They had corrupted Dismas. If Gabriel didn’t speak against them, they could lead many gullible Jews to their deaths. He steadied himself and stepped to the front of the group. The noontime sun was glaringly hot. The air, redolent with odors from the cooking and the baking and the milling shoppers, smelled sour. He glanced around; no Roman soldiers were nearby.
Gabriel waved a hand and addressed the crowd. “You’ve heard these men speak. Now listen to me. We’re all outraged by what Pilate did, but helping these men will lead to disaster. We may outnumber the Romans, but they have superior armor and swords and training. If we attack them, they’ll slaughter us.”
The tall man shoved Gabriel aside and spoke forcefully. “Don’t listen to this coward. We have more weapons than he thinks. Hundreds of us have been training in the mountains of Galilee. We’re disciplined, strong and brave.”
Hearing himself called a coward poured fury through Gabriel’s veins. He clenched his fingers into tight fists and felt a surge of energy rise from his feet into his legs and back. He wouldn’t let these foreigners mislead his countrymen. He pushed the tall man. “You’ve said enough.” Gabriel’s voice was loud and defiant. “I know of the Zealot plan to take over our nation. You don’t care how many of us die.” Both Galileans tried to push Gabriel aside, but he lunged at them, head down, legs driving. Several men from the crowd joined in, and a melee erupted. In the confusion, the taller Galilean approached Gabriel from behind. He wrapped an arm around Gabriel’s neck and threw him to the ground in a quick spinning motion. When his head hit the stone pavement, light exploded in his brain.
And everything went dark.