The Masada Faktor (2 page)

INTRODUCTION

I
thought back to Mother’s last day. She was whispering into my ear as I laid next to her knowing this was the end of her life. Urging her to conserve her strength was unproductive.

“Hitler had become obsessed with King Herod and wanted to be like him. He knew that the Romans had surrounded Masada seventy years after King Herod died. Hitler was a maniac! He wanted the Jews to perish in great numbers again, seventy years after his own death.”

I didn’t care what she was saying, even if it was insanity, as long as I could hear her beautiful Hungarian accent one last time. “Go on, Mother, tell me everything.”

“This is like a time bomb.” She urgently motioned to the bureau next to her bed. “Open the bottom drawer, and take the yellow envelope.” She was speaking slowly, and had a begging, whining tone to her voice. “They want to mimic the Masada Zealots’ mass suicide, instead as mass murder. It was Hitler’s last order.”

“They hoped that during the seventy years after the Holocaust so very many Jews will have made
Aliyah
to Israel, and because Europe will have been emptied out once again of Jews, that Israel will be full of Jews to slaughter.”

“Natasha, you must stop them, you must save Israel. Take my Jewish star, the
Magan David
to keep you safe.”

As I unclasped her necklace and put it on my own neck, she closed her eyes for the last time. And then I kissed her cheek and kissed her left forearm, on the tattoo that she had gotten on her first day in Auschwitz.

Those were Mother’s last words to me. The so-called plot to destroy Israel. It was nuts. But it didn’t matter. Mother was gone now. It was time to move on.

I was a late bloomer. I had no regrets about spending the last fifteen years with Mother. It was my
Mitzvah
, a commandment to honor my mother, but it had come with a cost.

I had gotten old during those years but I still had the desires of a young woman. I was determined to live my life now and I wanted to hear her voice in my head cheering me on, not telling me to be a savior.

A part of me was angry, that her last words to me involved Hitler. I had had enough of the Holocaust. I didn’t want to be born as a tool; of keeping remembrance alive. I never had a chance to be normal. Yes, I was angry.

The first thing on my agenda was to get my hair colored and cut and buy some new clothes. I knew that I had the prized young Hungarian skin and slim physique that Mother’s clan was known for. It was the Hungarian genes. I decided to be ten years younger since I knew I could pull it off if I didn’t have grey streaks in my hair.

I had obsessively thought about moving somewhere out of the San Francisco Bay Area after Mother was gone, imagining myself in locales all over the world. All places though, except Israel, would limit the extent of my visa.

Except for Australia, I did not have any connection to anywhere outside of the United States. Immigrating to Israel was always fleetingly in the back of my mind and when I realized that Mother’s last wish was for me to go there and save Israel from destruction, I took that as a sign from the heavens.

Yes, I would go to Israel. The ridiculous notion that she had information on a plot to destroy the Jews was beside the point. I had humored her. After all, that was the finale.

I didn’t open the yellow envelope. I thought I might look at it while I was on the flight to my new life.

Once I was settled into my seat on the plane and had ordered a brandy I opened the envelope. There was a handwritten note from Mother to me explaining how she had gotten the envelope in the first place. Any time I saw her handwriting it grabbed me in such a way that immediate tears were inevitable. I downed my brandy and pushed the service button to order another. Mother’s note said the following:

Darling Natasha,

The old Nazi guard that helped me go out of the slave factory to the death march before it was to be
bombed worked for Commandant Gustav. The guard had worked in the head office and had inside knowledge of a plan for future events to continue killing the Jews.

It was not that he had a soft spot for Jews, but he was old and feared meeting his Maker with so much on his conscience. It could be that he thought if he did one good deed it might save him from Hell. That was for God to decide.

I was a feisty Jewish girl in the factory and the old guard liked me. I do not remember his name, but he said that he’d decided to copy the plans that he had seen Commandant Gustav reading.

He had overheard a lot of things when the other five SS joined Gustav for meetings. He wanted to give me an envelope with the secret contents before the impending Death March when we were forced out of the factory into the forest, at the end of the war.

Ahead of time he was able to smuggle a piece of burlap, needle and thread, and ordered me to sew an inside pocket into my one and only garment. I was told to await something that needed to be smuggled out with me for the future of the world. I did as I was ordered.

And on that day when we were to flee for the march to either death or freedom, the old guard secretly passed
the yellow envelope to me. I slipped it into the inside pocket of my dress and went out into the forest with the others.

I was told to keep the envelope with me until the year 2014 and then give it to whichever of my children that could be trusted to save the Jewish people.

And later in Munich, I would hear from one of my girlfriends that Hershel the Jewish Kapo saw the old German guard give me the envelope.

Hershel reported what he saw to Commandant Gustav. Then Commandant Gustav killed the old German. I don’t know what happened to Hershel but I used to have bad dreams about him and sometimes I thought I would see him following me. But that was impossible
!

Always, Mother

Everything else in the envelope was written in German on old yellowed onion skin paper. I wondered why Mother had not translated it into English for me. Well, I knew she had an aversion to the German language. I had no idea what the contents meant. I would find someone to help me translate it.

PART ONE
HAIFA

CHAPTER ONE

I
t was March 18, 2014. I took a wrong turn and found myself in Haifa. I had told myself, prior to leaving California that I would figure it out when I got there. I came to Israel, not as a tourist but as an immigrant exercising my right as a Jew, to settle in Israel under the Laws of Return which had been declared on July 5, 1959.

I had been to Israel on vacation three other times and then, as I looked back, I realized that I was overly confident thinking I could figure out living in a foreign country when I got there. I would be humbled over and over in my new homeland. Luckily I could read Hebrew and write in script. Although that did not help me much with conversations, it was helpful for reading signs.

I preferred Tel Aviv, but I had been, or thought I was, determined to be in Haifa for a while because it was so much more affordable. I found I wasn’t comfortable. In other words, I tried Haifa on, and it didn’t fit. I do not wish to disparage anyone that currently lives in Haifa or plans to settle there. For me, I didn’t have a car and the brutal terrain which consisted of very steep hills and steps proved to be too much for me.

I had arrived at Ben Gurion Airport in Tel Aviv, on the Israeli airliner El Al, with mixed expectations. While waiting for the first leg of my trip in San Francisco I had received an email from the Haifa Municipality who was assisting me with my immigration. It stated that a problem with my absorption apartment had come up. I had been promised a safe place to stay for four weeks while I figured out where I would settle in the Haifa area.

Not to worry, the email assured, but because of an emergency situation with a needier and homeless family we have located a suitable alternate location for you, but it is only for two weeks. Be sure to have 2,100
shekel
with you to pay the landlord.

Luckily I had enough American dollars in my wallet and knew I could exchange them at the airport for
NIS,
new Israeli
shekel.
The dollar was way down at that time, equal to about 3.3
NIS
. I was dismayed at the turn of events and hoped this was not a signal of impending doom. I told myself, Stop it. No stinking thinking allowed. This was my adventure of a lifetime, and it was going to be fabulous.

I felt a bit overloaded as I had packed three large duffle bags and two smaller bags, not knowing if I would come back to the States. Upon landing I was met by a volunteer who informed me that I’d be bussed over to the old airport for processing, and to expect it would take several hours, due to the large amount of Russians being processed at the same time.

I felt off balance as the time was ten hours ahead of what I was used to on the American West Coast. As I walked through the old airport I noticed that it looked like it was frozen in time, and felt eerily abandoned. There could be another use for this place as a bomb shelter or a prison, I surmised.

I shrugged off any feeling of foreboding and followed the others into the processing waiting room where framed photos of Bibi Netanyahu and Shimon Peres smiled down at me.

Luckily sandwiches and drinks were offered. I sat down and awaited my turn to become an Israeli citizen.

I shared a taxi, which was a free benefit as a new citizen, with another immigrant. Neither she nor the female driver could speak a word of English. I dozed off on the way, waking up as we dropped off the other woman, a Russian with bleached blonde hair. Later, I would run into her again, as she’d turn up in my
Ulpan,
the Hebrew language class in Haifa.

The owner of the apartment was waiting for me, and gave me a quick tour of the place which consisted of a small room, a partial kitchen, and a bathroom. She was supplying me with a few dishes and an electric tea kettle, known in Israel as a
kumkum
, and some other kitchen items, like silverware.

There had been yet another volunteer waiting at the apartment to welcome me to Haifa, but due to the late hour he had gone home. He left gifts: a box of corn flakes cereal which sat on the counter and a quart of milk, in the tiny refrigerator. He left his business card offering me a coffee date.

I was grateful that the woman spoke some English and paid her the 2,100
shekel
for my two week stay, which was equivalent to about $636. Later I would realize that I didn’t get a receipt.

On her way out, she turned back to me and with her eyes nervously looking toward the next door on the apartment’s landing, said “Don’t speak to your neighbor. He’s crazy but he won’t hurt you. He was in the Lebanon War.”

I thought, “Whatever.”

My first shock was when I attempted to go into the bathroom. The door must have been put on the wrong way because I had to squeeze in by holding in my stomach and going on my tip toes. I immediately noticed a moldy smell and when I looked behind me, saw the black mold in the shower.

Nevertheless, I was glad to have a place to rest my head. The bed was decrepit and narrow and I immediately removed whatever coverings were on it. Luckily I had packed Mother’s beautiful, hand knitted afghan blankets and wrapped myself in her scent. I fell into a deep sleep.