The City of Lost Secrets: A Mara Beltane Mystery (3 page)
“Yes,” I said, sighing, realizing that more convincing was in order. “I want to. I have to.”
“Have you read the papers lately? Seen the news?” Lisa said, leaning forward in her chair and gripping the counter. Her blue eyes were darting faster now. “They’re, like, having problems over there. Israelis fighting Palestinians in bitter and violent land disputes and stuff!”
“As long as I stay out of the West Bank, I think I’ll be okay,” I said, twisting slowly from side to side in my swivel chair, attempting to counteract her distress with an unruffled countenance. I was also attempting to mask my own uneasiness over Lisa’s response. Of all people, I thought she’d understand.
Lisa and I had met as freshman in college. We were each other’s first and only roommates. Our differences—-in everything from choice of clothing to taste in men—-had surprisingly drawn us closer together and made us better friends. Probably because we had nothing to fight over. We were the solid Odd Couple, more dissimilar than similar, yet somehow it worked.
Over the course of a twelve-year friendship we’d been each other’s rock through breakups and unemployment and sickness, even pregnancy scares (hers) and divorces (mine). We challenged each other’s decisions without judgment and knew never to take any response personally.
So why now, after everything we’d been through, was Lisa suddenly so apprehensive--burdened, almost—-by my decision to go to Jerusalem? I was beginning to think I shouldn’t have told her.
“I don’t know, Mara,” Lisa said, awakening me from my trance. “A single American girl traveling to a Muslim country by herself…”
Just then our waitress, dressed in all black with a hair net wrapped around her head, cleared our paper plates and trash from the counter and asked if we wanted anything else. When we indicated no she pulled a receipt from her apron, scanned it to make sure it was ours, and then flipped it upside down on the counter. I waited until she walked away to respond.
“Are you insinuating that I’ll be attacked by terrorists or some religious fundamentalist group?” I asked, crossing my arms as if it were my turn to interrogate.
Lisa looked at me with wide eyes. “Of course not!”
“Because you know I’m more likely to die in a car accident here at home or be struck by lightning than be involved in an act of violence abroad.”
“I know that, Mara,” Lisa said, rolling her eyes. “That’s not what I meant. I’m just, you know, worried about you…”
And then I think I understood.
Lisa was restless about me going to Jerusalem because she felt she had to be.
Lisa was treating me with particular fragility, perhaps because she thought I was still upset about my divorce. (And why wouldn’t I be? It had only been a year since he’d left me, after all.) I got the sense that she thought I was still vulnerable, easily swayed and quickly manipulated. Swayed, perhaps, by a television program that manipulated me in one hour into believing the death of Jesus was a farce? Vulnerable to the notion that a trip to the heart of the conflict would promise an end to my heartache and the offer of a new career?
As I sat there staring at the pale, youthful face of my best friend, trying to decipher what thoughts lay behind her blue eyes, I wondered: Is that what Lisa believed, or what I believed?
Either way, Lisa thought I needed looking after, needed someone to worry about me. And that someone was her.
“Thanks for your concern, Lisa,” I said, smiling and patting her hand. “But I’ve got to go to Jerusalem.”
“So, like, why?” she asked, sinking down into her chair as if in defeat.
“I just feel like I have to. I need to grow as a writer and in order to do that, I need to challenge myself.”
Lisa thought about this a minute, a hint of recognition in her eyes. I tried to capitalize on that.
“Aren’t there days when you’re tired of being a third-grade teacher?” I asked. “Don’t you feel sometimes like you need a change, or need to do something different? Maybe be a high-school teacher or a principal?”
“Sure, once in awhile I think about changing jobs or moving up the ladder,” Lisa said. “Days when the kids are having tantrums and won’t play nice at recess, I wonder why I chose elementary education. I may complain sometimes, but I really do love kids. I can’t imagine being anything other than a teacher.”
“Exactly!” I exclaimed, pounding a fist on the counter, perhaps too forcibly. Out of the corner of my eye I saw heads turn in our direction, as if startled by my sudden outburst. “That’s exactly why I’m going to Jerusalem,” I continued, lowering my voice. “I love being a writer and can’t imagine doing anything else.”
“Almost like you were born to do it?” Lisa said, sitting forward in her chair again, her eyes wide and unblinking.
“Yes!” I said.
“That’s how I feel!”
Finally, I thought. I’d finally gotten through to Lisa. She gets it. And in getting through to Lisa, I’d actually found something we had in common.
“But I don’t want to grow to hate being a writer,” I explained further. “So I need to change the game a little bit. Write about something completely different. Challenge myself.”
Lisa smiled and asked, “Can I go with you?”
“No, I need to do this alone,” I said. “But don’t worry, I’ll be back home in no time.”
In 1980, a construction crew digging in the East Talpiot district of Jerusalem unearthed a tomb. Construction work on the planned apartment complex was immediately halted and an excavation crew with the Israel Antiquities Authority (IAA)-–the governmental body responsible for the safeguarding of all of Israel’s antiquities--was called in to excavate the tomb and recover any treasures that may be buried inside. Ten ossuaries, or stone bone boxes, were found, six of which had names inscribed on them in either Hebrew or Greek.
The inscriptions read:
Yeshua bar Yosef
Maria
Matia
Yose
Yehuda bar Yeshua
Mariamene e Mara
The bones inside the ossuaries--as well as human remains found inside the cave--were reburied according to Jewish tradition. The ten ossuaries were removed from the tomb and catalogued. The six that bore inscriptions were put into storage in the Bet Shemesh district in north Jerusalem, in a warehouse operated by the IAA. The four undecorated ossuaries were put in the courtyard of the Rockefeller Museum, where dozens of other similarly undecorated ossuaries were kept on display for the general public.
The tomb aroused no suspicion at the time. Many
tombs just like it had been discovered in Israel, and it was deemed to be a typical burial cave of a wealthy first-century Jewish family. Then, in 2007, a controversial documentary was released, claiming that the Talpiot tomb was the final resting place of Jesus of Nazareth…
I tucked the computer printout back into my carry-on in time for the plane’s descent into the Ben Gurion Airport in Tel Aviv. After the long flight I was jetlagged, but had to prepare for an hour-long ride in a
sherut
, or shared taxi, to my hotel in Jerusalem.
The hotel was in the modern part of the city, called New City, a shrimp-shaped area that wrapped around the north and west sides of the Old City, which was the heart of Jerusalem.
After checking into my hotel, I decided to take a walk to start familiarizing myself with Jerusalem.
How long would I be here? I didn’t know. I had told Lisa a couple of weeks; I hadn’t given my agent Jenny a timeframe.
It depended on my research, what information I was able to dig up, how long it took me to do what it was I needed to do.
There’d be time later for exploring the sites. Now was the time to just walk, to absorb the atmosphere around me. If I was to spend productive time in this city researching and writing my next book, I needed to get my bearings. Walking was the only way I knew how to get the lay of the land.
I felt safe walking through the New City. How could I not? There were armed soldiers everywhere, no doubt members of the Israeli Defense Force. They hung around in groups of two or three, all of them in their olive-green jumpsuits and matching berets, with rifles slung over their shoulders. They patrolled the public areas, especially the border gates and passageways leading into and out of the Old City. They wandered the streets talking amongst themselves, and hung around outside the bus stations, waiting for transport to and from their bases.
On this day, in addition to military personnel and Israeli policemen, traffic choked the streets. People of multi-cultural descent scurried along the sidewalks on their way to work and school. Life, in other words, carried on. It was business as usual.
The New City of Jerusalem was appropriately named. It was an area that started being built up during a building boom in the mid-19
century, once the walled areas of the ancient Old City had become overcrowded. The building boom saw the construction of Jewish community projects and a Russian compound for religious pilgrims, as well as the powerhouses of Europe trying to exert their political power and influence through architecture. Hence, English cathedrals and German hospices and Italian office buildings all vied for attention. Most recently, modern art exhibits had been added to the mix, as well as night clubs and high-end glass-and-steel shopping centers.
Before I knew it, I had crossed the boundary of the New City into the ancient roads of the Old City. Two green-outfitted border guards watched as I passed, but otherwise left me alone.
There is a noticeable difference between these two areas. Modern Jerusalem is all business and pleasure. The Old City, however, divided into quarters and walled off from New City, is a mix of commerce and spirituality, with short, cobbled streets that always lead to a place of worship or a shop for tourists or a hospice for pilgrims.
The Old City represents the true history of Jerusalem, 3,000 years of war, occupation, conquest and settlement by the Canaanites, Assyrians, Babylonians, Byzantines, Romans, the Muslims in the East and the Crusaders in Europe and one Alexander the Great. Each had a vested interest in Palestine, a reason for their willingness to fight and die for the land they thought was theirs, rightfully or no. And each culture left its mark in the form of a church, a mosque, a temple, a gate, a public square.
It was this reason--this complicated history--and the fact that the pedestrian Old City is mostly car-free, that made me want to visit this area first.
The Christian Quarter, the area of the Old City where I found myself, was home to one of the most sacred of all Christian sites. Before I knew it I was at the courtyard entrance, staring up at a mosaic of roofs and domes--the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.
A building has existed on this plot of land since the fourth century A.D. Most recently rebuilt in the 20
century, remnants of its past can be seen in the 11
century courtyard, the 12
century addition, and the 18
century bell tower.
It’s what’s inside that matters most to Christians, though, as this is the supposed site of Christ’s crucifixion, burial and resurrection.
As I stood outside the main arched entranceway someone caught my eye: an older gentleman wearing a black robe with a long white beard standing off to the side. I presumed he was of some importance, perhaps a member of one of the Christian denominations that shares custody of this church and other holy places in Jerusalem.
The robed man had a friendly face and smiled at everyone as if to say, “Welcome to my home,” but he did not speak. He kept his hands folded in front of him, hidden inside the long, wide sleeves of his robe.
I wondered if he knew the secrets of the building he stood outside, if his membership in organized religion included taking a vow of silence when it came to the truth concerning the death of Jesus. Did he know for sure if Jesus was the true son of God, who ascended into heaven body and soul and was then resurrected? Or was Jesus simply a flesh and blood human, a simple Jewish man, dedicated to spreading his message of peace and love for all mankind who found himself at the wrong place at the wrong time?
Perhaps the elderly man with the long white beard who stood outside the Church of the Holy Sepulchre had all the answers. Perhaps the true story was handed down to him as a young man by his elders, who, in turn, received the story from their elders, and so forth. Maybe there was an oral history of secrecy dating all the way back to Emperor Constantine, who legalized Christianity in the 4
century, making it the official religion of the Roman Empire.
My most pressing thought at the moment, though, was the building itself, the most important in all of Christendom. Was it really the place of Christ’s crucifixion and burial and resurrection? I had my doubts.
I am not a religious person by any stretch of the imagination. Given my preoccupation with religious history, I probably give the impression that I was devout at one time, but that some traumatic incident caused me to lose faith and give it up. But I didn’t leave any religious faith behind. None had ever existed in the first place.
My parents were Catholic. At least, I assumed they were because of the framed wedding picture that hung in our living room. Mom and Dad, and their bridesmaids and groomsmen on either side of them, all stood in front of an altar, a huge wooden crucifix mounted on the wall behind them. Standing on the step behind my parents was a man wearing a long black robe holding a Bible.
For some reason, my parents never sent me to Sunday school or Bible study classes, and I went to church only a handful of times in my life. So how would I possibly know about Jesus and the saints and the prophets? For the longest time, in fact, I thought God and Jesus Christ were the same person. I had heard of the apostles, but I never understood what they did, exactly, or what Joseph had to do with anything. But the point is, I was no worse off for not knowing. God didn’t figure into my life, yet I still turned out okay.