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Chinese Farm. They tell stories about you.”
    “That was a long time ago.”
    “I love stories. I come from a rabbinical family, you know. But I am the first—the first of the sons in my family not to go
to yeshiva
. Instead, I spent my youth inside Megachs, Nakpadons, and Merkavas.”
    Krantz knew he was referring to a progression of Israeli tanks since the 1980s.
    “I love stories,” the former tank commander went on. “Somewhere inside me is that rabbi.
    “Dr. Krantz,” he began his story, paraphasing a nineteenth-century Jewish fable, “somewhere, somewhere on this earth, a Jew has died—an ordinary man, with a life of virtues and sins. After he was laid to rest and Kaddish said, he was taken to stand before the heavenly seat of judgment. There he saw the scales on which all his earthly deeds, the good and the bad, were to be weighed. His righteous advocate came with a bag of good deeds as white as snow, more fragrant than the finest perfume, and began pouring them upon the right pan of the scales. Then, his evil adversary came with a bag of sins as black as coal, as foul as offal, and began pouring them on the left pan of the scales. The scales of judgment tipped up and down until finally they stopped. A heavenly judge studied the scales carefully and announced his decision. There could be no decision. The scales were perfectly balanced. No judgment could be made. The soul could neither pass through the gates of heaven nor of hell.”
    The general stopped his tale, perhaps to give more meaning to its moral conclusion.
    “You should know, General,” Krantz interjected. “I am not a religious man. Heaven and hell and the Big Bad Wolf are all fairy tales to me.”
    “It is not so much a story about heaven and hell,” the general responded. “Yes, it may be useful to imagine the torment of being in limbo—not being able to be chosen for your good works or your evil ones. But the horror you must imagine today is simply not even taking the time to choose. You must at least listen; then you can make your choice. After all, it takes so little to tip the scales.”
    The general put his hand in his pocket and retrieved something white. He sprinkled it on the table for effect. Krantz pursed his lips, then smiled and conceded to rabbinical wit. And he and Fala sat down again at the conference table.
    The general nodded to his adjutant, who handed him an envelope. He opened it and pushed a photograph toward Krantz. It was a poor quality photo, clearly something taken surreptiously in the field, possibly at great risk to the photographer. It was a photo of an unusual weapon—a small leather glove with leather laces at the wrist and, for fingers, four sharpened and curved finger scythes. Krantz perused the photo carefully. He had never seen the complete weapon before, only rusted remnants of the hammered iron finger scythes and hypothetical sketches of what it must have looked like intact. It was a remarkable find and apparently in perfect condition.
    “You recognize this?” the general asked, clearly anxious for the answer.
    “Yes. It’s a hand scythe, a weapon believed to be used in the third century BC.”
    “BC? Before the Second Temple was destroyed?”
    Joshua Krantz smiled. “A few hundred years before.” He passed the photo to Fala, who also seemed excited to see the weapon.
    “You found this in Israel?” she asked.
    The general said nothing.
    “This was a weapon of Iskander,” she commented to Krantz, who nodded affirmatively.
    “And who is Iskander?” General Echod asked.
    “Iskander,” Krantz explained, “is what the Arabs called Alexander—Alexander the Great. He inherited the kingdom of Macedonia when he was twenty years old,” Krantz went on, giving the general a little history lesson. “With his talent for military tactics and strategy, he nearly conquered the known world in his time. But he was schooled in the arts of war by a master, a Greek teacher… a name you’ll