THE COMMISSION
BEGINNINGS
ONE
It is late afternoon on the thirty-first day of Righteousness, Eden's eighty-ninth Jubilee. The air is warm. A gentle breeze drifts in from the south filling the air with music and laughter. Virtually everyone in Galilee is present. They are picnicking on the freshly groomed lawn, playing on the ball-fields, listening to the assortment of local musicians and singers entertaining from the band-shell, or strolling through the various exhibitions. It is the Second Shabbat, Eden's most popular celebration. This year, however, there is a controversial aspect to the festival. It centers on the event held at Campchild Hall, in the center of Scott Memorial Park. Two hundred picketers from the Messianist Temple resolutely line the parkway in front of a stone carving of the Santa Maria, a replica of Rabbi Scott’s spacecraft with the inscription, In Memory of Rabbi Christopher Moshe Scott, Earth years 2031-2097. They carry signs that proclaim, Heresy, Blasphemy, and Anti-Christ. Considering that the entire population of Galilee is barely four hundred, it is a sizable protest. Better than ninety percent of those who are picketing, however, come from temples in the surrounding cities and villages, some having traveled hundreds of miles. That explains why nearly a quarter of the demonstrators are wearing the crimson robes that signify they are priests of the Messianist Temples, which are the cornerstone of many of the towns and villages of Eden. In spite of the protestors, the hall, which easily holds five hundred, is packed when the key speaker approaches the platform. He is greeted first by boos and curses, but the majority quiet the few hecklers, and when the audience is finally silenced, Taylor Hudson straightens his notes by tapping them upon the podium. They are almost an inch thick and everyone knows that this is going to be a long speech. He sets them in a neat stack then picks up a tattered book and reads aloud from the first page.
TWO
March 20, 2066
Herewith begins the life and times of 09-6503-047, prisoner of Terrapax for crimes against humanity; namely, religious intolerance. My name is Katherine Elizabeth Cohen. I am seventeen years old. "What," you ask me, "is a nice girl like you, doing in a place like this?"
Rabbi Joseph Shoenberg says it is because we are Jews: "We Jews have always been destined to persecution and imprisonment. This is the price for being Jehovah's chosen. Our fathers ignored Jehovah and now Jehovah afflicts us -- to gain our attention." That's what Rabbi Shoenberg says, but I am only half Jewish and Shoenberg is not my rabbi.
My father, Benjamin David Cohen, was a New York Jew; my mother, Elizabeth, was a gentile from Colorado. I am a Messianist. My rabbi is Christopher Moshe Scott, who is also not a Jew. It was Rabbi Scott who insisted I begin this account. Today begins the third year of our imprisonment. Rabbi Scott believes I am becoming too withdrawn. "You need to seek out activities that will stretch and occupy your mind," he told me. I am seventeen years old, but Rabbi Scott believes I am a ten-year-old and that he is my father. At least that is what his actions tell me. First, he suggested that I memorize Scripture. He located a New Testament for me and suggested I begin memorizing the Gospel of Mark. He was memorizing the Gospel of John, and wanted me to do the same but that was far too great a task for me. I lack his self-discipline. I wasn't interested in memorizing anything. I reluctantly accepted the challenge, but only to please him. It took me almost a month to memorize the first chapter, and I would have given up if not for all the praise and encouragement he's given me. I'm a sucker for praise. Especially when it comes from a twenty-seven year old, six foot tall Adonis, with natural bronze, perpetually tanned skin, wavy chestnut brown hair, a perfectly trimmed, square beard, piercing hazel eyes and encouraging smile -- I can't believe I wrote that. Oh well, hopefully I'll be old and dead before anyone reads it.
It took me a full year to memorize the entire gospel but in doing so, I found my belief in Messiah vastly extended. I had always believed in, but until now had never experienced, the Messiah in the way my father and Rabbi Scott experience Him. I am finally developing a genuine love for who He was, (should that be who he is? I’m never quite sure what tense to use when referring to Messiah) for what He had done for humankind, and for what He has done for me. At the same time, my prayer life has started to become real, like actually talking to a person, and my conversations with Rabbi Scott have developed a richness and closeness I had never known before.
Still, I continue to withdraw. I spend entire days just praying, memorizing, and meditating. I know it's not good for me to be so withdrawn, but I'm just not comfortable with talking to anyone except Rabbi Scott any more. Even now, I'm seeing how much easier it is to express my thoughts and feelings on paper. Perhaps writing this history really is my destiny.
Last week, three months after the work crews, started, (I'll explain about the work crews later -- I can already see that writing a life story isn't going to be easy; too many details to organize.) Rabbi Scott returned from work detail and presented me with this four-hundred-page hardbound book of blank pages. One of the guards had given it to him.
“Katherine,” he said, very serious, as if he were about to reveal a fundamental secret of life, “one day we will be freed from this camp and when that happens, there must be a record, a history of what we have been through. I believe Messiah has put you here to write that history. I want you to use this book to begin that task."
“What? I’m not a writer, I wouldn’t know where to start.” I answered. If his demeanor hadn't been so serious, I'd have though he was joking.
“Start by just writing down your memories of what has happened to us - what has happened to you.”
“But, why me?” I asked.
“Two reasons: One, I trust you to actually do it, and two, you have a unique perspective, like Anne Frank in the Second World War.”
“She died,” I said trying to frown and look mischievous at the same time. “Are you making some kind of prophecy?”
“If you do, just make sure to hide the book in a wall first and, one day, you’ll be famous." He winked at me, and then continued seriously, “One of the guards, the one who got this book for me, thinks we’re all going to be released within the year.”
THE COMMISSION
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