The Hilltop

by Assaf Gavron

  “I’m not being disparaging.” Roni took out his light blue pack of cigarettes as they entered the yard. “It’s nice out. Want to sit for a while?” He sat down on the beach chair, alongside a springy Donald Duck ride uprooted from some playground, which now lay there on its side.

  “No,” Gabi said, and went inside.

  Roni smoked. The darkness thickened. He had learned to love the nights on the hilltop. At first he was troubled by the silence and missed the incessant hum of the city when he slept, and sometimes the unknown contained in the silence, the threat that seeped through it, would even wake him. Now he was addicted to the silence of the small hours, to the sense of it enveloping him like a comforter. He replayed the argument with Gabi in his mind and suddenly recalled the last time he had seen Mickey—a blond kid, small and energetic. He felt a pang in his heart. Perhaps Gabi was right. He didn’t deserve any flak from Roni.

  Roni went inside after finishing his cigarette. “I didn’t mean to piss you off,” he said.

  “Then don’t piss me off. Why don’t you simply sort out the things you need to sort out and then move on? Resolve your problems and go back to your life?” Gabi asked, raising his eyes to look at Roni. “It’s not that I don’t want you staying here with me; really, it’s for your own good. You sleep all day, you’re messing around with that damn olive oil. I don’t know and don’t even want to know what kind of scheme you are hatching to try to make some money from it. I’m not judging you, it’s your life. But perhaps you should try to cure yourself of the obsession, of these vices. I cry out from my heart to God for you, I shout and weep to Him and plead for Him to help you like He helped me.”

  Roni rested a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Thanks, Gabi,” he said. “I know you want what’s best for me.” He went into the kitchen to make them both a coffee, and they sat together in the living room. And before Gabi had the chance to reach out for one of his books, Roni told him why he had come to the hilltop.

  “After the army. After the kibbutz. After Mom Gila. A kibbutz boy in Tel Aviv. The apartment on Shlomo Hamelech Street. The goldfish. The bar in Kikar Malchei Yisrael, Bar-BaraBush. The partnership with Oren Azulai. You remember, right? The good old days, the go-go nineties, the greed. Always more and more and more: more girls, more business, more money.”

  He told Gabi about his meeting with Idan Lowenhof, who opened his eyes to New York’s world of high finance and helped him get there. About his bachelor’s degree in Tel Aviv and his MBA in New York. About Goldstein-Lieberman-Weiss investment bank and the private clients and the endless days in front of the screens and the adrenaline of the trading and the money, sums so unimaginable that no matter how many times he tried to explain it to Gabi, Gabi simply couldn’t understand how it had all disappeared, and not only that, but how Roni was now so deep in debt that he had no way of climbing out.

  It was the monologue of someone who had worked through the story in his own mind on endless occasions, of someone who had analyzed to the point of exhaustion the drive, the goals, the motives, but had yet to get to the bottom of them. The gambles, the successes, the mistakes, that, within the space of a few months during the American economy’s most dramatic fall, had pushed his brief and meteoric career into a fatal tailspin and eventually driven him that wintry day in February from San Francisco straight to the West Bank, dressed in an elegant Hugo Boss suit and worn-out socks, and in possession of scarcely anything else.

  Gabi sipped from his mug, but it was empty, and he peered into it, as if to request permission. “Well . . . ,” he finally said, “at least you’ve told me something at last.” They had hardly spoken since Roni’s arrival, despite Gabi’s efforts now and then to question him. Truth be told, they had never been ones for heart-to-hearts.

  “And what do you think?” Roni asked.

  “You know what I think. Everything lies with God. If He brought you here, then here you should be.”

  Roni looked at his brother, astounded, but didn’t respond. He went to the bathroom, returned, and found Gabi in the same position on the sofa. “You work a lot, don’t you, my brother?” Roni said.

  “God willing, blessed be His name,” Gabi answered, lifting his eyes.

  “Good, good, that’s great. And tell me, you probably manage to save a little, right? Life here is cheap—this trailer, for example, what did you say the rent is, three hundred shekels?”

  “Salaries here aren’t the same as in the city. I try to save a little, with the grace of God.” Gabi immediately understood the implication of the silence that settled in the room. He had a knack for knowing exactly what Roni wanted. “Roni, I have nothing to give you,” he said. “I mean, I’m already helping you, and quite a bit, too: the food, the bills.”

  “I know. Of course. And what about Uncle Yaron’s savings plan? Is there nothing left in there?”

  “That’s long gone. I live hand-to-mouth. And the little I do manage to save is set aside for a sacred purpose.”

  “I didn’t ask you to forgo any purpose, God forbid. What purpose?”

  Gabi wanted to travel to Uman for Rosh Hashanah. He had harbored the dream for several years, and this year, he was going to make it happen. “I will do everything in my power, spanning the length and breadth of the creation, to cleanse and save him. I will take hold of his sidelocks and pull him out of hell,” Rabbi Nachman said of all those who come to visit his grave, and Gabi needed that more than ever before. To air out his thoughts, to see green before his eyes, to feel the rain on his shoulders. To get away from where he was and to get as close as possible to the rabbi. To lie on his grave, to pray with the thousands at his tomb and in his kloiz, his synagogue. To experience the singing and dancing, and the Torah scroll and the outbursts of joy he had seen on YouTube. To seclude himself in the very same forests and under the very same trees that the elderly Nachman had, that Reb Natan from Breslov had, under the tutelage of the Baal Shem Tov in Medzhybizh, and with Rabbi Levi Yitzchak of Berditchev. Nachman promised eternal salvation to everyone who comes to his tomb, everyone who offers a coin to charity for his soul and recites the Tikkun HaKlali, the ten Psalms that serve as repentance for all sins.

  “Rosh Hashanah is what, four, five months away?” Roni said. “No problem. By then, I’d have sorted out a proper bank loan and orders will already be coming in. For sure. You won’t be missing out on Uman this year, bro, and I’ll tell you something else—you’ll go again next year, on your brother’s dime. So what do you have to say about that kind of bonus? That’s what you call interest with interest!”

  Gabi didn’t know what to say.

  And ten minutes later, he had yet to utter a word. Thoughts continued to crash into the roof of his mind. After all, it didn’t make any sense whatsoever. The scales weren’t even close to being balanced: On the one end, his dream, his money, earned by the sweat of his brow, working the land and building the country. On the other, a dubious enterprise, amateurish, with Arabs, on the part of an irresponsible man, with a chronic propensity for getting himself into a jam, who had cut ties, who hadn’t uttered a single word of sympathy during the toughest time in his own brother’s life. Not to mention his lifestyle and beliefs on the one hand, and their absolute heresy on the other. Nonetheless, his older brother was in distress, was asking for help; perhaps it was the only way for him to escape his entanglement into the light. Would he deny that to his brother for simply a fistful of dollars? And perhaps Roni was right and it really was a unique opportunity, a safe bet, and the loan really would be repaid quickly and yield the promised interest. Gabi wanted to consult God, the rabbi, his books.

  Roni went out into the yard, smoked a cigarette, and returned, waited a while longer, and then asked bitterly, “Why the silence?”

  “Silence. As if to say, ‘Be silent, thus is the highest thought.’ The righteous man is silent.”

  Roni shook his head. He drew himself some water from the tap and went to sit in the armchair. “You used to be different,” he said, “
more open, more inquisitive. I don’t know.”

  “And what good did it do me?”

  It was Roni’s turn not to answer.

  “I suppose it’s better to manage a bar in Tel Aviv?” Gabi continued. “Or to go to America and lose millions of dollars—your clients’ and your bank’s and your own—and to shirk responsibility? Or to come looking for handouts for some shady deal with Arabs?”

  “I don’t feel the need to apologize for doing business and living the good life. Is your life any better? Are you happier? Are your values any nobler? What are those values? To be silent? To pray? To stop using electricity at a certain time on a Friday? I don’t get it.”

  “I know you don’t get it,” Gabi said.

  “Explain it to me, then. What do you get out of endlessly reading and memorizing things said two hundred years ago by some Ukrainian rabbi who told you to be silent, or to sing, or to rejoice, or God knows what?”

  “Peace of mind,” Gabi replied. “It brings me tranquility, love, happiness. For some reason, it’s hard for you to accept that. Maybe you’re trying too hard not to see it.”

  “And maybe you’re trying too hard to see it.”

  “I’m not trying at all. I’m feeling. I feel at home.”

  “At home? What do you mean at home? Some home! An illegal home, according to the court. Do you feel at home by puncturing the tire of a military jeep that’s here to watch over you? Is there a quote about that? What about the law?”

  “Disrespect for the law is better than disrespect for God.”

  “And what about respect for people?”

  “Now all of a sudden you care about respect for people? All you’re interested in is your ridiculous olive oil enterprise. Don’t go thinking that people around here are happy about it. People talk. They ask how long you’ll be staying and want to know why we’re putting you up if you’re working with Arabs. And you want me to lend you money for that?” Gabi’s voice rose. He didn’t want this confrontation, but if Roni was insisting, so be it, let him know the truth.

  “Ah, so that’s what it’s all about. I get it. I’m working with the cruel enemy, I’m a cynical shit with no values who only wants to make money. I guess opposing hypocrisy and violence, and working with people who, for the most part, have it pretty rough, means having no values. People are talking about me? Great. Let them come tell me to my face, tell me to go.”

  Gabi didn’t appear impressed. “I see you’ve adopted the line of the extreme leftists. Do me a favor! The Arabs have it rough, the Arabs are saints, the Arabs, the Arabs, the Arabs . . .”

  “The Arabs are to blame, too, for the wife and child who won’t allow you near them, right?” Roni yelled. “The Arabs, and secular values, and lust for flesh and money, right? But the sanctity of the Land of Israel and singing praises to God and keeping quiet will allow you to forget Mickey and Anna, won’t they?”

  Roni had more to say, but the expression on his brother’s face stopped him. He went outside and walked down to the edge of the hilltop, to the shining stars carried on the wind, to the dark night. Gabi was asleep already when he returned. But waiting on the table for Roni was a check.

  The Suspect

  A few days later, in the evening, Gabi’s phone rang. “Gavriel Nehushtan, hello,” he answered. The name Gavriel still managed to bring a smile to Roni’s face. “It’s for you,” Gabi said. Roni’s smile turned into a frown.

  An hour later, Roni walked into the neighboring trailer of the Yisraeli family. Nehama made him tea with mint leaves and offered cookies. Hilik gestured toward a chair and Roni sat down.

  “I don’t understand why you invited me over,” he said to Hilik, Othniel, and Jean-Marc Hirschson, who sat across from him on the sofa. “What is this, an Absorption Committee rerun?” He smiled, cookie crumbs clinging to his teeth. He was hoping deep down that they had changed their decision regarding the new trailer and were now going to offer it to him instead of the Gotlieb family.

  “Look, Roni,” Hilik began, his eyes focused on a point slightly above Roni’s head as he scratched his forehead with his fingernail, close to his skullcap. Othniel looked him straight in the eye, while Jean-Marc appeared transfixed by the alligator on his pink Lacoste shirt. “Let’s get straight to it. We know that you won’t be able to confirm or elaborate on all we have to say to you now, but we invited you here nevertheless because we feel it’s important to tell you that we know.”

  “Know what?” Roni asked.

  “Hang on, let me finish. Where was I?”

  “We feel it’s important to tell him that we know,” Jean-Marc said without taking his eyes off Roni.

  “Yes, we simply want you to know that we know. Do as you see fit with this information, tell or don’t tell your handlers, it’s your decision entirely.” Roni fixed Hilik with a stupefied gaze. “Now look here, I want to say another thing. We appreciate you guys. Very much. You do a very tough and blessed job, day and night, in order to maintain the security of the country, including in the settlements, the Jewish Division and all that. I mean, the monitoring is a little over-the-top, after all, and as strange as this may sound to you, we are not sitting on the hilltops and plotting the murder of prime ministers or Arabs. But we won’t deny the existence of undesirable elements, bad seeds. Let’s just call them guys who, in the name of positive goals, get caught up in negative actions, sometimes as provocation, sometimes not entirely through any fault of their own, but we won’t get into that now.” Othniel nodded. “So we understand the importance, and the need, for people inside the settlements who relay information.”

  Hilik paused and took a sip of his instant coffee. Shneor called to his mother from his room. Roni cast a bemused look over the three men who sat across from him. He opened his mouth to speak, but Hilik cut in. “Look,” he said, “the story with the Gotlieb family. We realize you were offended. We understand that you wanted to move in there temporarily.”

  “Ah, never mind. It’s dead and buried,” Roni said.

  “It causes problems, you see,” Hilik continued, disregarding Roni’s remark. “There was a waiting list, and we prefer young families, religious ones, people we can count on for the long run . . .” He looked at his fellow sofa occupants and then turned again to Roni. “We’re simply saying, okay, your work is important, do what you have to do, but if possible, at this point in time, hold off for just a little, allow us to get organized. It’s not like we’ve been planning a terror attack! A trailer arrived, we moved a family in, that’s it. No reason to run out and announce it to the world.”

  Roni pointed a finger at himself in astonishment, as if to say, You mean me? Are you saying I was the one who let on? Who would I have inform—

  “Anyway,” Othniel broke into his thoughts, “good luck, I mean it. You know, Roni, that you’re a welcome guest here with us, with your brother whom we love very much, and we wholeheartedly invite you to remain here under our roofs for as long as you want, okay? But when the time is right, let’s coordinate our positions, okay?” Othniel tapped his nose with his finger.

  “We know you can’t say yes or no or admit to anything,” Jean-Marc went on. “But we’re simply saying that we know, and if you can, be considerate. That’s all.”

  The three settlers sipped from their mugs. Jean-Marc bit into a cookie. “Mmmm . . . apricot.”

  Roni gathered that the meeting was over and stood to leave. “Okay, I’ll be off then, yes? Unless there’s something else?”

  Othniel stood and placed a broad hand on Roni’s shoulder. “We’re done, buddy, off you go. Good night, and regards to Gavriel. And Hilik”—Othniel turned to his friend—“perhaps you really should get Roni to help you with your doctorate on the kibbutzim?”

  “I’d love to,” Hilik responded. “I’m sure I’ll have more time after Nehama gives birth.”

  With the suspect gone, the three exchanged looks in silence.

  Roni decided to go for a short walk along the ring road. There was a chill in the nig
ht air, but the wind had dropped somewhat and he managed to light a cigarette using his hands as cover. Along the way, he was surprised by his brother, who was beginning the night shift. “What’s up, bro?” Gabi asked.

  “Everything’s cool.”

  “What did they want?”

  “Oh, nothing, really . . . I don’t know. Truthfully, I didn’t understand, exactly.”

  “Okay, tell me later. I’m heading in to read some teachings. I’ve been waiting to do this all day.”

  Amused, Roni looked at the book in his brother’s hand. “Go for it. Have a blast, bro.”

  * * *

  A few days later, Ariel called. Roni was still in his underwear in bed, his legs raised. Gabi sat across from him, his face buried in one of Rabbi Nachman’s books, his tongue whispering, his eyes aglow, entirely oblivious to any outside disturbance. Roni noticed the bare furrows forming under his brother’s broad skullcap, the inevitable beginning of baldness. He ran anxious fingers through his hair, but all was well. It still grew thick, dense and bushy, dark, and at a length that by then justified a quick visit to the barber, had he been living in a normal place, that is. Ariel had spoken to an expert on millstones. He was having second thoughts. He had sent Roni a link by e-mail and told him to take a look.

  Roni went over to the old laptop in the kitchen. “The Internet connection here alone is going to break me and send me back to the real Israel,” he said to Ariel. While waiting to connect, to the screeching sound of the dial-up modem, the power went out. Lacking a battery in working order as backup, the computer shut down. “Enough already! Enough! I’ve had enough! I’m sick of this dirty asshole of a place! How can anyone live like this? Fucking hell!” The power returned moments later, and Roni restarted the computer. It rattled and hesitated, went black, lit up, and displayed the Windows logo on a sky-blue background, played the opening tune. A full three to four minutes went by before it had warmed up and booted up and was ready for operation. Roni again clicked on the Internet connection button, and again waited to the sounds of the dial tone and then the engaged signal, the dial tone and then the engaged signal, until the connection attempt was finally snapped up into the shrieking and whistling and rising and falling jaws of the Internet. He opened the e-mail program, which appeared, too, to be in no hurry to go anywhere, and found the desired message and clicked the link that opened the Internet browser, at a snail’s pace, until he finally reached the promised land.