The Hilltop

by Assaf Gavron

  The telephone rang but he was too afraid to make small talk, his hands remained fixed on the wheel, his mind focused. The descents grew steeper, the ascents more arduous. Don’t worry, hundreds of Israelis travel this road daily and no one has been killed here in years, even stone-throwing incidents are few and far between. And yet, unlike those of the settlers, his car wasn’t equipped with armored glass. Could they know that, the Arabs? Despite the air-conditioning, he was sweating, and couldn’t quite work out why he was there at all, it was just another business idea that would follow in the footsteps of all his previous business ideas. Why couldn’t he be satisfied with the not so little he had—accountant, average-size firm, in the center of the country, married, with one kid? But to really make a killing required taking risk, doing things that not everyone would do.

  The military pillboxes comforted him, the red-tiled roofs soothed him. He wouldn’t have believed he would feel that way, but the turnoff for the settlement was a welcome sight, and outside the yellow steel gate, which opened for his Toyota and its yellow plates without any fuss, he could see the waiting cars of the Arabs and the Arabs themselves, and once inside, he felt secure, as unpleasant as it might have been to admit so. After all, he didn’t have a problem with the Arabs, they deserved better, he didn’t support the crazy settlers, but he did feel a lot more at ease and safer within their prohibitive boundaries.

  “What’s up, bro? You look green,” Roni said to him.

  “Give me a glass of water,” Ariel responded, and entered the trailer.

  “Okay,” he said after he recovered. “Good news. Three boutique stores in Tel Aviv who took samples from me want to place a substantial order for the olive oil. They all say this is the kind of oil that sells these days, heavily flavored, strong-tasting, spicy, with the true fragrance of olives, unlike those yellowish, lighter Italian or Spanish oils.”

  “Well, of course, it’s the real thing.” The words rolled gleefully off Roni’s tongue. “Not only is it better than the pale, Ashkenazi, overrefined European oils, it’s the best in the country, the purest, the tastiest. Better than from the Galilee, better than from Samaria. These are olives from the edge of the desert, it’s Bab A-Zakak, the region with the oil of the highest quality! And it’s costing us nine shekels a liter, instead of the sixteen shekels you’ll pay for the cheapest Israeli oil.”

  “You can find some for fifteen,” Ariel corrected him, but Roni didn’t bother to respond.

  They sat in Gabi’s yard, which overlooked the olive groves of Kharmish.

  “What’s a substantial order?” Roni asked after a few moments of thought.

  “A thousand liters and more.”

  “A thousand and more . . .” Roni nodded, and released smoke from his nostrils. “Multiplied by three, you say. I hope Musa can handle that. We’re a small enterprise, after all, not an industrial farm.”

  “He has to cope. Anything less, and it’s not worth my while to leave the comforts of my office. But now that we’ve bought him that wonderful electric motor to replace his dead donkey, I’m not worried. And just so you know, you can boutique me all you like, I still haven’t given up on my dream of a sophisticated oil press and mass production. After we’ve established the brand, we can invest in an Italian production line, and then, within five years, we’ll have made it.”

  Roni laughed to himself. The words “God willing” were on the tip of his tongue, but he refrained at the last second from blurting them out. He waved to Othniel and Yakir, who were walking along the ring road toward the synagogue.

  “Now take a look at this,” Ariel said, and glanced around for his black briefcase. He reached for it, couldn’t get a hand on it, cursed, stood up, and went over to retrieve it, patting down the pockets of his pants to feel for his wallet and keys and mobile phone as he walked. He removed several printed pages from the briefcase, glanced at them, and handed them to Roni without a word. Roni took them, then took a final puff on his cigarette before stubbing it out in the ashtray. He browsed through the pages and a broad smile slowly appeared on his face. He nodded intently.

  “Initial drafts for the ad campaign,” Ariel said with a sense of satisfaction. “I also want a draft with the headlines from the newspapers. People will be floored.”

  “Or I’ll be floored. What will people who know me think when they see me like that in an advertisement?”

  “They probably won’t see you. It’s not going into national newspapers or anything like that. You know, local ads, signs at stores, that kind of thing.”

  “Well, if they do, you can say it is ‘an Israeli man whose ties to the area remain unclear.’ ”

  “What’s that?”

  “Nothing,” Roni said, “just the Washington Post article. That’s what the son of a bitch wrote about me. I was pleased actually that they had no clue who I was or what the hell I was doing jumping onto the blades of bulldozers.”

  “I heard about the article. That’s why the defense minister went to America, right? We may be able to leverage the story for our own needs. Perhaps for exports,” Ariel said, scribbling down a note to himself in a small notebook.

  “Why not? Leverage as much as you like.” Roni browsed through the pages again and looked contentedly at the photograph of himself and Musa on the blade of the bulldozer. “Just a sec,” he said, and paged back through the photographs. “Isn’t there something missing here?”

  “The religious woman,” Ariel confirmed. “We Photoshopped her out. I was of two minds about it, but the settlers are daunting.”

  Roni nodded. “ ‘Together, we’ll press on?’ ” he read out the slogan under the photograph of the bulldozer.

  “They’re only initial drafts. We have lots of options for slogans. You won’t believe the brochures I’m having made—quotes from the Bible, symbols, Arabic verses, heritage, ties to the land, uses of olive oil. You’ll be blown away.”

  “Great, great. And get the Golani Brigade in there, too, with the olive tree on the brigade tag—Roni, the former Golani fighter who went from being a fucked-up soldier with an olive tree on his shoulder to producing olive oil in partnership with an Arab. Know what I mean?”

  Ariel smiled politely, his silence clearly implying that Roni should leave the marketing and branding to him. “Okay, dude,” he said, “ask Musa when he can get us some oil.”

  “I’m on it,” Roni responded, putting a hand up to shield his eyes from the sun and dialing the Palestinian’s number. “I’m on it.”

  The Summer Camp

  The summer was suddenly at its peak. The month of July arrived and the long summer vacation began, and on some of the days, Nehama Yisraeli organized activities for children of all ages (a day at the swimming pool, a hike, a day spent working at Othniel’s livestock pen, a day of building), entrusting the older ones with various responsibilities and tasks. She called it a summer camp.

  On one such day, the children left to go hiking through the Hermesh Stream riverbed. Nehama showed up at the kindergarten at 8 a.m. with her two sons, Boaz and Shneor, one in each hand, and a huge rounded tummy. Elazar Freud brought along his son, Nefesh, and went into the men’s section of the synagogue for morning prayers. And Amalia Rivlin arrived with her baby brother, Zvuli, in a baby carriage, her younger sister, Tchelet, at her side, and their mother, Shaulit, a few steps behind, talking on her cell phone, laughing and gesturing intently with her hands, saying, “Insane, insane.”

  Along for the day, too, were Shimi and Tili Gotlieb and all the Assis children aside from Yakir—Gitit, who served in the summer as a teacher’s aide, Dvora, Hananiya, Emunah, and Shuv-el, and Beilin the dog as well. At the request of Nehama, they were accompanied by Jehu, his butt firmly fixed in the saddle of his horse, Killer, and his Jericho 941 pistol tucked into his holster, and when the merry bunch exited through the settlement’s gate, Yoni the soldier surprised them and asked Nehama, “Can I tag along?”

  “Sure,” she said. “But don’t you have to remain here at the gat
e?”

  “There are other soldiers here,” Yoni said, pointing into the guard hut. “And it’s a quiet day.”

  “Praise the Lord,” Nehama responded. The fear of running into an Arab was always there; having another soldier with them could only boost everyone’s sense of security.

  * * *

  The group walked slowly, hats on heads, water bottles and sandwiches in colorful knapsacks. The older children hurried ahead confidently, the younger ones and pregnant kindergarten teacher waddled like penguins, and the tiny tots sat in a wheeled crib pushed by Gitit. As a treat, the kids were lifted one by one onto Killer’s back, where they rested securely in Jehu’s strong arms. They all made their way down the dirt road to the lowest point in the wadi, between the hills of Ma’aleh Hermesh C. and Ma’aleh Hermesh B., where the path turned toward the Hermesh Stream riverbed. A vulture soared overhead, one of two that could be seen almost daily from the hilltop. Nehama pointed at the bird and asked, “What’s that?” The response came in the form of excited cries from the children.

  Some fifteen minutes into the hike, as they neared the cave, they stopped for a sandwich break in a small, withered field, alongside a modest Jewish National Fund sign bearing the words The Jennifer Shulman-Zimmerman Wood. They washed their hands and recited the customary blessing, and then, after the blessing over the bread, they dove in. Nehama pointed out various plants—white wormwood, thorny saltwort, prickly alkanet, Dominican sage, Jerusalem sage—“And what do you think about that chubby little mourning wheatear resting there in the shade?” The children turned to look wearily at the bird. Tili Gotlieb and Emunah Assis, both missing a single bottom front tooth, the one in a white dress and the other in a yellow one handed down from her sisters, were holding hands and singing “Kol Dodi Hineh Ze Ba,” and Yoni clapped for them until they started giggling shyly and began all over again.

  Nehama lowered her burdensome body onto a rock. Her denim skirt wrapped around her swollen ankles and beads of sweat appeared from under her black head covering. “Let’s go, guys,” she said. “We’ll go on from here a short way into the cave, cool down a little inside, and then turn around and head back.” The children stood. “Just to remind you, hold hands when we’re inside the cave and be careful not to slip. Yoni, you’re bringing up the rear. Jehu, tie up your horse and come inside with us.”

  The opening to the cave revealed itself after a short descent into the steep ravine, which sloped sharply on both sides—white limestone and sand-colored rocks, with thorny burnet and Israeli thyme growing among them. A quiet pair of Nubian ibexes roved farther down the incline, and the rustling sound of bats rose from the crevices, and Chukar partridges skimmed across the ground in the color of the earth, and an alarmed snake-eyed lizard zigzagged away at the sound of their footsteps. They reached the entrance to the cave, one of several large caves in the side of the mountain that had served as hideouts for the Maccabees and Romans, for monks and bandits, for shepherds and commando unit fighters and Crusaders; also for foxes, and for porcupines, and for leopards and snakes—for any living creature that passed through that desert at some point in time.

  On reaching a wide slab of rock at the mouth of the cave, Nehama called a halt and asked everyone to cast their eyes farther down the ravine. She quoted a verse describing a landscape from the book of the Prophet Amos—“New wine will drip from the mountains and flow from all the hills”—and warned: “We’re going in now, so I’m telling you again, everyone hold hands and take good care, because the floor of the cave may be slippery.”

  “Mommy, I want to go wee-wee,” came the sound of Shneor’s voice.

  “Shhh . . . Shneor, I’m talking. Go with Yoni to find somewhere.”

  She told the children about the history of the cave and its size, and in they went, stepping hesitantly into the murky, low-ceilinged, dank interior.

  “Mommy, Mommy,” Hananiya Assis said, and he tightened his grip on Jehu’s hand. Jehu lightly stroked the back of the young boy’s neck in an effort to soothe him.

  “Pay attention,” Nehama continued in her teacher voice, “the cave has twenty-three rooms, and it splits up and branches out, so it’s very important to walk slowly and not to let go of the hand of whoever is next to you.”

  Hananiya trembled. The light from the outside grew ever weaker, blocked out by small bodies. It was cooler and more pleasant inside. Hananiya whimpered, “I want to go back out, go back out.”

  “Quiet, Hananiya, everything’s okay, we’re going back soon,” said his sister Dvora. Contrary to the explicit instructions of the kindergarten teacher, she let go of his sweaty hand and entered one of the side rooms, fearlessly feeling her way.

  “Dvora, Dvora!” came the high-pitched voice of her brother, Hananiya, and Nehama followed suit, “Dvora? Where are you? Dvora?”

  There was no response. The sound of a sob rose up, followed by a second, and then a third. Nehama raised her voice in the darkness, “Children, don’t be afraid, just keep holding hands,” but the hands were sweaty, small, smooth, and the floor was smooth, too. “Older children, pick everyone up and go back to the entrance!” Nehama commanded, afraid to lose control, her heart pounding now. “Dvora? Are you here? Dvora?” That was the key, the source of the distress, she sensed, she could feel the silence that failed to offer a response. “Dvora?” The whimpering of the little ones died down, Yoni and Jehu and Gitit comforted and caressed, and everyone returned to the mouth of the cave.

  Dvora stood rooted to the spot in one of the inner rooms. Nehama heard whispers, entered the room, placed a hand on her narrow shoulder, and peered into the darkness beyond.

  “I don’t know, something drew me here,” whispered Yakir’s twin.

  “Did you hear anything?”

  “No, I didn’t, not with my ears, at least.”

  They stood and looked, not sure at what, exactly, but they were sure it was something unusual, it was hard to see in the dimness, a heap in the corner of the room. Had someone been here recently and forgotten something? What is that? Dvora approached and reached out her hand to touch, it jingled . . . Coins?

  Dvora turned her head and gave Nehama a puzzled look, and then, a few seconds later, her ears pricked up, because a new sound was heard in the room. What was that? Water? Nehama turned her head to listen, too, they stood next to each other, their heads tilted in opposite directions. Could there be water flowing through the cave? After all, there’d never been water here . . . The water sounded very close, and Dvora asked, “Nehama? Can you hear it?” And Nehama said, “Yes,” and only then did she get it—it was from her. Her waters, the life fluid of her third daughter, flowing between her legs in the middle of the cave, and she said to Dvora, “Go—slowly—slowly—to the entrance—of the cave—and tell—Gitit—and Yoni—to come—get—me—out—and Jehu—to ride—to the outpost—and call—Hilik—with the car—urgently—now.” And then she sat down, exhaling deeply, and Dvora went on her way.

  And there Nehama remained, on the verge of motherhood, tenderly embracing her belly, her cheek pressed against the cool wall of the cave, her lips moving in prayer, and the young maiden Dvora made for the mouth of cave in measured steps, and cried out. Jehu spurred Killer into a gallop, and the youth’s hair and thick sidelocks flapped in the wind under his broad skullcap, and the two ascended through the field and along the dirt road to the settlement, and Killer whinnied, the steel gate opened, and rider and horse raced to the fifth property on the right on the ring road.

  Out in the field, meanwhile, Yoni and Gitit remained as the only adults. Despite the heat, both were dressed in long, thick clothing, Yoni in his green army fatigues, Gitit in a white cotton shirt and dark skirt that hung ten centimeters below her knees. They exchanged meaningful looks and swallowed a smile, and Yoni said, “Go into the cave, and find Nehama, and help her out, because she needs air. We’ll get her to the road.” To the children, he said, “Sit, boys and girls, drink some water from the bottles and water flasks, eat fruit and sand
wiches and candies from the knapsacks, and let me try to get ahold of . . .” He looked at his phone and used his finger to browse through the list of names, found Hilik’s number, and pushed the green Send button, but there was no signal in the ravine. He brought the device closer to his face and, peering through his Ray-Bans, observed that the antenna icon displayed zero bars.

  “Everybody up,” he announced to the children. “We’ll head up to the top field with the white wormwood, the prickly alkanet, and whatever she called the hyssop earlier.” Shneor burst into tears, asking, “Where’s Mommy?” And Yoni said, “Mommy will come right along, Gitit is helping her.” And up came the good, quiet, well-behaved children, and even Shneor stopped crying, although he did turn to look back from time to time and ask about Mommy. “What’s Daddy’s telephone number?” Yoni asked Shneor, attempting to confirm that he had the correct number. “I don’t know,” Shneor responded, but his elder brother, Boaz, intervened and recited the number, and Yoni entered the digits and pressed the Send button. This time the cellular signals caught up with Hilik, and Yoni relayed the news just as Hilik heard the sound of Killer’s hooves outside the window. His face dropped, his mustache drooped, and he jumped into his car.

  Hilik stopped at the point on the dirt road where the path led to the cave. He left the engine running and raced to his wife, whom he found leaning on Gitit’s slender shoulder. Together they hoisted her up the steep ravine and across the length of the field, for all the children to see, and Boaz asked, “Daddy, what happened to Mommy? Is Mommy dead? Did terrorists kill her?”

  “No, Boaz, heaven forbid,” Hilik answered. “Mommy is fine, bless the Lord, and Daddy will take her to the hospital now and we’ll return, God willing, with a baby sister, just as we promised you. Isn’t that right, Boaz?” Boaz nodded and followed the slow progress of the three grown-ups. Nehama tried to smile at her son and the other children, and to say a few words of farewell, a comforting word or two, but suddenly, in the middle of the field, a contraction struck, and she burst into a stifled wail that turned into a moan.