The Hilltop

by Assaf Gavron

  The issue of the coins had dragged on since the summer. Duvid, the antiquities expert, Othniel’s friend, hadn’t come to the hilltop in a long time. Othniel pestered him on the phone. Eventually, at some point in the fall, Duvid called to say that most of the coins had returned from abroad. The tests revealed that most of them were made in all likelihood during the time of the rebellion. They were ordinary bronze coins, and probably not worth much. A question mark still hung over two coins, and they hadn’t come back yet. They might be silver shekels from the time of the Bar Kokhba Revolt, but he was waiting to receive the complete findings.

  Othniel continued to pester, and his friend the coin expert continued to put him off for various reasons—more tests, waiting for a shipment, another expert who needed to weigh in. Othniel’s frustration was driving him insane. Almost six months had gone by since Dvora discovered the coins. Why was it so difficult to get an answer? Until one day, some two weeks earlier, the phone rang, and Duvid was on the line.

  “Do you want the good news first or the bad news?”

  “The bad, of course,” Othniel replied worriedly.

  “Leave it, we’ll start with the good. There’s a final answer about the last two coins. They are indeed silver shekels from the time of the Bar Kokhba Revolt. One from the second year, which is worth up to ten thousand dollars, and one—take note—the fourth year, forty thousand greenbacks, Othni, you got that?”

  “And the bad?”

  There was silence for a few seconds, after which Duvid cleared his throat and said, “Ah . . . look. There was a small screwup. A misunderstanding. One of the calls I made was to a friend of mine, an expert in numismatics, the history of currency, and when he got back to me, he mistakenly called a different David, from the Antiquities Authority, and left him a message. And thus the Authority got wind of your collection.” Duvid stopped there.

  “What does that mean, that the Authority got wind of my collection? Why should that concern me?”

  “Essentially, it shouldn’t be a worry. Look, in principle, anyone who finds coins is supposed to inform them, although they know that no one ever does. But when there’s a leak or a rumor, they have to come check it out. They’re concerned primarily with documentation—photographing, cataloging, recording, marking. Things like that. They won’t take the coins from you, I believe.”

  “You believe?”

  “I’ve spoken with my people at the Antiquities Authority. Everything will be okay.” It sounded to Othniel like Duvid didn’t believe himself.

  “So what happens now?”

  “Someone from the Authority will come to visit you. They’ll ask questions. They’ll sniff around the cave. Give them what they want and I’ll make sure from here that it all goes smoothly.”

  “A cup of tea?” Othniel offered to the man in the suit, who said he was from the Antiquities Authority, the unit for the prevention of antiquities theft.

  “Thank you.” The man sat on the sofa and opened his folder of documents. He rummaged through it, retrieved several pages, and handed them to Othniel.

  “What’s this?” Othniel asked.

  “I need to complete these forms with you, regarding the trove of coins you discovered in the Hermesh Cave. Afterward we’ll go to the cave and look around. We’ll call in the unit’s team and detectives, we’ll check to see if there are more antiquities at the site, we’ll document the location, and if need be, we’ll preserve the site. After that we’ll conduct precise tests on the coins that were found.”

  “They’ve already done tests. You can get the results from Duv—”

  “We like to conduct the tests ourselves, at the forensic crime laboratory,” the man interjected, and smiled closemouthed.

  “And then you’ll return the coins to me?”

  The man laid the forms on the table and looked again at Othniel. “There’s a good chance we will,” he replied. “It depends on a few things. We’ll definitely be in touch about the matter. And now”—he pointed at the papers with a thin pen—“let’s start filling out the forms.”

  The Recognition

  Herzl Weizmann had turned in recent months into Ma’aleh Hermesh C.’s resident contractor, a multitalented jack-of-all-trades, combination welder, handyman, floor layer, plumber, and various other tradesmen who always complained and raised prices because of the drive to the isolated—and dangerous, they claimed—hilltop.

  The hilltop was experiencing a construction boom, insofar as that was possible in the framework of the freeze imposed by the irresolute government under pressure from the gentiles since the middle of November. Gabi finished building the cabin, Herzl constructed an extension for Hilik Yisraeli’s caravilla, a pre-cast concrete structure was brought over in pieces from Ma’aleh Hermesh A. to serve as a day care and free up the synagogue for sacred work—and the synagogue itself underwent a comprehensive refurbishment that included a new roof, stone walls, tiles, colorful stained-glass windows adorned with images of the Temple, and an air conditioner.

  On that day, Herzl Weizmann’s laborers couldn’t get there. Both were sick at home with high fevers and in sweats. And when you insisted on Jewish labor, it was hard to find replacements on short notice, certainly on a day like today. Herzl called en route and explained the problem to Hilik, who was overseeing the renovations on behalf of the settlement. Hilik wasn’t even aware that Herzl was coming that day, but Herzl explained he had a little more work to do on the synagogue before the Sabbath, and on the day care, too. Hilik called Jehu, who didn’t answer—he never answered; and then Josh, who was running errands in Jerusalem; and then Gavriel, who said he’d be happy to help at the synagogue, no problem, he’d be there in five minutes, it was impossible anyway to work in the fields in such rain, and no, no need to pay him, it’s sacred work.

  Hilik was pleased. He was a good guy, that Nehushtan. Hardly any like him left, who are willing to give and don’t expect anything in return. If there were any at all, then they existed only here, on the hilltops. He walked over in his slippers to flip the switch on the kettle. Coffee, that’s what he needed now. To sit inside with the heat on as the storm raged outside, and enjoy a coffee and a cookie and a Gershwin CD. He browsed through his CD rack, pulled out Rhapsody in Blue, and slipped the disc into the player. He thought about going to the university to work on his doctorate, but who’d be crazy enough to go out in weather like this? How many opportunities were there for a relaxing day? Thank God for such weather.

  The phone rang. The display identified the caller as Othniel. Do I answer or drink the coffee in peace? Hilik agonized, adjusted his skullcap, stroked his mustache. “Well . . . ,” he muttered. Curiosity got the better of him. Othniel didn’t pester for nothing. He pressed the button to take the call. “Yes, Othni.”

  “Did you see they’ve posted new orders?” A small poisoned arrow shot out from the device straight into the coffee, cookie, Gershwin plans.

  * * *

  Gabi met Herzl at the synagogue. “Bless you,” the handyman said. “Good for you, coming to help.”

  “Sure thing,” Gabi replied, and removed the hood of his coat. The skullcap, broad and white on his head, with a pom-pom on the top, and that wide smile. “It’s sacred work, and you’re a good man for coming all this way for our Sabbath. A truly righteous man.” While the two of them worked in the same field, and at the same settlement, they had never had a chance to work together. Herzl always had laborers, Gabi was always busy with Othniel or the cabin. Aside from “Hello—Hello” and once or twice when they borrowed tools or sugar for coffee, not a word was exchanged between them.

  Not much was said when they first began working that morning, either. The work was simple. Herzl climbed a ladder, used a screwdriver and adjustable wrench to go over all the new fixtures, and attached a few final ones. Gabi handed him large bolts and nuts and in the interim cleared the synagogue’s spacious hall of materials and tools, which he amassed in a corner and moved outside after the rain stopped. Together they fitted
the uppermost wooden beams, which added a rustic and eye-pleasing dimension to the ceiling, as well as support.

  During their first break, Herzl said, “You work well, I have to say. I wish I always had workers like you.”

  Gabi smiled and sipped the tea. “There’s plenty of work to do, praise the Lord. But thanks. If I’m free, I’ll be happy to.”

  Silence ensued. Steam rose from the tea. The rain continued to tap lightly on the roof without a break. Herzl said, “You know, the first time I saw you here, you looked so familiar to me.” Gabi raised his eyes. They looked at each other for a long moment, brown eyes crossing in cold air.

  “Really?” Gabi said.

  “Ever live in Mevasseret, or thereabouts?”

  Gabi shook his head. Why was there tension in the air? Perhaps the eyes registered before the brain, and sent signals into the air. “I grew up in the Upper Galilee. On a kibbutz. Were you perhaps . . .” Herzl’s head shook from side to side. A half-smile gathered in the corner of his mouth. He lifted the mug and sipped with a noise caused by the meeting of tongue, lips, liquid, and air designed to cool the hot liquid on its way to the throat. When Gabi was living in the United States, an Asian donor once told him about the art of soup-drinking in the Far East. He took him to an authentic Chinese restaurant and said, “Listen.” Gabi listened. He was surrounded by the sound of slurping, and when he looked around, he observed the technique, the pursing of the lips, the forming of the narrow tunnel, the inhaling of the air, and the sucking in of the soup. In a Western restaurant it would be perceived as ill-mannered, vulgar. Yet when Gabi took out a tissue and loudly blew his nose, the Chinese fixed him with a look of disgust. Every culture has its own definition of vulgarity.

  “Where were you in the army?” Herzl asked, and immediately afterward, Gabi’s pupils widened, a film covered his eyes, a few drops of coffee went down the wrong way; he coughed violently and hung his head. Yes. He recognized him. Of course. Oh my God. Oh. My. God. The eye sees and the ear hears and all your deeds are inscribed in the book. He closed his eyes and said to himself, God, Man, you are testing me, you sent him to me, what am I supposed to do, Man. The coughing fit passed and he opened his eyes, and Herzl Weizmann looked at him with a smile and tilted his head, and asked, “What?” and took out a box of L&M Lights and pulled out a cigarette from it and lit up, and from within the smoke and the squinting of his eyes and the blackness of his hair continued, “Everything okay, my bro?”

  * * *

  I couldn’t sleep. I opened Mishali’s footlocker and from it removed two stun grenades, large and smooth and purplish-brown in color, like eggplants. The cooks were animals, not human beings. I identified the room and dragged over a large, heavy wooden bench to serve as a barrier against the door. I walked around, found the window, and managed to open it. I pulled out the pins, reached in with both hands, released the grenades, closed the window, and fled from there to my warm bed, hearing on the way the huge booms . . .

  * * *

  Gabi signaled that all’s well, just a sudden coughing fit, the wrong pipe. Weizmann sucked on the cigarette and looked and asked, “So where were you in the army?” And Gabi quickly answered, “Golani,” but felt, knew, that Herzl would soon recall. He waited, told the God in his head that he was ready, let the man give him what he deserves, turned his gaze to the window, felt Herzl’s eyes on him. How hadn’t he remembered immediately? Herzl. One of the cooks who refused to prepare a late dinner. Who laughed in the face of his commander and beat him. Who were sleeping soundly in their warm room when the stun grenades blew them into the realms of trauma, horror, the hospital. Gabi waited in surrender to his fate, but Herzl only said, “Come, my bro, let’s get back to work.”

  The rain eased off, and they went outside to check the synagogue’s stonework. In addition to the yellowish and masoned Jerusalem stone, Herzl had added a layer of wooden boards between the stone and the drywall, for better insulation. Herzl took a step back and gazed with pride.

  “It used to look like two trailers, huh?” He was right. The synagogue looked for all intents and purposes like a stone structure, with strong walls and a large and impressive roof.

  “You’re a righteous man,” Gabi said, and believed it with all his heart—building and beautifying the hall of worship is sacred work—but inside of him a storm was raging and he was conducting a fierce debate with his God about what he should do.

  They prepared cement in the manual mixer and completed the final wall. Gabi carried the stones and mixed the cement, Herzl applied and plastered and cleaned and banged with the wooden hammer. Little by little their conversation deepened. Herzl told Gabi about his life. He was twice divorced. The second time his wife behaved “really badly. I don’t want to go into details, you’re a religious man, you don’t need to hear such things, but really badly.” When Herzl discovered how she was behaving, he took a suitcase, got into the car, drove to the junior school where his son was in third grade, waited for recess, found his son, told him to get his bag, we’re going on a drive. Drove off.

  “Bro, I didn’t have a chance,” Herzl said. Chance of what? Gabi wondered. The rain came down again and Herzl said, “Let’s get back inside.”

  Herzl boiled more water on the gas burner. “What terrible weather, my God.” He smiled and extended a mug of tea to Gabi. “What about you? A reborn?” Gabi nodded and Herzl said, “It shows on you,” and Gabi wanted to know what showed on him but there was a knock on the door and the two men turned their heads and saw a tall, blond, large-breasted woman enter the synagogue.

  “I see you two work whole day in hard rain. People with gold heart. Deserves something to eat, yes?” Jenia Freud was carrying a tray bearing two sandwiches and two triangular pieces of baked apple pie and had an apologetic smile on her face.

  “Jenia, thanks! You’re a saint, you, believe me,” Herzl said, and placed the tray on the concrete block that was serving as a coffee table. “I was just thinking about popping over to the grocery store in A to get something.”

  “No, what you mean driving, in rain like this . . . Eat, eat. Meat okay?”

  A thin smile rose on Gabi’s lips and he said, “Thank you, good woman.”

  She left, and Gabi recited the blessing over the food, and they ate the sandwiches with the pastrami, and Gabi recounted how Jenia had regained the trust of the hilltop residents following her exposure as a Shin Bet mole. Herzl thought she had acted wisely, plucking at heartstrings by means of a house-to-house campaign of apologies, tears, and supplication; rolling over the blame to the Shin Bet, who deceived her and exploited her naïveté; and drumming up sympathy through acts of generosity like this one. “Who’s going to say a bad word to her when she does such nice things?”

  “There are enough people here who’d say something nasty, don’t worry,” Gabi said. “They said she needs to go. That they’d always suspected her. That she’s probably a shiksa, you know, because of the height and the hair . . .”

  “Yes, and the . . . So how did she manage to stay?”

  “Othniel. His decision. And I think also because Elazar Freud, her husband, forgave her, so the people here went along with it. They didn’t want confrontation. So she made a mistake, so what.”

  “Tell me, you know what they call a mistake by someone whose name is Freud, right?” A foolish grin spread across his face as he glanced over at Gabi with his albino eyelashes. “A Freudian slip!” Herzl exclaimed, pleased with himself.

  Gabi could still feel his heart fluttering in his throat. He finished the sandwich and said to Herzl while still chewing the last bite, “Back to work?”

  “Just a moment, no rush, bro. We’ll smoke a cigarette. Take a piss. Say the afternoon prayers, if you like.”

  Only that evening, in his cabin, before going to sleep, while chewing on a pickled cucumber from a can, would Gabi replay things in his mind and understand that Herzl had guided him, Herzl the righteous man, the good-hearted man, who came there in the heavy rain so that the o
utpost residents would be able to pray in an orderly and clean and comfortable synagogue on the Sabbath, come in the rain to make Gabi a better person, to help him conquer the sins of the past, praise the Lord, thanks, Man, for sending him to me, with Your wisdom watching over me and saving me, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I will fear no evil for Thou art always with me.

  Herzl went out for quite a while and Gabi remained alone in the synagogue and prayed. He asked the Holy One blessed be He what he should do about a man who has suddenly recognized him as a criminal who once threw a stun grenade into his room while he was sleeping, and caused him hearing loss and anxiety and loss of control over his bowel movements; and now he’s a righteous man and is helping to build the settlement, a day care for the toddlers and a roof for the families and the renovation of the house of worship. The Holy One, blessed be He, gave him the harsh but right answer, and Gabi finished praying and thanked Him and kissed the Torah scroll. He continued to work, his body weak but his faith burning strong, until Herzl returned and trumpeted, “Okay, my bro, one last push and we’ll have you a beautiful little synagogue for the Sabbath!” Gabi remained silent. Herzl asked in surprise, “What’s happened, your face has gone green. Gavriel?”

  As was the case every afternoon in winter, the winds started whistling loudly. Pre-cast concrete structures, containers, and trailers swayed, straps and ropes lashed against the walls. Even a synagogue clad in rough Jerusalem stone felt it. Herzl and Gabi worked in silence on the final beams until Herzl said, “I’d get a small radio or something, but perhaps it’s not appropriate in the house of God.” He spoke about the day care he had built, which he called “nice work.” Silence ensued again, and Gabi tried to address his proprietor, feeble, fainthearted, knowing what he has to do but incapable.