The Hilltop

by Assaf Gavron

  Several minutes went by and then Herzl said, “That’s it.” And then: “Come to the day care. The children have gone by now. I want to take care of a few things that Nehama asked me to do.”

  They walked between the large pools of mud that adorned the hilltop. The Civil Administration orders were visible on the trailers. It was bitterly cold, not a soul was outdoors. Gabi wondered if this was the right time, and decided it was, this was the moment, he opened his mouth, and then the Nokia tune rang out. Natan Eliav, the secretary of A., had a number of jobs for Herzl. “Sure, my bro, speak to Dr. Hilik about freeing me up for you next week.” He turned to Gabi. “I swear, I should come live here, with all the work you’re giving me.”

  At the pre-cast day care they dealt with the doors and the electrical sockets and filled a hole that had opened up under the steel stairs. “I owe you the end of the story,” Herzl suddenly said, “where were we?”

  “Your wife behaved badly,” Gabi said. “You took your son from school. But you didn’t have a chance.”

  “Wow, you were listening, huh? So, yes, I didn’t have a chance. My wife’s brothers caught me that evening. I have no idea how they knew where I had gone. I didn’t even know where I was going, I simply drove north, I got to Galilee, God knows, I saw a sign for a bed-and-breakfast and went in. Two hours later they were there. Took the boy, and then came back with clubs and smashed my arms. Know what I mean, smashed? Crushed to bits. They said so I wouldn’t think about stealing children or beating their sister, like I beat her. I never touched her. She was the one who behaved badly. Anyway, they took the boy, he cried, ‘Daddy, Daddy,’ but those guys were heartless, left me on the floor, poured acid on me that made holes in my clothes and bleached my right eyelash and eyebrow—here, here, you see?” As if he had to show. “Luckily I kept my eye shut tight and the stuff didn’t get in, I would’ve gone blind. I barely remember how I got to the hospital, barely remember anything at all, but the plaster, permanent, probably.” He looked at his arms, held them up on display, and his eyes wandered to the large watch wrapped around his wrist precisely at the edge of the plaster. “Wow, wow, it’s already four. I need to get moving before dark, c’mon, dude.” He pulled out a thick wad of notes from his pocket and started counting hundreds.

  “No,” Gabi said in a feeble voice, and placed a hand over the hand with the banknotes. “For work on the synagogue I don’t want money. It’s sacred work.”

  Outside in their coats they stood opposite each other. The pompom on Gabi’s white Rabbi Nachman skullcap was standing upright because of the wind. Herzl embraced him, and Gabi embraced him hesitantly in return. “You’re a good guy,” Herzl said, and Gabi, the words got stuck in his throat. Now Herzl gripped his shoulders and fixed him with a stare. Two men on a rain-swept hilltop. Gabi couldn’t, he just couldn’t, I’m letting You down, Man, he whispered to his God from his faint heart, I’m letting You down, forgive me, guide me, and Herzl moved his face closer, Gabi felt the vapor from Herzl’s mouth fluttering against the skin of his face and the hairs of his beard when he said in a quiet and stern voice, “I swore to get revenge, dude. But you really are a good guy. You found God, truly found God, you have faith. You’ve repented for your deeds. I did things, too, bless the Lord.” Herzl held Gabi’s face between his rough hands, felt the sparse beard, the pale skin. He kissed both his cheeks and embraced him again.

  “I sinned,” Gabi said. “There’s no redemption for me.”

  “There’s always redemption. I sinned, too, Gavriel, my bro. I didn’t make food for you.”

  “Forgive me.”

  “Forgiven, righteous man, forgiven.”

  And with that Herzl concluded his embrace, got into his four-by-four, turned the key, and revved the engine a few times. Gabi remained motionless, his hands in his pockets. He was cold but a fire burned in his heart. The pickup drove off and Gabi turned and walked slowly to his cabin. It would be dark soon. He’d make tea. Something to eat. Evening prayers. Thanks, Man, You helped me, You watched over me. Thanks for sending Herzl Weizmann the righteous man to me. I am Your son.

  The tears came, washed over him. He was happy.

  The Marranos

  While Gabi floated home on the waves of his absolution, Yoni was conducting a routine patrol along the ring road. He was being discharged next week. He had no idea what he was going to do. He thought about learning a trade through one of the courses the Welfare Ministry offered to discharged soldiers—he had heard an infomercial on Army Radio, and one of the options mentioned sounded appealing, but as he huddled in his padded coverall with the fur-trimmed hood that covered his small head, he couldn’t recall which it was. His Ray-Bans lay folded in the front pocket of the coverall, one arm poking out.

  He’d miss this quiet when he was sitting above a busy street in Netanya with his good friend Ababa Cohen. Both the quiet and also the chaos. And also the Arabs, and the settlers. And also the ones who shouted at him—Othniel, and Neta Hirschson. And also Gitit, of course. He was missing her already, ever since she was sent to the all-girls’ high school in Samaria. He gazed at her parents’ trailer. Yes, in Netanya he would miss Ma’aleh Ha-Hermesh, as he mistakenly called the place for the first six months he was there.

  He recalled the strange incident that morning involving Neta Hirschson. “Leave us be, you brutes!” the beautician shouted at the soldiers. “Evil bastards! Shame on you! ”

  Company commander Omer’s new driver fixed her with a frightened stare.

  “Don’t pay any attention,” instructed Omer, who was in the middle of a call with headquarters while his and Yoni’s soldiers posted the Civil Administration orders.

  But Neta Hirschson recognized the soft spot and aimed her sharpened darts at it: “You! Is this how you were raised? To expel Jews from their homes? Families? Children? You appear to have been raised in a good home. Don’t let them drag you into their crimes. Disobey the order!”

  The driver tried not to look at the small woman who was shouting at him. Again Captain Omer said, “Don’t pay any attention, she’s always like that.” The rain was falling and the orders got wet and tore and the wind was icy and Neta huddled into her coat, yelled one final “Traitors” and suddenly dropped to her knees in the mud and vomited. The terrified driver brought it to the attention of his commander. “Always like that?” he asked. Omer hurried over and laid a hand on her shoulder and asked if everything was okay, and when she failed to lash out at him in response, he realized she was not always like that, and escorted her to the nearest trailer.

  Yoni considered stopping by Jean-Marc and Neta’s now to ask how she was feeling, but decided it was too charged a day for a courtesy visit. There wasn’t a soul outside, and twilight had fallen. Sasson’s camel cow was enjoying some weeds, and Condi the dog joined Yoni on the patrol, wagged her tail, and gave in to the pleasure of his stroking. “I’ll miss you, too,” Yoni whispered to her, and then noticed a movement out of the corner of his eye, and lifted his head, and called out, “Hey! What are you doing? Come on, for real.”

  “Leave it, come on, you’re getting discharged next week. Turn a blind eye,” Josh requested.

  “We didn’t post these orders in the rain so you could come afterward and take them down, doesn’t matter when I’m being discharged. These are signed orders of the State of Israel.”

  “Exactly,” said Josh, smiling. “Merely orders of the State of Israel. There are more powerful orders, from a higher place.”

  “It’s forbidden for you to do this,” Yoni replied, unsure what the American had meant.

  “Forbidden?” Josh chuckled scornfully. “What’s forbidden is to expel people from their homes. Your army won’t tell us that we can’t live in our home. And certainly not you. I didn’t come from Borough Park post-9/11 for the likes of you to tell me where to go. You got that? So scram . . .” Josh concluded with a rapid remark in English that was intended to sail over the head and fur-trimmed coat of the short Ethiopian soldier. But Yoni was f
amiliar with the words used by the redhead. Certainly the word “Scram,” which had become trendy throughout the country ever since summer, when the defense minister spat it out on this very hilltop.

  Yoni called Omer and told him about Josh. Yoni could read the silence on the other end of the line, was familiar with the slow-boiling rage of the commander. Mostly it was a pressure cooker that remained closed after coming to a boil and then cooled, but under the right conditions—if, for example, he had experienced an unsuccessful date, repaired a puncture in the rain, posted orders in the wind, heard that a disrespectful bully cursed and insulted a soldier who was there to protect him—Captain Omer Levkovich could perhaps explode.

  When Yoni hung up, Josh taunted, “What’s up, crybaby, did you call Daddy to come help? Daddy’s busy and can’t come?” Josh grabbed hold of another order, on the side of Shaulit Rivlin’s trailer, and tore it off the wall. Yoni went on his way, ignoring Josh’s cries of victory.

  Omer arrived in a jeep with his team, and behind him came a command car with more soldiers and tools. Yoni was waiting with his soldiers at the entrance and hopped onto the wing of the command car and rode like that, standing, outside the vehicle, like a thin messiah in a thick military coat, with a Galil SAR diagonally across his back. The convoy drove slowly for dramatic effect, as if to declare, Attention, we are here, look what we’re going to do. The vehicles stopped and spewed out the soldiers and equipment, their powerful front-mounted spotlights directed toward the cabin on the edge of the cliff, tunnels of lights that bore through the deepening darkness. Omer Levkovich assembled the troops for a quick briefing. After that, some lifted sharpened crowbars, and others five-kilo hammers. Omer approached and knocked on the cabin door, on which hung a small sign with the words “Enter Blessed.” There was no answer—Gabi had gone to pray.

  Josh appeared from somewhere, and from his mouth shot the words “What the hell . . .” which were answered almost instantly by a blow from Omer’s crowbar that smashed the door of the cabin.

  “Hey, hey, hey!” Josh yelled. “What are you doing? Hello?” The soldiers didn’t respond. One by one they entered the cabin until they stood tightly packed inside. Josh tried to get in but there wasn’t room. He pressed the buttons on his phone in a panic. Inside, the mission was straightforward and clear, and the hammers slammed into the walls and the wooden roof, smashed them, broke them to pieces. Yoni swung the five-kilo hammer in his hands every which way, sweated from the work and the effort and the heat of the many bodies in a small room, though within minutes the space aired out because it was opened on all sides with the disappearance of the roof and the walls, and all that remained was the stone and concrete framework, which Yoni also went to work on in a fit of rage.

  Omer looked on with a mixture of wonder and pride at this model soldier who was soon departing, with the bead of sweat on his smooth brow. That’s the way to do it, how to show the young ones the meaning of conviction. Yoni vented the resentment of months. He’d defended these people with his life and force of arms, and they’d responded with complaints and sour faces. Yes, some of them, perhaps most, had invited him to Sabbath meals, brought cakes, and inquired into his well-being, but words like Josh’s hurt, and he knew that others said them in private, particularly since the story with Gitit had emerged.

  Josh screamed hysterically into his phone. Where’s the swollen-headed peacock from earlier, thought Yoni, and suppressed the urge to smile at him. Josh tried to enter what used to be the cabin and grab the arm of one of the soldiers, but the soldier’s elbow shot back into Josh’s jaw and stunned him. He backed off, tried to yell something, but only managed a whimper.

  Neta Hirschson turned up, screaming. “Who’s in charge here? I demand to speak to the person in charge! What right do you have to destroy a Jewish home? What would you say if I were to come to your house and set about smashing it with hammers? Fascists! Traitors! Brutes! The Nazis would be proud of you!” The soldiers continued without responding. They were almost done—the cabin was so small, and although Gabi had needed over a full year to build it, Omer and his soldiers obliterated it in less than fifteen minutes.

  Neta covered her face with her hands and shook her head from side to side. Next to her, Josh, limp and hurting in his coat, held on to an unidentified object he had salvaged from the cabin. Othniel and his children arrived on the scene, and Hilik and others stepped out into the cold from their heated trailers. The soldiers exited the remains of the cabin, the tools in their hands. An eerie silence befell the place. There was no protest, no shouting, only dark-uniformed soldiers on the one side, settlers on the other side, and the wreckage of the structure on the edge of the cliff.

  “Omer,” Othniel said.

  “Yes?” replied the officer, and approached him.

  “What was the good in that? What gave you the right to do it?”

  “Othniel, don’t be naïve. Here, by right of this.” He removed an order from his pocket. “A Civil Administration injunction to suspend all construction work, which the dear home owners, who now act so surprised, were given in more than sufficient time, in a pleasant manner, along with a clear indication that the tolerance they had been shown would not last much longer. Not only did they build without permits and without asking and without proving ownership and all the rest of the things that every law-abiding citizen must do before starting to build a house, Othniel, it’s also located in a nature reserve. Building houses in a nature reserve is forbidden. Half this settlement sits on Hermesh Stream Nature Reserve land. It’s an initiative of the Nature and Parks Authority, throughout the country, by the way, to clean up the reserves. It’s not political at all, it’s to preserve our nature . . .”

  “But why like this, a sneak attack?” Hilik said. “Isn’t talking an option? Perhaps we would have come up with a nonviolent solution. Why do you come like thieves in the night? The home owner isn’t even here.” He turned to his fellow settlers. “Has anyone gone to look for Gabi? I saw him earlier in synagogue.”

  “Talking? Who are you going to talk to?” says Neta.

  “Talking?” Omer responds. “You want to talk? Go to Beit El and talk to the administration. Why didn’t you want to talk when we posted the orders this morning? You wanted to talk? You wanted to rip them, you wanted to laugh in our faces, and when”— Omer went red, sweated, the vein in his throat throbbed—“when a soldier who’s protecting you asked that smart-ass what he’s doing, he had the nerve to insult and curse him.”

  “Who cursed?” Othniel asked.

  “Who cursed. Josh!” Omer pointed at the American, who was still rubbing his aching chin. “And don’t go thinking he’s the only one. That smart-ass woman called us Nazis two minutes ago, didn’t she?” He turned his head toward Neta Hirschson. “You’ve all lost your minds!” The officer delivered the last sentence almost in a scream, his eyes bulging, his throat hoarse. Usually he tried to stay level-headed and maintain good relationships, but something had snapped in him, a dam burst. “Who cursed, he asks me,” he said, almost to himself, “playing the innocent.” The settlers looked at him, astonished. What’s up with him? All because Josh called the nigger—a nigger? Or he’d been possessed by some left-wing bullshit? Or maybe his girlfriend dumped him, or his promotion’s been held back? Thunder suddenly rolled in, and a heavenly voice rose and intensified and overshadowed the stormy voices debating who would give the IDF officer a dose of his own medicine—it was Josh, backed by tears and arm-waving and heightened emotions.

  “You won’t come to my house and tell me what to talk,” he shouted in his still-modest Hebrew. “All I am doing is to protect our homes and to stop nonsense of your orders. I went to Aish HaTorah and came to Israel after 9/11 because to need to do something, it is time to not be silent anymore, and now army tells us to go and Arabs stay? You come and break house we built with our own hands for more than year? You tell me where to be? The land is ours like Torah says without the bullshit of telling me what to do, and here, too”—
his voice rose and broke into the scream of a dog that’s been kicked, a match for Omer’s scream a moment ago—“I’m being told what to do? My family are anusim from Spain, you know what that is? Do you know history? You talk to me about a nature reserve? From Spain they expelled us, like dogs, and my ancestors traveled to New Mexico, converted to Christianity, were scared to be Jews. They became cowboys, but their traditions remained—one day I will tell you, if some senses returns to your head—and we became Jews again, I went to yeshiva, I studied Torah, I came to Israel, not afraid of anyone, and you say nonsense about a nature reserve?”

  Three soldiers overpowered Josh and cuffed him. He continued to resist, and a few of his friends tried to intervene, but were met by the advance of other soldiers in their direction. “Anusim! Anusim! That’s what we were, and that’s what we are now, don’t touch me, you piece of shit . . .”

  “Smart-ass!” Omer yelled at the young American, who was put into the command car. “I won’t accept talk like that about my soldiers and about the IDF and the state! There are laws here. Yes, we will tell you to obey them and you will listen. We’re now going to post new orders in place of those you ripped, and I’m warning you. God forbid anyone dares to touch a single order. Because then I’ll come and start taking houses to pieces, and I don’t give a shit if the orders say it’s to happen in ten days. I decide, and in a year or two, when there is nothing at all on this hilltop, it’ll be simply a beautiful and peaceful nature reserve—who’ll remember if the homes were razed ten days early?” Omer raised an angry fist. “I won’t tolerate cursing and yelling. One by one we’ll take you into custody for obstructing a soldier in the execution of his duty . . .”

  The sound of a familiar clopping was suddenly heard in the distance, coming ever closer. The stamping of Killer’s canter was well known to everyone on the hilltop, and now into view came the white diamond on the horse’s brown forehead, and he slowed to a light trot before stopping with a tug on the rein. On his back sat Jehu and behind him Gabi, his eyes agape at the sight of the wreckage of the cabin, the soldiers, his fellow settlers, and a deep cry emerged and rose from his chest and from his rib cage and from the cradle of his heart, higher and higher it rose through his middle and into the throat and out the opening of his mouth—an intense scream of anguish that was answered by a desert echo and the wailing of jackals and the howling of dogs and the crying of children and women and a whinny and raised leg from Killer.