The Hilltop

by Assaf Gavron

  The Party

  A chill settled on the hilltop during the course of the night and sparkled when morning broke in millions of refractions of frost from among clods of earth, gardening tools, cacti, upturned push cars, and on the windshields of vehicles. The day opened its eyes with a wide yawn, and hours would go by before it would shake off the cold. Neta Hirschson, after a bout of morning sickness, cut up a few small pieces of pear for herself, sipped cautiously on apple juice, and before going out made a few sewing alterations to her Purim costume and even managed to send off an annoyed talk-back response into the far-too-left expanse of the Internet. Her husband, Jean-Marc, mentioned the miracle of Purim when he recited the version of the blessing over the meal that opens with “For the miracles,” and then devoured a breakfast of eggs and French toast, followed up with a croissant with butter and jam, and he still had a little room left for cornflakes with milk.

  “I thought I was the one who’s supposed to be on an eating frenzy,” Neta said.

  “I’m still wiped out from the Fast of Esther,” Jean-Marc offered.

  The synagogue was full and the mood festive. Hilik served as the cantor and recited the blessing to give thanks to God and continued with “In the days of Mordechai and Esther” and went on to the reading of the Ve’yavo Amalek Torah portion, and then the various blessings for the reading of the Scroll of Esther, and then the Scroll was read, and the rattles shook the heads of the worshippers and struck down Haman and his ten sons, the lips mumbled in unison, the tightly packed bodies thawed the freezing air that infiltrated from outside. And then came the final blessing over the Scroll and joyous singing of Purim songs.

  Othniel huddled in quiet conversation with Hilik on the way out of synagogue. Not a word from the army in recent days. Othniel was his usual concerned self; Hilik was uncharacteristically upbeat.

  “They wouldn’t dare do anything on Purim, and certainly not without informing us first,” Hilik said.

  “Look at the date that appears here,” Othniel said, and pointed to the demolition order posted on the synagogue wall. It stipulated Adar 14—March 5—as the very last and final day for the residents to vacate their homes. “That’s today. This silence on their part, I don’t know. I tried calling Giora yesterday, to wish him a happy holiday, to sniff around. He hasn’t called me back. It’s not like him.”

  “They wouldn’t dare,” Hilik determined. “They didn’t realize it’s Purim because they’re fools, it’s not the first time. And if they dare, Purim is a day of miracles, of the abolishing of decrees.”

  “I don’t think so.” Othniel twirled his beard with his left hand, and placed his right affectionately on the back of the neck of a teenager dressed in a PEACE NOW shirt, wearing a rubber baldness-wig on his head, adorned with round-rimmed glasses, boasting one of his mother’s clip-on earrings, and puffing on a peace pipe that rested in the corner of his mouth. His son Yakir, dressed up as a left-winger. He was holding a menu that Moran had brought him from a café in Tel Aviv. Among the dishes were shrimp and other seafood. Children and adults asked to see and browsed eagerly through the menu, amused and stunned. “They dared to destroy Gabi’s cabin,” Othniel noted, “then, too, you said they wouldn’t dare, didn’t you?” They couldn’t simply trust the status quo or rely on reason, he believed, because they’d already been violated.

  “That was a different story. A nature reserve. The Nature and Parks Authority. Besides, why would they be hooking up electricity before an evacuation?” Hilik said. Othniel wasn’t swayed. “I’m telling you, they’re cooking up something.” He had known the authorities for too long, knew they couldn’t be relied on, they couldn’t allow themselves to drop their guard.

  An idea took root in his mind. He recalled an unusual incident that had occurred in Samaria a few years back. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Roni, wearing a curly wig and round plastic glasses, and approached him. Without any preamble, he sounded him out. Roni chuckled as if he had just heard an amusing story for Purim, and sipped on a bottle of beer. Othniel said he was serious. Roni took another sip and thought. Othniel’s idea sounded over-the-top, but it could be an opportunity. It was his last day, and he wanted to bid farewell to everyone in good spirits, so why shouldn’t he say a nice good-bye to Musa Ibrahim, too? After all, they had been through several months of shared work, shared hopes, a friendship of sorts, you could say. True, he was disappointed with the ugly end to his venture, and felt betrayed, but come now, it’s Purim.

  “But I’m not going alone,” he said to Othniel.

  “Maybe your brother?” Othniel suggested.

  “No way,” Roni replied.

  Othniel thought, and then saw the answer standing right before his eyes—“Here, take this peacenik. Perfect!” He rested a hand on Yakir, his son.

  “Your son?” Roni raised a Harry Potter–like eyebrow. “Seriously, you’re not worried about him?”

  “The area is crawling with army personnel. You’ll be fine. Besides, just to be extra sure, take this with you.” Othniel lifted the edge of his shirt to reveal the Desert Eagle Mark VII tucked into his pants.

  The contrasting attitudes of Othniel Assis and Hilik Yisraeli more or less represented the split mind of each and every one of the hilltop residents: fear of the power, blindness, obsequiousness or perhaps guile of the defense minister and his army, on the one hand, and faith in the justness of their cause and the Holy One, blessed be He, who will save us from their hands on a festive day, certainly after the fast, the prayers for forgiveness, the Aneinu and Avinu Malkeinu prayers of atonement and the customary giving of gifts to the needy yesterday, on the other hand. Thus, every time the hum of an engine was heard from beyond the sentry post at the gate, all eyes turned worriedly in that direction, waited for the appearance of the vehicles and the news heralded by their identity.

  The first to ascend and arrive in his large vehicle was Herzl Weizmann, who, along with two workers immediately began arranging the playground and readying it for the party: a stage, stands for lighting and speakers, electricity, the temporary dismantling of removable playground equipment, a partition to separate the men and women that was stretched down the middle of the playground.

  The next in line were four nimble dairy goats, new additions to Othniel’s farm. With so many worries on his mind, he almost forgot about the delivery, and here they were in all their glory, all several dozen kilograms of them, with their unkempt wool and their udders filled with goodness. And not only that, but out from the cabin of the truck stepped a beautiful Dutch girl, wooden clogs on her feet, a shiny blond wig on her head, heavily made up, sporting false eyelashes, her dress doll-like and European. The eyes needed a moment to adjust and focus, a gentle balancing of the mind between the recollection of facial features and recognition that it’s Purim—Gitit!

  Yoni’s heart almost stopped at the sight of the beautiful smooth-skinned Dutch girl, and at the same time he was troubled. The forces were supposed to be here first thing in the morning, and Omer wasn’t answering his phone, and everyone was here with their costumes and celebrations, and the cold was eating into his bones despite the coverall and dog-eared hat and a double layer of undershirts and long johns. The hum of another engine was heard, and Yoni raised his eyes and, from his lofty height of five feet and five inches, spotted the vehicle of the Jerusalem sound system company, whose crew quickly began unpacking crates and setting up speakers and lighting and hooking up electricity and sound. After them came the Settlers, four bespectacled settlers with matching crocheted skullcaps in different colors, cheap black jackets, and thin piano ties from the ’80s, who conducted a quick sound check and went off to get something to drink.

  Music came from the speakers positioned in the corners of the playground, a traditional Purim song from some festival collection or other. Silvery clouds were gathering in the sky. Omer finally answered Yoni and updated him. They were waiting for the final go-ahead. An urgent discussion was under way with the chief of staff—do
they evacuate on the festival or not, do they deploy a helicopter or not. Like they hadn’t been planning the operation for days. Like they hadn’t known it was a festival and that the orders issued by the High Court of Justice of the State of Israel were about to expire. Omer asked Yoni not to worry. “I’m not worried, my bro,” Yoni said, gritting his teeth. “I’ll be at the induction center tomorrow, whether the operation moves forward or not.”

  “What’s moving forward?” a large penguin asked him. It was Shaulit Rivlin, who had come to the army’s trailer in the company of an orange-ponytailed and freckled Pippi Longstocking, her elder daughter, Amalia, to deliver a colorful plate of treats.

  “It’s nothing. I’m just wondering if I should go ahead and buy myself a stereo system as a gift for my discharge.” Yoni’s hesitant smile revealed his white teeth.

  “Why aren’t you dressed up in costume yet?” Amalia scolded him, and he replied, “Ahh . . . I’ll be dressing up soon . . .”

  “As what?” pressed the girl.

  “Amalia, it’s a secret!” the penguin responded, and winked from inside her furry head. They left the plate of treats and walked off hand in hand back to the playground, from which another Purim song was now coming.

  The playground gradually filled up. Bottles of wine and beer stood on a table in the corner alongside plates of crisps and crackers, because, as the rabbis of the Talmud said, a person is obligated to drink on Purim until he does not know the difference between “cursed be Haman” and “blessed be Mordechai.”

  The Settlers took to the stage and opened with “Shoshanat Yaakov.” With the aid of lots of cardboard and aluminum foil, eleven-and-a-half-year-old Hananiya Assis had become a pointy space shuttle. To his disappointment, he’d go on to claim just third place in the costume competition. Bigfoot the Abominable Snowman, five-year-old Boaz Yisraeli, who was wrapped in a sheet with eyeholes and sewn-on bits of cotton wool, would be satisfied with fourth place. Gavriel Nehushtan was Kareem Abdul-Jabbar in long socks and high-top basketball shoes, a greenish tracksuit, sweatbands around his forehead and wrists, and under his arm a punctured basketball that once belonged to Shimi Gotlieb. His brother, Roni, responded “Harry Potter” to the children who asked what he was dressed up as, and Elazar Freud was Herzl in a black suit and black beard—up until shortly before leaving home, he thought he was King David, but couldn’t find a harp or a red beard. Jean-Marc Hirschson was an IDF officer—he’d retrieved his reserve duty uniform from the closet and pinned an array of colorfully striped war veteran decorations and silver-plated commando unit foxes and wings to his chest.

  Another vehicle hummed and drove up and everyone turned their heads. It was merely Nir Rivlin’s Subaru—“So righteous is the Lord,” Neta Hirschson whispered every time she saw no sign of the enemy troops—but not Nir Rivlin behind the wheel: it is but Rambo, complete with bleeding scars and bloated muscles and torn clothing and a plastic machine gun and chains of bullets. Two three-year-olds were his backup in the armed forces: Nefesh-Freud-the-policeman, and Shuv-el-Assis-the-cowboy, armed to the teeth with cap guns and munching on Bamba under a painted mustache. The same list could include Josh, as an Arab terrorist with a kaffiyeh covering most of his red hair and a large plastic mustache fixed above his lip. The Settlers moved on to a joyful Hasidic melody, and then a rock version of a traditional Purim song.

  Gabi-Kareem-Abdul-Jabbar kept a tense eye on the encounter between Nir-Rambo and Shaulit-the-penguin. He felt like a kid in the corner at a party who follows the every move of his crush, waiting nervously for a slow dance. What’s happening to me? he asked himself. When the penguin walked by or flashed him a half-smile, he went weak at the knees.

  Rachel Assis was Snow White and Othniel, her husband—with the aid of an errant curl and a black hat that could have belonged to a rabbi and a sparkling red suit and eye makeup—Michael Jackson. And aside from their daughter the Dutch girl, and their sons—the left-winger, the space shuttle, and the cowboy—their family also included a fourteen-year-old archaeologist in a khaki outfit and carrying a magnifying glass—Dvora—and a red pepper, wrapped in a special soft rubber material that had been sewn to size and shape and painted a bold red, which won six-year-old Emunah second place in the competition.

  Yoni found a brown-and-white-striped shirt and retrieved a pair of real metal handcuffs from the box of security equipment and cuffed one of his wrists—a prisoner. Jehu was Queen Esther complete with makeup and thick sidelocks, and his horse, Killer, wore a Santa Claus hood from Bethlehem. Jenia Freud was dressed as a supermarket cashier in a white robe and thick glasses and a lavish hairdo and repeating the slogan “Do you have a customer card?” Hilik, Nehama, and Shneor Yisraeli dressed up in a group as brides. The infants Zvuli Rivlin and Yemima-Me’ara received tiny pairs of sunglasses and toy guitars and were labeled a rock band. And Neta Hirschson brought along a professional makeup kit from home and helped to make up the children, and then went up on stage to preside over the ceremony. She welcomed the arrivals and badmouthed the government and invited everyone to eat and drink and thanked everyone who was helping out—she herself was dressed as an orange tigress, furry and sharp-clawed.

  In first place: three-year-old Tchelet Rivlin, dressed up as corn on the cob, draped in row upon row of kernels sewn by Shaulit’s patient hand for weeks, a pale yellowish corn dress made from the real thing. The idea was Tchelet’s and the work a combined effort of hers and her mother’s, including a hood made from warm fleece that was sewn in the right shape and the right size, with precise holes for eyes, nostrils, ears, and mouth. Perfect, as Neta Hirschson admitted when awarding the prize—a Torah, a festive assortment of treats and candies, and two tickets to the central Purim celebrations at the Convention Center in Jerusalem that evening, with performances by Avraham Fried and Mordechai Ben David.

  Of all things not to hear, Omer’s jeep. At that point the party was in full swing, the band was back to playing at full volume after the costume competition and speeches. Empty wine bottles piled up on the side, clouds darkened the sky, the biting cold was almost forgotten, thanks to the steam coming off the bodies packed tightly together in two small groups, women and men. Roni-Harry-Potter told his brother Gabi-Kareem-Abdul-Jabbar that he’d decided to leave the settlement, but Kareem was more focused on congratulating Shaulit-penguin on her daughter’s victory in the costume competition, and the penguin thanked him and whispered that Nir-Rambo would be taking Tchelet-corn to the show at the Convention Center in the evening, so maybe Gabi-Kareem would like to come over to see her? Alongside the sheet that served as the partition, Jehu-Queen-Esther huddled together with Josh-Arab-terrorist, Yoni-prisoner fired glances at Gitit-luscious-Dutch-girl under the stern and watchful eye of Othniel-Michael-Jackson, and Elazar-Freud-Herzl huddled with Jean-Marc-IDF-officer, congratulated him on the pregnancy of Neta-the-tigress, and picked up Nefesh-the-policeman, who was sobbing bitterly. Tears were also choking Hananiya-Assis-Silvery-space-shuttle, who was sure he would win first place, and he was being comforted by Rachel-Snow-White. The spirit of Purim at its finest. And then the soldiers showed up.

  The Gunfire

  A helicopter hovered in the sky. Eyes turned toward it and toward Captain Omer Levkovich’s David jeep and worried glances were exchanged. Othniel located Roni and said to him, “It’s time. Get going.” Harry Potter stared blankly at the Michael Jackson talking to him, his hand clutching his umpteenth bottle of beer. Then he remembered. “Ah! Right! You were serious, yes?”

  “Yes,” Othniel replied.

  “No, because it’s Purim, and all, and who knows . . .”

  “Serious,” ruled Othniel.

  Roni found Yakir the peacenik and said to him, “Come on, let’s move.”

  Yakir, who had also had a few drinks, replied, “Ten-four.”

  “While I’m thinking about it, take the Arab with you, too,” Othniel said. He pointed at a masked man wearing a kaffiyeh.

  “Josh?” Yakir replied.

  The
three headed out.

  Omer’s David jeep was followed by the arrival of Humvees. And armored personnel carriers. And D-9s. A noisy and heavy-duty convoy. The audio system of the Jerusalem sound company carried another traditional Purim tune from the instruments of the Settlers, with the song flowing somewhat surprisingly into a Mashina rock number.

  Michael Jackson asked how can this be. And a bride in her wedding dress said it’s incomprehensible. And a tigress screamed oppression. And Snow White cried, “Like so? On a festival? Have you no shame?” Michael Jackson whipped out his phone and called his friend the major general. No answer, not a word. The Settlers sang “He rode to Palestine on a two-humped camel.” Rambo said, “What a mess,” and it wasn’t clear if he was enjoying the wine or concerned about the developments. Kareem Abdul-Jabbar looked for his penguin, and the prisoner was summoned to his commander but he, too, had been drinking a little, fuck it, it’s his last day in the army, he’s allowed to celebrate. The dogs barked, and the convoy came to a halt, and soldiers and blank-faced riot police emerged from the vehicles.

  Approaching the Arab village were Harry Potter, a red-haired Arab, and a peacenik. They carried a festive assortment of Purim treats, a rustling cellophane bag with chewy candies, four mini chocolate bars, Jenia Freud’s coconut-chocolate cookies, and more sweets for the people of the village. Yakir and Josh spoke in low voices about some technology issue and Roni walked ahead of them in silence, smoked, wondered about Rina the kindergarten teacher and the closed kindergarten where he had spent his Tel Aviv nights. A desert lark that suddenly took to the sky above the barren hilltops caught his eye—is he flying to warmer lands?—and he recalled his last conversation with Musa, when he called to say someone had set fire to trees in his grove. Roni sensed he suspected him, called to find out where he was, but he was in Tel Aviv. He promised Musa he’d look into it. And tried he did, but ran into a wall of silence that reminded him of the kibbutz—everyone seemed to know who did what, but God forbid someone should talk about it on the outside. And Roni was on the outside. Even Gabi gave him this answer: Forget it, don’t poke your nose in, let us manage our own affairs. Roni wondered just how much his brother himself was a part of the inner circle on the hilltop, what did he know. He tossed his cigarette butt onto the soft earth and smiled a bitter smile. He was no fool. He’d been living here for a year, knew all the players. It wasn’t hard to work out who served as the hilltop’s go-to man for special missions, whether acting on his own discretion or on behalf of the community. The quiet kid on the horse called Killer, Jehu.