The Hilltop

by Assaf Gavron

  But Roni guessed only part of the truth—Jehu hadn’t been there alone.

  In the village of Kharmish it was a wintry and sleepy day that had been disturbed by the Jews’ loud music. Someone looked out her kitchen window and saw the approaching trio and called to her brother, and the brother looked out the kitchen window and phoned a friend, and within minutes, despite the cold, a group of onlookers had gathered and were watching, with a mixture of curiosity, bewilderment, amusement, and agitation, the three Jews, or two Jews and one Arab, who were approaching them.

  On the Sheldon Mamelstein playground at Ma’aleh Hermesh C., someone said, “Ooh-ah, look at that,” referring to the riot dispersal equipment—helmets and clubs and large see-through plastic shields. Following orders, the soldiers and police positioned themselves in front of the collection of costumed characters. Nefesh Freud tugged on his father’s sleeve and asked, “Who are those people who also dressed up as policemen?” Captain Omer went up onto the stage and requested the microphone. Only then did the band cease playing a slow waltz version of yet another traditional Purim song.

  Silence fell while Omer cleared his throat and said, “Hello . . . Good evening, everyone. Sorry to disturb your Purim party. But the government of Israel has decided to evacuate this illegal outpost. Demolition orders were posted here ten days ago, and you were given the chance to leave quietly and without confrontation. This morning we received an order to come help anyone who has yet to leave. I’m asking for your cooperation and help in carrying out a peaceful and dignified evacuation. If you choose not to cooperate, we will respond accordingly. And I’m telling you now, so that you won’t be able to say I didn’t tell you. We’re stronger, we’re prepared, and we’ll succeed. Thank you.”

  The silence ensued for a few seconds. And then the yelling began. And spitting. And people took off in every direction. The sheet that separated the women and men was pulled down and trampled. Urgent phone calls. And tears. And what the hell. And why right now. And what insensitivity. And what ugly provocation. And how come we’re the ones who are singled out while the Arabs are free to build as they please.

  The helicopter hovered in the sky, observed. A D-9 made its way slowly down the hilltop, beyond the playground, and approached the first trailer to its right. “Wait, wait, wait, why can’t we talk for a moment?” For Hilik Yisraeli, with rouge on his cheeks and mascara on his eyelashes, it finally hit him. Stumbling in his high heels and bridal dress, a bouquet of flowers still in his hand, he chased after the large bulldozer. But the bulldozer didn’t listen. Neta-tigress and Rachel-Snow-White each clasped a hand over a gaping mouth, in disbelief, as the D-9’s blade slammed into the ceiling of the trailer and with a jarring, huge, heartrending noise, shattered the roof.

  “What the hell?” roared the tigress, stunned to the core. “Disobey the order! Criminals!” Jehu-Queen-Esther galloped up on his horse, Santa-Killer, and tried to circle and approach the bulldozer from the front, but the D-9 went about its business. Captain Omer stood with his arms folded and observed the scene.

  “Don’t you have a heart? You’re Haman!” a woman within a costume yelled at him. No, he answered to himself, I don’t have a heart. I don’t pity. I’ve had enough. The driver of the D-9 caught his eye for a second, and with a gesture of his hand, he instructed him, go on, go on. And he went on and demolished the trailer, contents and all. It sounded like the intense groans of agony of an elephant.

  The prisoner grabbed the hand of the Dutch girl and pulled her forcefully, and she, her knees failing her, her mind in turmoil, went along with him. Her father was busy trying to get hold of the head of Central Command, who was overseeing the operation from the helicopter in the sky, and her mother was focused on maintaining eye contact with her younger brothers and sisters. She followed the prisoner. He reached the guard tower and climbed the stairs, and she behind him, her hand still in his. At the top, in the tower, he turned and held her and kissed her lips and said, “I’ve been going crazy, crazy, crazy without you.” And she didn’t answer, just kissed him back, and with a slender finger traced a line along his neck. He moved a hand to the buxom Dutch chest. She froze, didn’t stop him, couldn’t. Was in a dream. She was pure—that morning, at the boarding school, she had been to the mikveh, had even checked to make sure her period was over. For no special reason, she thought. Down below, screaming, rioting, straining engines, shattering fiberglass, tear gas, but she’s a buxom Dutch lass who’s been abducted to a high tower by a prisoner. And his small head with its thick curls was nestling between her breasts, and he moved aside her bra and panted, “Crazy, crazy,” and she didn’t stop him, she didn’t stop.

  * * *

  Yakir Assis was the first to notice the welcome party for the trio heading for Kharmish, and quickly brought it to the attention of his fellow walkers. Roni tried to signal he was coming in peace by raising and waving his hand with a smile, and then by raising a second hand. But when the villagers recognized Roni under the curly wig and behind the toy glasses, and alongside him another Jew dressed as an Arab, and another one that looked odd, tensions rose. “It’s Roni,” someone said, “what does that scumbag think he’s doing, what’s he coming here for? And bringing along someone who’s dressed up for the hajj? Has he gone crazy?”

  Roni Kupper hadn’t been a popular man in Kharmish ever since the attack on the olive groves in the village. He was the immediate suspect because of his link to the olives, his venture that had failed. The investigation conducted by the Shin Bet’s Counter-Subversion Department made do with a solitary visit to the damaged groves and a brief questioning of Musa Ibrahim, and the people of Kharmish couldn’t find any reason to suspect anyone other than Roni. Musa had indeed called him, and he had claimed to be in Tel Aviv. But maybe that was an alibi? Maybe he went there to shake off suspicion? Maybe he sent mercenaries on his behalf ? After all, it was well known that the failed deal had left him frustrated and depressed.

  “We don’t need Jews here,” Nimer said. Like many others in the village, he didn’t buy into Roni’s alibi. He wanted to respond to the settlers’ aggression. His father, Musa, who was standing next to him, thought they could wait for Roni and hear what he had to say. Roni promised him, after all, that he’d find out who damaged the trees, maybe he’s here now with the answer?

  “We don’t need Jews who are dressed up for the hajj,” another youth said, and hurled a stone along a lengthy ballistic trajectory that culminated about a meter behind Josh and startled the Israeli delegation.

  “Take it easy!” ordered Roni, the head of the delegation. “It’s okay. They’ll realize in a moment that we’ve come with good intentions. As soon as they recognize me, everything will be fine. Show them, show them the Purim gift.” He waved his arms. “Musa! Musa!” he yelled. “It’s me, Roni! Don’t throw sto—” Another stone landed some two meters to their left. “No! Salaam!”

  “Should I get the gun out?” Yakir asked. His heart was beating so intensely that he could feel it in his throat.

  “No! Don’t be crazy!” Roni shouted. But Josh picked up a stone and threw it back.

  “Fuck you, sons of bitches,” he yelled. “Go fuck off, Arabs! Afterward you don’t wonder why we fuck you.”

  “Josh, take it easy. It’s a mistake to, don’t throw . . .” A barrage of stones rained down around them in response to Josh’s stone, and in the cries in Arabic that were heard, Roni recognized the words “Go” and “Jew.” Josh picked up another stone and threw it hard. A sudden gust of wind carried from behind them the sound of a loud blast, and a snippet from a song, and also a few—what are those—stray snowflakes?

  * * *

  Jehu gives me a saw. He pours gasoline. So it shall be done to a man. Dude, you’re testing us. Want to see what we’re made of. Sending soldiers to destroy my home, the fruits of my labors. There, take that, you bastards. You’ll learn who we are. I can smell the wood from the cabin I built with my own two hands for a full year and they came and dare to . .
. I close my eyes and saw. Take that. Jehu kneels with his Zippo. Josh went to smash windshields and slash tires. Nir kept watch to make sure no one was coming. Jehu organized us in secret, on the ruins of the cabin. Othniel saw us getting together and must have known what we were discussing. So shall it be done. Take that, treacherous Arabs, we come to you with good intentions and you stab us in the back. Roni gave you money—my money—and you screwed him over. You threw the money into the trash, Roni into the trash, my trip to Uman into the trash. How dare you. And next thing it’s my home that gets destroyed? Sawing and sawing with eyes closed, vigorously. The bush is burning. You are holy and Your name is holy. I touch my sweaty neck, my wet shirt, wood chippings. Us you don’t hurt. Us you don’t screw over. Because You chose us and exalted us. I touch my face and smell the burning trees.

  * * *

  The stone that Josh hurled struck a young boy who was standing on the edge of the gathering, and the growl that rose from the Arab congregation did not bode well. More youths emerged from the homes, armed with sticks. Stones rained down from every direction. Roni looked back in bewilderment at the hilltop, where he could hear the indistinct sounds of creaking metal and random bangs. “Fuck,” he said, and ducked down. The Purim gift wasn’t going to happen. “Let’s go back before they start going crazy. Josh, stop throwing!”

  There was so much noise on the hilltop that no one was aware of the drama unfolding in nearby Kharmish. Even Othniel, who minutes earlier had followed the progress of the three figures who disappeared down the slope, was now entirely focused on screaming at Omer and at the D-9. Not that they heard him. This time there was no one to jump onto the D-9—Neta was pregnant, bent over on the sideline, nauseated, Roni was on a mission behind enemy lines, and Musa was at home. Beilin and Condi barked viciously at the soldiers.

  Pippi ran this way, and space shuttle that way, and Bigfoot another way, and the dressed-up IDF officer wanted to but felt strange about taking on the real IDF soldiers, and Herzl shook his head in disbelief over the shattering of the dream, and the infant rock band burst into a coordinated symphony of howls, and drunk Rambo couldn’t decide whether to help his family or forcefully oppose the soldiers, so, in the meantime, as a compromise, he stood next to the table with the wine and went on sipping from the plastic cup and moved his head to the rap music that the DJ suddenly decided to play. The wind blew cold and the tigress rose from her nausea to scream in a hoarse voice, “No! No! No! How can you feel no shame? Evil bastards!” Kareem asked the penguin if she was okay, and the prisoner who went crazy sucked on the breasts of the Dutch girl in the tower, and Rambo suddenly sat down in the middle of everything and strummed sad notes on a guitar. More tear gas was fired, startling the little ones and stifling the big ones, and the D-9 completed the crushing of its first trailer, flattened it, cleared it away, and prepared to move on to its next target, moving slowly along its tracks, and the crowd behind it. Tchelet-Rivlin-corn-on-the-cob cried woefully by the playground, because she had lost her parents and dropped the Torah she’d won, and the gift box of treats and candies lay scattered everywhere and no one was paying any attention to the costume champion.

  Something shook the guard tower. Maybe the large bulldozer that was making the earth shudder, or a stray rock, but it was enough to startle the Dutch girl out of her dream. No, it’s not right. Not with a soldier in the deportation army, and certainly not while that army is demolishing the homes of Jews. She pushed away the prisoner’s small, thick-curled head, fastened the bra and shirt buttons, descended from the guard tower still sensing his small agile tongue on her nipples, the moistness of his saliva, the arousal of her body, but she placed all that under lock and key, to remain thus for a long time, and ended the story without even a final glance to bring down the curtain.

  Tchelet-corn-on-the-cob found her mother and her father. Her small hands warmed in theirs and she smiled up at the sky. Soft and slender flakes landed on her pretty face.

  * * *

  The residents of Kharmish, incensed and increasingly self-assured, took off in pursuit of the uninvited. The blasts and smoke coming from the hilltop told them something was happening, and when something happens, that means the Arabs are going to get it, even if the settlers get it first. They neared the trio. Someone next to Nimer fired two flares into the air to frighten them. Nimer himself drew a pistol and fired twice into the air. Why is the one dressed for the hajj? And why does that one have a rubber bald wig and Roni a curly wig and glasses without lenses? They’re making fun of us? They’re drunk?

  They were drunk. They stumbled and tried to flee. They were so afraid. Yakir wept in fear and rage at his father. Roni was no longer trying to convince anyone of his peaceful intentions. Josh continued to throw stones and curse. They ran toward the outpost. When Yakir heard the shooting and blasts, he threw down the Purim gift, pulled out the Desert Eagle, released the safety, and fired into the air. The thunderous blast startled Roni, who screamed, “What are you doing, jackass!” The pursuers scattered—like Jenia’s cookies from the torn packet—but then renewed the chase with increased vigor. Roni was sweating, but somehow it didn’t occur to him to remove the wig and glasses. Josh, too, stuck with the kaffiyeh and Yakir with his leftist paraphernalia—you don’t think about such things when you’re running for your life. Yakir fired into the air again, and again the shot momentarily deterred the chasing Palestinians, but then more shots and blasts came from them, too.

  “Enough, enough with the shooting,” said Roni, his throat hoarse and out of breath, “we’re almost there,” and Josh turned and hurled a fistful of stones. The Arabs gathered with renewed strength and increased adrenaline. Tires appeared from somewhere and were set alight, and black smoke rose and befouled the cold air. Josh yelled, “Shoot them in the head,” and Roni responded, “Have you lost your mind?” And Yakir took aim and fired one last shot into the sky, and thought with a quivering heart: It’s not worth it, I don’t want to die for this nonsense.

  And then the snow stopped hesitating and really began to fall—in thick, slow, soft, regal chunks.

  Soldiers, police, and settlers turned their heads toward the shots heard from the south, and saw a Palestinian mob storming toward them from the direction of Kharmish and black smoke rising into the air. “What the fuck?” mumbled Omer Levkovich just as the D-9 struck an electricity pole, the music stopped and the lights went out, a series of pops rang out and sparks flew from power cables, cries of panic and oh-my-God filled the air, and everyone scattered in all directions, and screamed, and cried, and only the mild-mannered snow continued its quiet descent, like Mordechai’s raiment.

  The End

  The snow lay on Ma’aleh Hermesh C. for three whole days, covering, silencing. The quiet froze, and the peacefulness slowed, and the surrounding hills winked in their whiteness, and the distant landscapes, the desert landscapes, the lower-lying ones, joined in the mood with a lighter than usual beige, which was reflected in the sky, which whitened and blinded the sun, which finally appeared somewhat feebly, hanging its head in humility.

  And from within the silence came nothing but the sound of a small hammer, banging, knock-knock-knock: Gabi resurrecting the cabin. And the joyful cries of the children making snowballs in the Mamelstein playground and sliding down the hilltop slope on their bottoms on plastic bags.

  Roni Kupper spent the first night after the Purim party in Josh and Jehu’s bachelor trailer, which was also Gabi’s temporary residence. He was consumed with thoughts and emotions from the events of the past days, from the phone calls with Rina and the quick visit to Tel Aviv, from the smashed trailer that had been his home in recent months, from the peace delegation he had led to Kharmish that went utterly awry—but in the end, he realized, achieved precisely the objective that Othniel had envisioned.

  Despite the adrenaline and racing thoughts, he fell asleep the moment his head hit the mattress, and woke in the morning to the white hilltop, marveling at its pristine beauty. Rina rang, and they spen
t the snowy days on one endless heart-to-heart call, and the moment cars could set out from the hilltop, he went to Tel Aviv. They shared a clumsy embrace when they met, and a hesitant kiss on the cheek. Over lunch they continued to develop the idea: a bar-nightclub that they’d call Kindergarten After Hours, which would operate during the night hours out of Rina’s kindergarten on Shlomo HaMelech Street. Rina stressed over and over—as if trying to convince herself—that the partnership between them was strictly business. She desperately needed money, because the municipality was bleeding her dry and children had left the kindergarten and the costs weren’t coming down and she was spiraling into debt but didn’t want to shut down. She loved the work, that’s what she knew how to do, and she did it well. Roni was sure Kindergarten After Hours was going to be a hit. The customers would love the kindergarten décor because it wasn’t décor but the natural setting of the place. People like authenticity. He’d set up a small bar in the one corner. He’d make sure that at the close of every night the place would be clean of cigarette butts and beer stains, fragrant and tidy. He even thought that by pulling a few strings from his pub days, he’d manage to get a semi-official permit from the municipality. He was excited, because he wanted it. Because it suited him. Yes, he promised Rina, it’s strictly business, that’s clear. But they parted with a long stare and a lengthy embrace, and when Roni wandered through the streets of the city afterward, he knew he was excited not only by the business and the return home but also, and perhaps mostly, by the warmth of her body and her brown eyes.