The Hilltop (35 page)

Nir's breathing was labored. Nausea rose up in his chest. He tried to lean on something in the dark, to sit down perhaps. He needed water. Beer-flavored burps filled his throat. And still not a sound from outside. He couldn't see the time but assumed his shift should be starting any minute now. He was the first guard on duty that evening, and the first guard needs to report to and update—and suddenly it dawned on him—Yoni. Had the Ethiopian done something to her? Strangled her? Then came another of Yoni's monotone hums, and Gitit burst into laughter, which started out loud and was then stifled, a hand over her mouth, and then the sound of more movement and rapid breathing— What are they doing there?

“No,” he heard Gitit whisper. “Not today. I have to go. Next time.” Another distant firework made them jump, and then stifled giggling, and then a monotone hum. “Next time, I promise.” A hum that sounded like a question. “Yes, I promise,” and a brief kiss. The thin wooden wall groaned and clothes rustled, and then came the sound of receding footsteps, with another soft giggle from Gitit.

Nir's face was hot from sweat, from heat, from shame. After a few minutes, he turned the handle and inhaled as though it were crisp Alpine winter air—not that Nir had ever been in the Alps in the winter. He made sure they were gone, stepped out from the shed, and circled the structure to the place where the pair had been moments earlier, sniffing around, looking for proof, clues that would perhaps add substance to the audio experience, but aside from a faint smell he couldn't quite put his finger on—his brain was awash with odors and chemicals—there were no clues as to what had just happened there.

He walked to the center of the playground, spread his arms, and allowed the breeze to cool his wet clothes, his forehead, the back of his neck, and all the remaining sweat-soaked areas. He inhaled deeply, sighed. And then he crossed the road to Yoni's trailer to let him know that the night shift was starting.

“You're ten minutes late, dude,” Yoni said. “Don't let it happen again, okay? I was just about to call you.” Nir nodded, ran his hand over the telephone in the front pocket of his pants, and then over the butt of the pistol tucked into his pants at the back—and left without a word.

During his shift, Nir returned twice to the scene of the incident, trying to reconstruct it, to find evidence, and the more his mind sobered up from the beer, with the help of liters of water and the passing of hours, the more he wondered what really had happened. While snooping behind the shed for the second time, he heard footsteps and a voice, and the love scene that had been playing over in his thoughts made way for a new show. He pressed himself to the wall of the storeroom and froze again, again tried to blend in with his surroundings. At least he was outside now, breathing in fresh air and the smell of the wooden boards, a far more pleasant odor than that of turpentine. He could hear better, too, the sounds were less muffled—undoubtedly an upgrade in conditions.

Someone was speaking on the telephone in a low, self-conscious voice. He caught the sound of rope straining under the weight of a body, of a gentle movement slicing through the air—a swing in motion. Thank the Lord, it had yet to start creaking and squeaking, as it would in time, when rust and dirt have accumulated in its joints; still new and well oiled, it coped just fine now with the body weight of an adult woman, who quietly said, “Is there not names list?”

Nir's ears pricked up. What did she say? And then “No, I no check. I what you say to me. No find. Roni Kupper, no. No talk to Roni Kupper, but . . .”

Nir peered into the darkness. Were the beers and the joint still messing with his head? What was going on here this evening? He slowly shifted his position, peeling his body from the wall of the shed to turn to look at the woman. He had of course recognized her voice the moment he heard her first word, but he had to see with his own eyes, and now, under
the faint light of the stars, he saw her, Jenia Freud, swinging on a swing too small for her dimensions, her left hand gripping the rope, her right clutching a phone to her ear. Why is Jenia talking on the phone, in the playground, at night, about Roni Kupper?

She resumed talking quietly. “No, before minister come, I not hear talking, nothing. After he say scram, also no. Jehu and Josh I watch. Yes, I know I said they can make problem. But no, there are nothing. Okay. Okay, I talk with Roni Kupper. Yes, with Arab, but I no see anything there. Yes, okay. Kupper I check.”

Nir slid his back down the wall of the shed until he was sitting on solid ground. He closed his eyes and then opened them again, and turned his head to look at Jenia, who was holding the phone in the air, swinging and deep in thought. The world froze for thirty seconds, a chill wind blew through the playground and rustled the leaves, the Arabs and their fireworks went quiet in deference to the moment, and even Condi, who was barking earlier, fell silent. Jenia blurted a few words—a curse in Russian?—got off the swing, and went into her home across the road.

Nir remained where he was for several minutes, his eyes closed, his back to the wall of the shed, his butt on the ground. Finally, he gathered himself, stood up, and headed off to patrol the ring road. When Gabi Nehushtan relieved him, he barely said a word, merely nodding, his eyes low, and went on his way. Gabi watched him, puzzled, stroked his sparse beard, and went up into the guard tower to recite the Tikkun Chatzot prayer.

D
uvid, an expert in ancient artifacts and a longtime settler whom Othniel knew from his early days in Samaria, and also from reserve army duty, came to the outpost a few days after Dvora Assis found the coins in the cave, and after her father, Othniel, “popped over to have a look.” Duvid combed the cave's rooms with a metal detector and found a total of thirty-eight coins. His initial conclusion: they had been
unearthed, thanks, probably, to a rock rabbit that had been digging in the cave in the hope of finding water or food, and come across the coins instead, buried under the sandy earth and soft limestone.

Othniel invited Duvid back on a number of occasions, and he repeatedly declined, citing various reasons, until Othniel, annoyed, instructed Yakir “to check his Internet” to see if he could find any information about ancient coins in the area.

For Yakir, delving into the archaeological archives of American universities was an intriguing challenge. The research project offered him an excuse to remain awake and chat with people in American time zones—or so he explained to his father—and so he was left with plenty of time to spend on Revival with his friends. Because they were in the midst of the long summer vacation, and because Othniel was bent on looking into the matter of the coins and not relying solely on Duvid, Yakir spent many hours at night in front of the computer undisturbed.

Duvid, meanwhile, finally succumbed to Othniel's pleas and came again to visit. After a cup of tea and some small talk about the defense minister, the Central Command major general, and the other obligatory niceties, Othniel asked about the coins.

“What can I say, Othni, you need patience with this type of thing. I know you'd like to know right away, but it takes time. We're cleaning the coins, we'll send them for various tests, we'll get an accurate dating, and then we'll see. I'd also like to send a few to expert colleagues of mine. There are several distinguished researchers in the field of ancient artifacts—most of them Jewish—who are located at Duke University in America. And I have someone in Australia who knows more about these things than anyone else. Show a little patience and we'll eventually have trustworthy results.”

“And then?”

“And then we'll know if the coins are authentic. We'll know what period they come from. We'll be able to identify the symbols that appear on the bronze under the greenish layer of patina. If they're Roman dinars or Hellenistic drachmas, it won't be worth the effort. If they're from the Hasmonean dynasty, and we know the Hasmoneans inhabited these caves, they could be worth a little more. The most valuable
are the ones from the rebellion era, in particular the silver shekels from the Bar Kokhba Revolt. If that's what we're dealing with—and my initial hunch with the naked eye tells me no—then you can sell to collectors or museums via an antiques merchant or public auction. That's where there could be big money.”

“And what do we get from the big money?”

“Ha, ha, ha, ha,” thundered Duvid.

Othniel wasn't amused. His brown eyes were locked on eyes that were practically swallowed up behind the glasses on Duvid's chubby face when he asked, “What's imprinted on coins from the revolt period?”

“Jewish symbols—pomegranates, chalices. A little like the ones that appear on shekels today. And the year of the revolt is imprinted on them too. Every year has a different value.”

Othniel rubbed his chin through his beard. “Listen to this, Duvid. My son Yakir did some checking on the Internet. He found something interesting. Yakir! Yakir! Come here for a moment!” he called. Yakir rose from his seat at the computer and came to the living room. There he found Duvid—fat, bespectacled, with silver hair and beard and a look of disdain in his eyes.

“Listen, Othni,” the visitor said, “there's lots of crap on the Internet, I'm telling you, it takes time, let us—”

“Listen to what the kid has to say,” Othniel interjected. “And then do with it as you please.” Duvid reached out for his cup of tea and sipped.

“What was the name of that monk, Yakiri?” Othniel egged on his son.

“Saint Onuphrius.”

“Saint Onuphrius. Heard of him?”

Duvid motioned with his head in a manner that could have been construed as a yes, but he was clearly unmoved by the information being fed to him. “Yakir found an archaeologist in America who once lived in Ma'aleh Hermesh A.,” Othniel continued. “I remember him, an American, from the first days of the settlement, a good guy, despite being a good friend of Shimoni, that son of a bitch. Anyway, he did his doctorate on this Onuphrius guy. He— Yakir, you know more about this than me, tell Duvid.”

“Saint Onuphrius was an Egyptian-born monk who lived as a hermit
in the desert, in this area, for several decades during the fourth century,” Yakir recited. “He was abducted by bandits along the road and taken out into the middle of the desert, and returned naked, with only his long white beard covering his shame, and for the remainder of his days he lived as a hermit, enduring extreme thirst, hunger, and discomfort. According to the archaeologist from Duke, Onuphrius lived in the Hermesh cave and had a trove of coins that he hid, that he probably received for safekeeping from nomads who passed through the area.”

“Well, okay,” Duvid said, coughing slightly, “the Internet is full of stories like this—too many, if you ask me.” His fat lips smiled at Othniel and he forced a laugh.

Troubled by Duvid's apparent apathy, Othniel joined Rachel in bed earlier than usual. He soon fell asleep. Gitit was asleep already, too, and so were all the little ones, naturally. The house fell silent, with only the buzz of Othniel's snoring providing the rhythm, casting a subconscious sense of security over the members of the household tucked away in their beds.

*  *  *

Yakir logged in to Second Life and hurried off to meet his friends on Revival. The Star of David spam attack had stirred stormy reactions in the virtual world—Arab solidarity demonstrations, the establishment of new mosques, increased anti-Semitic sentiment and expression, and even a botched retaliation attempt at a synagogue. Reactions had filtered into the real world, too, and images of the mosque flooded with Stars of David popping up on blogs and websites, and even on Ynet. King Meir was pleased. He wanted to move on to the next stage—a real terror attack. Yakir retrieved a jam cookie from the box, took a bite, and waited for his friends Klaus, Menachem, and a new recruit, Harvey, who had told Yakir that he was a follower of Rabbi Kook, and King Meir himself, too, of course.

They were standing alongside the Flame of the Revival synagogue, chins adorned with tapered beards, Uzis on their shoulders, a Kach T-shirt stretched across King Meir's chest, the others in flannel shirts, light blue tzitzit peeking out from under them to always bring to mind the Holy One, blessed be He. King Meir was smoking a virtual cigarette.

They teleported themselves to Taste of Arabia, which was teeming with people, Muslims who had come to demonstrate solidarity after the Stars of David spam, and various other curious and bored Second Lifers who had heard about the controversy and had come to check it out. The Revival gang entered the large mosque. A bearded Arab man welcomed them and asked them to remove their shoes. They ignored him and went in. Yakir's heart was pounding. King Meir gave the order and they pulled out Palestinian flags they had created and, with the click of a mouse, set them alight with a flame-making application Yakir had downloaded for free. They stood there holding the burning flags, and then in came the Arab characters and their supporters, enraged, shouting, ordering them out, to cease the desecration. There were many non-Arabs, who were carrying placards and shouting with angry faces. King Meir spoke to Yakir. He wanted the mosque then and there. But the computer was acting strange. Its fan was working and stopping every few seconds. Yakir bent down and looked at the computer case. He couldn't figure out what was happening, it had never acted like this before. Don't crash now, he pleaded.

Yakir punched some keys, and from his Second Life User folder, the Inventory, he retrieved the mosque he had built—an exact copy of the mosque they were in moments before, the big mosque in Taste of Arabia. He felt a pang in his heart when he thought of all the hours he had spent at the computer building the beautiful mosque, complete with its arches and colorful adornments. He positioned it, and the two mosques stood there side by side, the original in its place, the replica Yakir had built on a sandbox—a nonrestricted public area—beside it. Curious onlookers turned up to see what and why, exchanged bewildered looks, someone asked if it was a gift, recompense for the violence, an effort to bridge the differences between the religions. King Meir laughed. He gave Yakir the signal and Yakir ran Particles, the explosion simulation software he had bought, with the replica mosque as its target.