The Hilltop (38 page)

“Give me shows for the children. Dancing classes and judo.

“A babysitter.

“Yes, a babysitter.”

Raya Gotlieb smiled at her husband. She knew the business wasn't going to work. She had been in the store twice that week, helping with the office work, waiting with Nachum for customers to come in. They were told they'd get some from the settlement, from neighboring settlements, from Jerusalem, even. The percentage of people with glasses among the religious was twice that of the general population. But there were only a handful here. And they were thrifty, went to the Halperin Optics discount center at the Malcha Mall. They were told they needed to be patient, that thousands of new settlers were on their way. But this government, those Americans. Raya shifted her gaze from her husband to the tiny kitchen.

“Give me a normal kitchen. With a normal-size oven. A normal-size fridge.”

“And a normal floor?”

“Definitely.” Raya looked at the linoleum-free square on the floor of their kitchen. Over the past months, the glue that had been under the linoleum had attracted dust, leaves, webs, and nests. Life-forms could be detected in there. Raya gave up on cleaning it. She grew accustomed to the sound of shoes sticking and releasing. She accepted the empty square, the void, as an integral part of her abode. The mystery had been solved just a few days earlier: she was talking to Shaulit Rivlin on the playground, and the conversation went on for quite some time—the usual topics, children and kindergartens and breast-feeding and cooking—and when the heat rose and the two women looked for shade, they slowly began pushing their baby carriages from the playground to the ring road, and when they approached the Rivlins' home, Shaulit invited her to stay and they sat on the swing bench in the yard while the older children played inside and sounded content.

Shaulit didn't tell Raya about her moribund relationship with her husband. And Raya didn't say a word to Shaulit about her general despair with life on the hilltop. The two enjoyed the conversation, supported each other with more than just words, just by listening. And then, while in the middle of breast-feeding, Shaulit needed a diaper and a pacifier and explained to Raya where she could find them inside the trailer. Raya went in and noticed a square of green linoleum that had been stuck down in the kitchen, cleaner and newer than the rest of the linoleum around it. She moved closer and checked and measured the length and width with her thumb and finger so she could compare later at home, though it wasn't necessary, it was obvious.

She didn't say a word when she emerged with the diaper and pacifier, but back at home, after confirming her measurement with her finger and thumb, she told Nachum and he looked at her in disbelief and then grew angry and said, “I'm going over there right now. I'll rip it off their floor. I'll show that scoundrel.”

Raya, however, smiled indifferently and said, “Let it go, Nachum, it doesn't matter now,” because by then she knew they wouldn't be staying long at that outpost, in that trailer, in that kitchen, with the partial floor.

“Y
akir!”

“Yes, Dad?”

“Do me a favor, do a search on your Internet for some Japanese sect or group that . . .”

“That what?”

“That . . . I don't know. Supports the idea of a Greater Israel? Likes Arabs? God knows, is looking for something here . . .”

Yakir did a search. There's the Makuya sect in Japan, they're Israel lovers. But Othniel had met some nice tourists from the Makuya, and those businessmen didn't appear to be connected to the sect. So Yakir searched some more. There were all sorts of right-wing neo-fascist movements.
There were several terror groups. There were organizations opposed to the regime, opposed to minorities of various kinds, including Arabs. When he typed in the word
Japanese
, followed by
Judea
and
Samaria
, he found, among the slime that Google presented, a short report on an unfamiliar website, with fluctuating numbers and green and red graphs at the top and bottom of the page. He showed the report to his father, and Othniel narrowed his eyes, trailed a thick finger—callused and yellow-nailed from the work in the fields—across the small flickering letters, and mumbled as he read:

Japanese Farming Machinery Company

Penetrates Israeli Olive Oil Market

Japanese company Matsumata (MATS—Dow Jones and Nikkei) has announced plans to enter the Israeli olive oil market. The Japanese giant, whose operations include the manufacture of electronic devices and engineering and agricultural machinery, has branched out into the field of food imports and exports. Olive oil has become popular among the middle and upper classes in Japan, Korea, and China. These countries have also seen an increasing consumer awareness of the advantages of organic food and the benefits of olive oil in terms of reducing cholesterol and fighting cancer. Matsumata employees reviewed olive groves in various locations in the Mediterranean basin, and the company has displayed particular interest in Palestinian groves. The European Union and the Japan International Cooperation Agency previously announced a special program of support for the Palestinian economy, wherein investors receive tax breaks and favorable financing. Thanks to this program, Palestinian olives may be cheaper than the European olives, despite the security situation. Furthermore, for millions of Christians in East Asia, the significance of olive oil from the Holy Land . . .

Othniel's finger moved away from the screen. “It's killing my eyes,” he said to his son. “Where does it mention Ma'aleh Hermesh?”

“Ma'aleh Hermesh isn't mentioned. Only Judea and Samaria.”

“So what's it got to do with us?”

“I didn't say it has anything to do with us. You did. It only says they're looking for olives from Arabs in Judea and Samaria.”

“Anti-Semites,” Othniel said. His phone vibrated in his pocket and he took it out and went into the yard to talk. Yakir continued to browse quickly through the article—the phrases
machine equipment, regional olive presses
, and
cans of tuna
jumped out at him from the screen, but the financial terms exhausted him. He listened to make sure his father was still engrossed in his call and, heart pounding, returned to Second Life.

He went into Revival virtual region. King Meir rushed over in welcome. “Where've you been, champ?” he asked, and reached out for a handshake. If sensations could be conveyed on Second Life, King Meir would have deemed Yakir's handshake weak and limp.

“You won't believe it,” continued the bearded and yellow-T-shirted character in the speech bubbles floating above his head, “things have gone crazy, there've been demonstrations, they want to kick us out. I think the people who run Second Life are looking for me.”

Yakir panicked. Looking? Soon would come the days of repentance and the Day of Judgment, but King Meir was rejoicing, and the other friends were excited, spoke about the ban, the curses, the Arabs' pathetic attempts at retaliation. They wanted to continue, to intimidate, to blow things up, to show the Arabs who they were. But Yakir couldn't share their fervor. He was worried. He didn't want to get into trouble. Didn't want anyone showing up at the door, or anything arriving by e-mail, accusing him of causing destruction, disturbing the peace, breaking Internet rules of conduct. Not only that, as hard as he tried, he derived no joy from the bombing of the mosque. He struggled to understand why he had done it, and for whom—who are these people, his so-called friends, an odd collection of guys from where? Texas? Germany? The neighboring settlement? Why blow up a mosque, a place of worship? He was a person of faith, who visited a place of worship all the time.

King Meir must have sensed something because he asked, “What's up, Yakir? Everything okay?” If Second Life could have displayed facial expressions, Yakir's friends would have been looking at a pale, agonized face. He heard his father bid farewell on the phone with wishes for a good
year and inscription in the Book of Life. Inscription in the Book of Life—how would he look his Creator in the eye? How would he be rewarded with inscription in the Book of Life? He had committed a crime, sinned, and now his punishment would come. If you could have seen someone's eyes on Second Life, the exultant, messianic Jews on Revival would have been looking at frantic eyes, racing back and forth like a lab rat's.

His father's footsteps approached, and Yakir left Second Life, fled, shut down the computer, dropped to his knees, and quickly disconnected the Internet cable, the power cable, and just as he was asked, “Yakir, what are you doing down there? Something happen to the computer?” a light brown stream speckled with bits of meat, pasta, potatoes, and chunks of fruit shot out of his mouth, and another, and another, with his chest heaving violently and a terrible tightening of his throat. His eyes welled with tears as the waves rose up and burst forth from within him, emptied his stomach until nothing remained, and he continued to retch and cramp up and eject awful-tasting bile, and Othniel laid his large and warm hands on his overwhelmed son, one tenderly stroking the back of his neck, the other offering a glass of water, and all he said was “Small sips, small sips, small sips.”

A
few days after Shin Bet informer Jenia Freud emerged from the dark into the light, Othniel invited her and her husband, Elazar, over for a private chat. Initially, Othniel asked all those in the know—Nir Rivlin, Hilik Yisraeli, and his wife, Rachel—not to cause a fuss and not to spread the word. He consulted with Hilik—perhaps it would be a good idea to use Jenia as a double agent, a mole? Perhaps through her they could obtain information about the security forces' plans for the evacuation, the building of the fence, and so on?

But when rumors began spreading across the hilltop, Othniel realized that the affair wasn't going to remain under wraps for very long. He decided to inform the residents himself in order to avoid unnecessary
tension, and to warn against falling asleep on their watch. The talk with Jenia and Elazar was a precursor to his briefing of all the residents of the outpost.

“Elazar, explain to me again what it is you do, something on the computer, right?” Othniel began.

“I run ad campaigns on Google for a number of companies, some in Jerusalem and some in America, most of them in the field of printing . . .”

Othniel nodded, but was distracted because just then Rachel placed on the table a pot of coffee and a cake Jenia had baked. He wasn't listening. Jenia was rubbing her fingers together. She smiled as a sign of gratitude when Rachel poured her a cup of coffee, her red eyes betraying sleepless days and nights. Elazar appeared even more stressed than she did, his Adam's apple particularly active. Silence fell. Rachel left the living room and went into the kitchen. Othniel sipped.

“Why did you do it, Jenia?” His tone, much to the surprise of the Freuds, was soft, not accusatory.

A shrug of the shoulders. Pursing of lips, lowering of eyes. A hesitant hand running through a mass of blond hair. And again the broad shoulders hunched up. “I don't know. I . . . Someone talk to me at ride station. She speak Russian. Not remember what we talk about, maybe recipes, cookies.” She looked up with hesitant eyes—perhaps he didn't want to hear all those details, perhaps he was impatient? But Othniel's eyes conveyed a sense of ease, and his hands gestured to continue. If he was in a rush, or angry, it didn't show.

“She gave phone numbers. Don't know how happened, a long time we are in contact. She was my friend . . .”

“I met her, too,” Elazar intervened. “Daliah, her friend from the ride station. Sure.”

“Did you also speak to her regularly? Meet with her?”

Elazar shook his head. “I don't know Russian. And she never visited us.”

“And after a while she started talking about politics,” Othniel said.

“
Da
 . . . You know how it works?” She looked up at the leader of the outpost.

“I know, I know. I know them well,” Othniel said. “She probably told you she's a settler herself. And lauded the settlement enterprise. And complained about the government and about the army and about the Arabs. And then started talking about the extremists. About the price-tag incidents. The lunatics who give us all a bad name. Who have to be stopped because they're damaging the settlement enterprise. That if we don't stop them, if we allow them to run wild and carry out their extreme actions, then the Palestinians will also take revenge on us, and the army, too, will retaliate and evacuate us—she frightened you.”

Jenia and Elazar looked at him, stunned. They weren't expecting this. Weren't expecting a show of understanding for what Jenia had been through. What Othniel was displaying here was a lot more than understanding. He had described exactly what had happened. But then his benevolent face stiffened, and Jenia's and Elazar's hearts skipped a beat. “But that's still no reason to spy on your friends.”

“True,” she quickly agreed. “I . . .”

“We can't tolerate such betrayal.”

“They told me you follow only Jehu. That it bad seeds, youth of hilltops. I not betray outpost. Not look for others.”

“We heard you said something about Roni Kupper, too.”

“They ask Roni Kupper but I don't know. And he's not from residents. I don't give them anything about him! And about residents! I only Jehu!”

“Jehu is one of us,” Othniel calmly responded. The kindness in his voice had disappeared. “You shouldn't be reporting anything about him to anyone, either.”

“Of course, I not report anything anymore.”

“And no more trying to play it smart. No matter what happens, how it happens or who it happens to—you come straight to me.”