The Hilltop (4 page)

Mamelstein stopped suddenly and pointed in astonishment. “A camel!” he exclaimed.

“That's a cow,” Othniel said, using the Hebrew term for a female camel, and Josh struggled a little with the translation.

“Does it belong to one of the families?”

“It's Sasson's,” Othniel responded, and left it at that. “Come,” he said instead, “we've reached my house. Let's go inside for coffee.”

The Assis family residence consisted of the same basic mobile home that had been welded to the initial guard hut, with the subsequent addition of a shipping container and a wooden porch, the structure then partially covered in Jerusalem stone—a patchwork of assembled pieces making up some seventy square meters in area and serving as a crowded home to eight individuals: Othniel, his wife, Rachel, and their children, in descending order from the age of sixteen down to three—Gitit, the twins, Yakir and Dvora, Hananiya, Emunah, and Shuv-el, the little one. The inside of the home was dominated by the usual disarray of toys and children's books, mismatched furniture collected over the years from charities and urban streets, and a bookcase of Jewish and Torah literature that stood on the warped, peeling floor. The large windows and porch looked out over the barren desert hills and a smattering of homes on the edge of the Arab village Kharmish.

The place was bursting at the seams. Rachel served coffee and cake. The sun had set, the cold seeped in through every small opening, and the electric heater was turned up to high. Loud whistles could be heard coming from the open space under the trailer, where the wind blew among the work tools and other stored equipment. The sections of the thin, dry wall that hadn't been covered by stone offered scant acoustic protection or thermal insulation.

“Is this a legal outpost?” Mamelstein asked.

Othniel exchanged a glance with Hilik and smiled from within his beard. “All the settlements are legal,” he responded. “All were established with government knowledge and approval. We are a neighborhood of Ma'aleh Hermesh, within its jurisdiction.” He pointed in the general direction of the mother settlement. “Besides,” the longest-serving resident of the outpost continued, “Ma'aleh Hermesh C. cannot be illegal.”

The American millionaire chuckled, and his staff followed suit. Othniel was very familiar with Sheldon Mamelstein and his political views. Nonetheless, a man of his standing clearly could not afford to be involved in anything that might be construed as criminal in nature. “What do you mean, it can't be illegal?” Mamelstein asked.

“Ma'aleh Hermesh C. cannot be illegal because, according to Defense Ministry records, the outpost was evacuated years ago,” Othniel replied. “The outpost, in fact, doesn't exist. But we do have an approved agricultural farm, which the military protects.”

Mamelstein raised an eyebrow and turned his gaze toward the IDF officer and female soldier standing on the porch, both busy texting on their phones. His eyebrow dropped and his mouth widened in a smile. “But doesn't the army fall under the responsibility of the Defense Ministry?” one of his advisers wondered out loud.

“It does. So what? As far as the Defense Ministry is concerned, the outpost has been evacuated; and as far as the army is concerned, there are Jews here and therefore a guard post and soldiers, too,” Othniel responded, glancing over at Captain Omer, who was on the phone.

“The Settlement Division of the World Zionist Organization arranged for the establishment of the agricultural farm, which doesn't require government permits. Through the Civil Administration, they also secured the generator, and the army took care of the water supply. Most of the trailers were provided by the Housing Ministry, via the Amidar public housing company. Fortunately for us, the right hand has no clue what the left one is doing.”

Othniel smiled as Josh translated his words into English. Hilik smiled, too; he took a sip of coffee and cautiously placed the glass on the table again.

On leaving the house, the millionaire took a closer look at the Jerusalem-stone covering that ran along the bottom half of the walls of the trailer, nodding in astonishment. Captain Omer again tried to engage Othniel in conversation. “Five minutes and we're done here,” Othniel hissed. “What do you think—that we aren't just as keen as you to be over and done with this?”

They passed by the guard and water towers and returned to the new
playground. “What the hell! What's happening over there?” the American benefactor suddenly asked, pointing a finger at one of the homes. Everyone turned to see Elazar and Jenia Freud's trailer shaking like a Parkinson's patient, dancing and vibrating on the backdrop of the darkening skies.

“Ah,” said Othniel Assis, “you should know that if the trailer is shaking and everything inside is moving about, it isn't an earthquake, only the washing machine!”

On hearing the translation, Mamelstein's raucous laughter was infectious, managing to put a smile even on the face of the IDF officer. “I must tell Norma about this!” the American said, slapping his thigh.

They all bade farewell with mutual expressions of appreciation, embraces, and kisses, got into their cars, and disappeared in a cloud of dust.
Washington Post
correspondent Jeff McKinley headed off on foot toward the entrance to the settlement. He had thought of asking Mamelstein's people for a ride but decided against it, preferring instead to keep his identity to himself.

Othniel turned to Captain Omer Levkovich. “Now, my friend, you can tell us what's been eating you,” he said, looking at the soft-faced, fair-haired officer.

Omer opened the file he was carrying under his arm. “This,” he said, handing over a document, “is a land demarcation order signed by the head of the IDF Central Command.”

“A demarcation order? What are you on about?” Othniel eyed the document suspiciously. “What's this all about?” Hilik, too, peered at the piece of paper in Othniel's hand.

“A demarcation order,” the section commander affirmed—and then continued, fully aware of what was going through the minds of these seasoned settlers. “Not the suspension of illegal construction. Not a Civil Administration issue. Nothing to do with the demolition of isolated structures—you know all too well that your trailers have been under demolition orders for years, and that no one has done anything about it because they know you'll just bring in others in their place. That's why they've issued a demarcation order. The structures aren't the issue, the entire area needs to be evacuated—all the residents, all the belongings.
And all the structures are to be razed. What do you think, that the right hand has no idea what the left is doing?”

Othniel read the order:

All individuals are required to vacate the area in question within eight days of publication of this declaration. Additionally, effective immediately on publication of this declaration, all construction activities in the area are banned, including entry into the area of individuals or equipment for the purpose of carrying out construction operations.

The order had been signed by the head of the Central Command and came with a map that outlined the demarcated area—Ma'aleh Hermesh C. in its entirety, all its structures and agricultural land.

Othniel stopped reading and glared at Omer. “You people are such ags,” he said. “Oh well, I guess we'll have to take it up with the Military Appeals Board, and if that doesn't help, we'll petition the High Court of Justice, and if we lose there, we'll wait out the two years until the order expires, God willing. In any event, you aren't going to forcibly evict us, right?” He searched for a glimmer of a smile or supportive look on Omer's face—but found none. All he encountered was a look of curiosity and the cautious question, “What are ags?”

Othniel drew a breath and let out a deep sigh. “Aggressive little pains in the butt,” he spat out as he punched the council head's number into his phone.

“Good luck and Shabbat shalom,” the section commander responded before signaling his driver to start up the engine and climbing into the jeep. They pulled over at the gate alongside the soldier.

“Take these, Yoni, and tell your men to post them this evening on all the structures in the outpost,” Omer said, handing over a pile of papers on which the order had been printed. He allowed the American journalist, who was hitching a ride just outside the gate, to get into the jeep, and then disappeared down the slope, into the darkening twilight and the winds. Yoni, the soldier, shifted his gaze from the departing jeep to the pages in his hands and closed the gate.

R
oni Kupper didn't attend the ceremony. After Othniel Assis dropped him off outside the trailer belonging to “the only Gavriel in the settlement,” he dragged his suitcase out of the trunk and wheeled it along the short but rough pathway that led to the property, entering through the gate and walking to the front door through the yellowish yard.
ENTER BLESSED
, read a perplexing sign on the door. It wasn't locked. “Gabi? Gabi?” he called out, walking through the rooms of the home. He sniffed at the air—a strange dank odor. His eyes were drawn to a dark stain in the corner. He wheeled his suitcase into the room on the right, which appeared to be the living room, and lay down on his back on the raised mattress that was serving as a sofa. He looked up at the ceiling and took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and then opened them again. He turned to look at the simple bookcase. His eyes passed over the rows of red-bound books, religious literature that Roni understood nothing about at all, taking in the titles one by one: the Zohar, the Shulchan Aruch, compilations of sermons and writings by Rabbi Nachman of Breslov,
The Guide for the Perplexed
, Rabbi Abraham Isaac Kook's
Orot
, and more. “Gabi?” he cried out once more, thinking he heard something, but no one responded.

Gavriel had attended the dedication ceremony for the new playground and had gone from there to the synagogue for late-afternoon prayers, after which he had hung around with everyone to chat for a while. Only afterward did he return home to find a large suitcase that was taking up half of the living room floor and his elder brother snoring loudly on the sofa, facing the ceiling, a look of utter serenity anointing his face. Gabi looked at his brother. At the rise and fall of his chest, at his lips trembling with every snore, at his arms folded across his chest in perfect rest, at his broad feet in their formerly white sports socks with their
threadbare heels. His eyes wandered back to the large suitcase. Oh, Roni, my brother, he thought—and smiled at him, and tugged on his nose. Roni responded with a snore.

Gabi went into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. He turned on the light. He'd drink first and then make dinner for them, and then say the evening prayers. He turned on the kettle, which responded a few seconds later with an ever-loudening groan until the final bubbling noise and the automatic flip of the switch. He placed a Wissotzky tea bag into a glass cup with a thin handle and mixed in the sugar, clattering the teaspoon against the side of the glass.

“Make me one, too, whatever it is you're having,” came a gravelly voice from the living room.

“Already have,” Gabi responded, walking back into the living room and placing a glass, the granules of sugar still swirling on the bottom, on a small shelf beside Roni's head. “Tea,” he said, and sat down on the armchair on the other side of the room. He recited the customary blessing, blew on his tea, and cautiously sipped the hot beverage. “Welcome, my brother. It's been a while.”

Roni sat up, stretched, and tried to exorcise the sleep and jet lag that were clouding his mind. “Aahh!” he yawned out loud. He picked up the glass and sipped noisily. “Sweet,” he said. Roni looked over at his brother, who was still smiling. “I'm going to have to stay here for a while,” he said.

“I got that. The suitcase gave you away.”

“Yes.”

They drank in silence. What's with the big white skullcap with the pompom on top? Roni thought. The beard's still thin, but a little longer now. And those sidelocks? Aren't those only for people in the ultra-Orthodox Mea She'arim neighborhood? He admitted to himself, however, that the look suited his brother. Religious observance seemed to sit naturally on his slender build, to suit the dreamy brown of his eyes and his fair skin. Of the two, Roni had always looked like the true kibbutznik, with his dark skin and solid frame, the self-assured, sometimes arrogant, yet more lighthearted look on his face, which always appeared to be on the verge of breaking into a smile.

“How about a cookie or something?” Roni asked.

Gabi glanced toward the kitchen—but he didn't need to. There were no cookies. The silence settled in again, broken only occasionally by the sound of the two brothers sipping their tea.

“So, what's up?” Gabi finally asked, fixing his brother with a long stare. “The last time we spoke was on your fortieth birthday. You said you were busy and that you'd call back, and I haven't heard a word from you since. That was months ago. And the time before that was on your previous birthday. Aren't you supposed to be in America?”

Roni stood up from the sofa. He looked out the window. The wind whistled under the trailer. “What a view, eh? Really something else,” he said, turning to face his brother. “How are things with you? The guy who gave me a ride told me you were a great guy, a prince.”

Gabi laughed. “Just great, thank God. Wonderful.”

“Wonderful? What's so wonderful?”

“Everything, everything's just wonderful. I'm pleased you are here.”

“So I can stay for a while, then? This ‘wonderful' you're talking about isn't a girl or something, is it?”

“For you, wonderful always has something to do with a girl.”

“I just need to know if I can stay for a while.”