The Hilltop (56 page)

“Leave it, come on, you're getting discharged next week. Turn a blind eye,” Josh requested.

“We didn't post these orders in the rain so you could come afterward and take them down, doesn't matter when I'm being discharged. These are signed orders of the State of Israel.”

“Exactly,” said Josh, smiling. “Merely orders of the State of Israel. There are more powerful orders, from a higher place.”

“It's forbidden for you to do this,” Yoni replied, unsure what the American had meant.

“Forbidden?” Josh chuckled scornfully. “What's forbidden is to expel people from their homes. Your army won't tell us that we can't live in our home. And certainly not you. I didn't come from Borough Park post-9/11 for the likes of you to tell me where to go. You got that? So scram . . .” Josh concluded with a rapid remark in English that was intended to sail over the head and fur-trimmed coat of the short Ethiopian soldier. But Yoni was familiar with the words used by the redhead.
Certainly the word “Scram,” which had become trendy throughout the country ever since summer, when the defense minister spat it out on this very hilltop.

Yoni called Omer and told him about Josh. Yoni could read the silence on the other end of the line, was familiar with the slow-boiling rage of the commander. Mostly it was a pressure cooker that remained closed after coming to a boil and then cooled, but under the right conditions—if, for example, he had experienced an unsuccessful date, repaired a puncture in the rain, posted orders in the wind, heard that a disrespectful bully cursed and insulted a soldier who was there to protect him—Captain Omer Levkovich could perhaps explode.

When Yoni hung up, Josh taunted, “What's up, crybaby, did you call Daddy to come help? Daddy's busy and can't come?” Josh grabbed hold of another order, on the side of Shaulit Rivlin's trailer, and tore it off the wall. Yoni went on his way, ignoring Josh's cries of victory.

Omer arrived in a jeep with his team, and behind him came a command car with more soldiers and tools. Yoni was waiting with his soldiers at the entrance and hopped onto the wing of the command car and rode like that, standing, outside the vehicle, like a thin messiah in a thick military coat, with a Galil SAR diagonally across his back. The convoy drove slowly for dramatic effect, as if to declare, Attention, we are here, look what we're going to do. The vehicles stopped and spewed out the soldiers and equipment, their powerful front-mounted spotlights directed toward the cabin on the edge of the cliff, tunnels of lights that bore through the deepening darkness. Omer Levkovich assembled the troops for a quick briefing. After that, some lifted sharpened crowbars, and others five-kilo hammers. Omer approached and knocked on the cabin door, on which hung a small sign with the words “Enter Blessed.” There was no answer—Gabi had gone to pray.

Josh appeared from somewhere, and from his mouth shot the words “What the hell . . .” which were answered almost instantly by a blow from Omer's crowbar that smashed the door of the cabin.

“Hey, hey, hey!” Josh yelled. “What are you doing? Hello?” The soldiers didn't respond. One by one they entered the cabin until they stood tightly packed inside. Josh tried to get in but there wasn't room.
He pressed the buttons on his phone in a panic. Inside, the mission was straightforward and clear, and the hammers slammed into the walls and the wooden roof, smashed them, broke them to pieces. Yoni swung the five-kilo hammer in his hands every which way, sweated from the work and the effort and the heat of the many bodies in a small room, though within minutes the space aired out because it was opened on all sides with the disappearance of the roof and the walls, and all that remained was the stone and concrete framework, which Yoni also went to work on in a fit of rage.

Omer looked on with a mixture of wonder and pride at this model soldier who was soon departing, with the bead of sweat on his smooth brow. That's the way to do it, how to show the young ones the meaning of conviction. Yoni vented the resentment of months. He'd defended these people with his life and force of arms, and they'd responded with complaints and sour faces. Yes, some of them, perhaps most, had invited him to Sabbath meals, brought cakes, and inquired into his well-being, but words like Josh's hurt, and he knew that others said them in private, particularly since the story with Gitit had emerged.

Josh screamed hysterically into his phone. Where's the swollen-headed peacock from earlier, thought Yoni, and suppressed the urge to smile at him. Josh tried to enter what used to be the cabin and grab the arm of one of the soldiers, but the soldier's elbow shot back into Josh's jaw and stunned him. He backed off, tried to yell something, but only managed a whimper.

Neta Hirschson turned up, screaming. “Who's in charge here? I demand to speak to the person in charge! What right do you have to destroy a Jewish home? What would you say if I were to come to your house and set about smashing it with hammers? Fascists! Traitors! Brutes! The Nazis would be proud of you!” The soldiers continued without responding. They were almost done—the cabin was so small, and although Gabi had needed over a full year to build it, Omer and his soldiers obliterated it in less than fifteen minutes.

Neta covered her face with her hands and shook her head from side to side. Next to her, Josh, limp and hurting in his coat, held on to an unidentified object he had salvaged from the cabin. Othniel and his children
arrived on the scene, and Hilik and others stepped out into the cold from their heated trailers. The soldiers exited the remains of the cabin, the tools in their hands. An eerie silence befell the place. There was no protest, no shouting, only dark-uniformed soldiers on the one side, settlers on the other side, and the wreckage of the structure on the edge of the cliff.

“Omer,” Othniel said.

“Yes?” replied the officer, and approached him.

“What was the good in that? What gave you the right to do it?”

“Othniel, don't be naïve. Here, by right of this.” He removed an order from his pocket. “A Civil Administration injunction to suspend all construction work, which the dear home owners, who now act so surprised, were given in more than sufficient time, in a pleasant manner, along with a clear indication that the tolerance they had been shown would not last much longer. Not only did they build without permits and without asking and without proving ownership and all the rest of the things that every law-abiding citizen must do before starting to build a house, Othniel, it's also located in a nature reserve. Building houses in a nature reserve is forbidden. Half this settlement sits on Hermesh Stream Nature Reserve land. It's an initiative of the Nature and Parks Authority, throughout the country, by the way, to clean up the reserves. It's not political at all, it's to preserve our nature . . .”

“But why like this, a sneak attack?” Hilik said. “Isn't talking an option? Perhaps we would have come up with a nonviolent solution. Why do you come like thieves in the night? The home owner isn't even here.” He turned to his fellow settlers. “Has anyone gone to look for Gabi? I saw him earlier in synagogue.”

“Talking? Who are you going to talk to?” says Neta.

“Talking?” Omer responds. “You want to talk? Go to Beit El and talk to the administration. Why didn't you want to talk when we posted the orders this morning? You wanted to talk? You wanted to rip them, you wanted to laugh in our faces, and when”— Omer went red, sweated, the vein in his throat throbbed—“when a soldier who's protecting you asked that smart-ass what he's doing, he had the nerve to insult and curse him.”

“Who cursed?” Othniel asked.

“Who cursed. Josh!” Omer pointed at the American, who was still rubbing his aching chin. “And don't go thinking he's the only one. That smart-ass woman called us Nazis two minutes ago, didn't she?” He turned his head toward Neta Hirschson. “You've all lost your minds!” The officer delivered the last sentence almost in a scream, his eyes bulging, his throat hoarse. Usually he tried to stay level-headed and maintain good relationships, but something had snapped in him, a dam burst. “
Who cursed
, he asks me,” he said, almost to himself, “playing the innocent.” The settlers looked at him, astonished. What's up with him? All because Josh called the nigger—a nigger? Or he'd been possessed by some left-wing bullshit? Or maybe his girlfriend dumped him, or his promotion's been held back? Thunder suddenly rolled in, and a heavenly voice rose and intensified and overshadowed the stormy voices debating who would give the IDF officer a dose of his own medicine—it was Josh, backed by tears and arm-waving and heightened emotions.

“You won't come to my house and tell me what to talk,” he shouted in his still-modest Hebrew. “All I am doing is to protect our homes and to stop nonsense of your orders. I went to Aish HaTorah and came to Israel after 9/11 because to need to do something, it is time to not be silent anymore, and now army tells us to go and Arabs stay? You come and break house we built with our own hands for more than year? You tell me where to be? The land is ours like Torah says without the bullshit of telling me what to do, and here, too”—his voice rose and broke into the scream of a dog that's been kicked, a match for Omer's scream a moment ago—“I'm being told what to do? My family are anusim from Spain, you know what that is? Do you know history? You talk to me about a nature reserve? From Spain they expelled us, like dogs, and my ancestors traveled to New Mexico, converted to Christianity, were scared to be Jews. They became cowboys, but their traditions remained—one day I will tell you, if some senses returns to your head—and we became Jews again, I went to yeshiva, I studied Torah, I came to Israel, not afraid of anyone, and you say nonsense about a nature reserve?”

Three soldiers overpowered Josh and cuffed him. He continued to resist, and a few of his friends tried to intervene, but were met by the
advance of other soldiers in their direction. “Anusim! Anusim! That's what we were, and that's what we are now, don't touch me, you piece of shit . . .”

“Smart-ass!” Omer yelled at the young American, who was put into the command car. “I won't accept talk like that about my soldiers and about the IDF and the state! There are laws here. Yes, we will tell you to obey them and you will listen. We're now going to post new orders in place of those you ripped, and I'm warning you. God forbid anyone dares to touch a single order. Because then I'll come and start taking houses to pieces, and I don't give a shit if the orders say it's to happen in ten days. I decide, and in a year or two, when there is nothing at all on this hilltop, it'll be simply a beautiful and peaceful nature reserve—who'll remember if the homes were razed ten days early?” Omer raised an angry fist. “I won't tolerate cursing and yelling. One by one we'll take you into custody for obstructing a soldier in the execution of his duty . . .”

The sound of a familiar clopping was suddenly heard in the distance, coming ever closer. The stamping of Killer's canter was well known to everyone on the hilltop, and now into view came the white diamond on the horse's brown forehead, and he slowed to a light trot before stopping with a tug on the rein. On his back sat Jehu and behind him Gabi, his eyes agape at the sight of the wreckage of the cabin, the soldiers, his fellow settlers, and a deep cry emerged and rose from his chest and from his rib cage and from the cradle of his heart, higher and higher it rose through his middle and into the throat and out the opening of his mouth—an intense scream of anguish that was answered by a desert echo and the wailing of jackals and the howling of dogs and the crying of children and women and a whinny and raised leg from Killer.

Omer was breathing heavily, the sweat glistened on his forehead and flushed cheeks. He hadn't finished all he intended to say, but Gabi's cry rooted him to the spot. Next to him stood Yoni, also covered in sweat and his heart pounding while the other soldiers returned to the vehicles, loaded the gear, retrieved new orders. One of them even plastered an order to the stone siding that had served as the backing for the cabin's wall. An icy gust of wind blew up papers from inside the cabin, knocked a tin coil heater onto its side, waved pieces of fabric.

Yoni remained fixed at his commander's side. If he wasn't being discharged next week, he'd probably have to leave. Remaining here would be impossible after this incident. He was confused and distraught, grateful for and moved by Omer's support, yes, they'd been pushed too far, but at the same time his heart weighed heavy for the stunned settlers; perhaps there had been another way? What would become of Gabi, who'd put his heart and soul into the cabin? Already he felt a sense of responsibility toward the settlers, and when his eyes wandered to them, he felt a pang of longing for Gitit, whose facial features and hair color he found in her younger sister Emunah, and a sentimental lump stuck in his throat.

E
very Friday Nir Rivlin made his way on foot from his new home in Ma'aleh Hermesh A. to visit his daughters and son at C. Ever since the separation from Shaulit, he had dropped the Friday-morning class at the Jerusalem School of Kosher Culinary Arts. In fact, he pretty much gave up on the school entirely—he no longer met the attendance quota, wouldn't pass the final exams, and wouldn't do an internship. With his guitar on his back, he crossed fields, descended along the Hermesh Stream riverbed, and climbed the dirt path to the settlement, among the puddles.

It was clear that morning. The heavy clouds had disappeared and left behind crisp and cool air that Nir liked to draw in between his teeth. Traffic on the road was abundant. He waved away offers of a ride. Thought about the Torah portion of the week, Shemot, about Moses and the Burning Bush, about the lesson from the rabbi he'd heard the day before yesterday. Ran a hand through the curly ginger hair he'd been growing of late, patted down his new skullcap, more colorful than its predecessor, stroked the beard he'd started trimming and grooming. He thought about the song he was going to sing to Amalia and Tchelet and little Zvuli; he was excited to see them. He tilted his head back and smiled up at the sky—life's good! If only Shaulit would agree to his coming home,
it would be perfect, and he was sure she'd agree in the end. For the sake of the children. She was right to throw him out—he was drinking, was lazy, didn't help, was insensitive, lost control. But she'd see the change. The investment in the children. He hadn't had a drop of alcohol in more than a month, the pot he had stopped almost entirely. She'd break, she hadn't asked for a
get
, after all, and the rabbi was on his side, promised to appeal to her heart. Perhaps she'd forgive him today? A new Hebrew month was on the doorstep, a new Torah scroll, the sun in the sky—a perfect Sabbath for new beginnings. Or renewed. He reached the final steep ascent and tackled it with a burst of energy, navigating among the pools of mud, his calf muscles dragging his body upward, homeward.