The Hilltop (64 page)

Gabi-Kareem-Abdul-Jabbar kept a tense eye on the encounter between Nir-Rambo and Shaulit-the-penguin. He felt like a kid in the corner at a party who follows the every move of his crush, waiting nervously for a slow dance. What's happening to me? he asked himself. When the penguin walked by or flashed him a half-smile, he went weak at the knees.

Rachel Assis was Snow White and Othniel, her husband—with the aid of an errant curl and a black hat that could have belonged to a rabbi and a sparkling red suit and eye makeup—Michael Jackson. And aside from their daughter the Dutch girl, and their sons—the left-winger, the space shuttle, and the cowboy—their family also included a fourteen-year-old archaeologist in a khaki outfit and carrying a magnifying glass—Dvora—and a red pepper, wrapped in a special soft rubber material that had been sewn to size and shape and painted a bold red, which won six-year-old Emunah second place in the competition.

Yoni found a brown-and-white-striped shirt and retrieved a pair of real metal handcuffs from the box of security equipment and cuffed one of his wrists—a prisoner. Jehu was Queen Esther complete with makeup and thick sidelocks, and his horse, Killer, wore a Santa Claus hood from Bethlehem. Jenia Freud was dressed as a supermarket cashier in a white robe and thick glasses and a lavish hairdo and repeating the slogan “Do you have a customer card?” Hilik, Nehama, and Shneor Yisraeli dressed up in a group as brides. The infants Zvuli Rivlin and Yemima-Me'ara received
tiny pairs of sunglasses and toy guitars and were labeled a rock band. And Neta Hirschson brought along a professional makeup kit from home and helped to make up the children, and then went up on stage to preside over the ceremony. She welcomed the arrivals and badmouthed the government and invited everyone to eat and drink and thanked everyone who was helping out—she herself was dressed as an orange tigress, furry and sharp-clawed.

In first place: three-year-old Tchelet Rivlin, dressed up as corn on the cob, draped in row upon row of kernels sewn by Shaulit's patient hand for weeks, a pale yellowish corn dress made from the real thing. The idea was Tchelet's and the work a combined effort of hers and her mother's, including a hood made from warm fleece that was sewn in the right shape and the right size, with precise holes for eyes, nostrils, ears, and mouth. Perfect, as Neta Hirschson admitted when awarding the prize—a Torah, a festive assortment of treats and candies, and two tickets to the central Purim celebrations at the Convention Center in Jerusalem that evening, with performances by Avraham Fried and Mordechai Ben David.

Of all things not to hear, Omer's jeep. At that point the party was in full swing, the band was back to playing at full volume after the costume competition and speeches. Empty wine bottles piled up on the side, clouds darkened the sky, the biting cold was almost forgotten, thanks to the steam coming off the bodies packed tightly together in two small groups, women and men. Roni-Harry-Potter told his brother Gabi-Kareem-Abdul-Jabbar that he'd decided to leave the settlement, but Kareem was more focused on congratulating Shaulit-penguin on her daughter's victory in the costume competition, and the penguin thanked him and whispered that Nir-Rambo would be taking Tchelet-corn to the show at the Convention Center in the evening, so maybe Gabi-Kareem would like to come over to see her? Alongside the sheet that served as the partition, Jehu-Queen-Esther huddled together with Josh-Arab-terrorist, Yoni-prisoner fired glances at Gitit-luscious-Dutch-girl under the stern and watchful eye of Othniel-Michael-Jackson, and Elazar-Freud-Herzl huddled with Jean-Marc-IDF-officer, congratulated him on the pregnancy of Neta-the-tigress, and picked up Nefesh-the-policeman, who
was sobbing bitterly. Tears were also choking Hananiya-Assis-Silvery-space-shuttle, who was sure he would win first place, and he was being comforted by Rachel-Snow-White. The spirit of Purim at its finest. And then the soldiers showed up.

A
helicopter hovered in the sky. Eyes turned toward it and toward Captain Omer Levkovich's David jeep and worried glances were exchanged. Othniel located Roni and said to him, “It's time. Get going.” Harry Potter stared blankly at the Michael Jackson talking to him, his hand clutching his umpteenth bottle of beer. Then he remembered. “Ah! Right! You were serious, yes?”

“Yes,” Othniel replied.

“No, because it's Purim, and all, and who knows . . .”

“Serious,” ruled Othniel.

Roni found Yakir the peacenik and said to him, “Come on, let's move.”

Yakir, who had also had a few drinks, replied, “Ten-four.”

“While I'm thinking about it, take the Arab with you, too,” Othniel said. He pointed at a masked man wearing a kaffiyeh.

“Josh?” Yakir replied.

The three headed out.

Omer's David jeep was followed by the arrival of Humvees. And armored personnel carriers. And D-9s. A noisy and heavy-duty convoy. The audio system of the Jerusalem sound company carried another traditional Purim tune from the instruments of the Settlers, with the song flowing somewhat surprisingly into a Mashina rock number.

Michael Jackson asked how can this be. And a bride in her wedding dress said it's incomprehensible. And a tigress screamed oppression. And Snow White cried, “Like so? On a festival? Have you no shame?” Michael Jackson whipped out his phone and called his friend the major general. No answer, not a word. The Settlers sang “He rode to Palestine on a two-humped
camel.” Rambo said, “What a mess,” and it wasn't clear if he was enjoying the wine or concerned about the developments. Kareem Abdul-Jabbar looked for his penguin, and the prisoner was summoned to his commander but he, too, had been drinking a little, fuck it, it's his last day in the army, he's allowed to celebrate. The dogs barked, and the convoy came to a halt, and soldiers and blank-faced riot police emerged from the vehicles.

Approaching the Arab village were Harry Potter, a red-haired Arab, and a peacenik. They carried a festive assortment of Purim treats, a rustling cellophane bag with chewy candies, four mini chocolate bars, Jenia Freud's coconut-chocolate cookies, and more sweets for the people of the village. Yakir and Josh spoke in low voices about some technology issue and Roni walked ahead of them in silence, smoked, wondered about Rina the kindergarten teacher and the closed kindergarten where he had spent his Tel Aviv nights. A desert lark that suddenly took to the sky above the barren hilltops caught his eye—is he flying to warmer lands?—and he recalled his last conversation with Musa, when he called to say someone had set fire to trees in his grove. Roni sensed he suspected him, called to find out where he was, but he was in Tel Aviv. He promised Musa he'd look into it. And tried he did, but ran into a wall of silence that reminded him of the kibbutz—everyone seemed to know who did what, but God forbid someone should talk about it on the outside. And Roni was on the outside. Even Gabi gave him this answer: Forget it, don't poke your nose in, let us manage our own affairs. Roni wondered just how much his brother himself was a part of the inner circle on the hilltop, what did he know. He tossed his cigarette butt onto the soft earth and smiled a bitter smile. He was no fool. He'd been living here for a year, knew all the players. It wasn't hard to work out who served as the hilltop's go-to man for special missions, whether acting on his own discretion or on behalf of the community. The quiet kid on the horse called Killer, Jehu.

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?