The Hilltop (65 page)

“We don't need Jews who are dressed up for the hajj,” another youth said, and hurled a stone along a lengthy ballistic trajectory that culminated about a meter behind Josh and startled the Israeli delegation.

“Take it easy!” ordered Roni, the head of the delegation. “It's okay. They'll realize in a moment that we've come with good intentions. As soon as they recognize me, everything will be fine. Show them, show them the Purim gift.” He waved his arms. “Musa! Musa!” he yelled. “It's me, Roni! Don't throw sto—” Another stone landed some two meters to their left. “No! Salaam!”

“Should I get the gun out?” Yakir asked. His heart was beating so intensely that he could feel it in his throat.

“No! Don't be crazy!” Roni shouted. But Josh picked up a stone and threw it back.

“Fuck you, sons of bitches,” he yelled. “Go fuck off, Arabs! Afterward you don't wonder why we fuck you.”

“Josh, take it easy. It's a mistake to, don't throw . . .” A barrage of stones rained down around them in response to Josh's stone, and in the cries in Arabic that were heard, Roni recognized the words “Go” and “Jew.” Josh picked up another stone and threw it hard. A sudden gust of wind carried from behind them the sound of a loud blast, and a snippet from a song, and also a few—what are those—stray snowflakes?

*  *  *

Jehu gives me a saw. He pours gasoline. So it shall be done to a man. Dude, you're testing us. Want to see what we're made of. Sending soldiers to destroy my home, the fruits of my labors. There, take that, you bastards. You'll learn who we are. I can smell the wood from the cabin I built with my own two hands for a full year and they came and dare to . . . I close my eyes and saw. Take that. Jehu kneels with his Zippo. Josh went to smash windshields and slash tires. Nir kept watch to make sure no one was coming. Jehu organized us in secret, on the ruins of the cabin. Othniel saw us getting together and must have known what we were discussing. So shall it be done. Take that, treacherous Arabs, we come to you with good intentions and you stab us in the back. Roni gave you money—my money—and you screwed him over. You threw the money into the trash, Roni into the trash, my trip to Uman into the trash. How dare you. And next thing it's my home that gets destroyed? Sawing and sawing with eyes closed, vigorously. The bush is burning. You are holy and Your name is holy. I touch my sweaty neck, my wet shirt, wood chippings. Us you don't hurt. Us you don't screw over. Because You chose us and exalted us. I touch my face and smell the burning trees.

*  *  *

The stone that Josh hurled struck a young boy who was standing on the edge of the gathering, and the growl that rose from the Arab congregation did not bode well. More youths emerged from the homes, armed with sticks. Stones rained down from every direction. Roni looked back
in bewilderment at the hilltop, where he could hear the indistinct sounds of creaking metal and random bangs. “Fuck,” he said, and ducked down. The Purim gift wasn't going to happen. “Let's go back before they start going crazy. Josh, stop throwing!”

There was so much noise on the hilltop that no one was aware of the drama unfolding in nearby Kharmish. Even Othniel, who minutes earlier had followed the progress of the three figures who disappeared down the slope, was now entirely focused on screaming at Omer and at the D-9. Not that they heard him. This time there was no one to jump onto the D-9—Neta was pregnant, bent over on the sideline, nauseated, Roni was on a mission behind enemy lines, and Musa was at home. Beilin and Condi barked viciously at the soldiers.

Pippi ran this way, and space shuttle that way, and Bigfoot another way, and the dressed-up IDF officer wanted to but felt strange about taking on the real IDF soldiers, and Herzl shook his head in disbelief over the shattering of the dream, and the infant rock band burst into a coordinated symphony of howls, and drunk Rambo couldn't decide whether to help his family or forcefully oppose the soldiers, so, in the meantime, as a compromise, he stood next to the table with the wine and went on sipping from the plastic cup and moved his head to the rap music that the DJ suddenly decided to play. The wind blew cold and the tigress rose from her nausea to scream in a hoarse voice, “No! No! No! How can you feel no shame? Evil bastards!” Kareem asked the penguin if she was okay, and the prisoner who went crazy sucked on the breasts of the Dutch girl in the tower, and Rambo suddenly sat down in the middle of everything and strummed sad notes on a guitar. More tear gas was fired, startling the little ones and stifling the big ones, and the D-9 completed the crushing of its first trailer, flattened it, cleared it away, and prepared to move on to its next target, moving slowly along its tracks, and the crowd behind it. Tchelet-Rivlin-corn-on-the-cob cried woefully by the playground, because she had lost her parents and dropped the Torah she'd won, and the gift box of treats and candies lay scattered everywhere and no one was paying any attention to the costume champion.

Something shook the guard tower. Maybe the large bulldozer that was making the earth shudder, or a stray rock, but it was enough to startle the
Dutch girl out of her dream. No, it's not right. Not with a soldier in the deportation army, and certainly not while that army is demolishing the homes of Jews. She pushed away the prisoner's small, thick-curled head, fastened the bra and shirt buttons, descended from the guard tower still sensing his small agile tongue on her nipples, the moistness of his saliva, the arousal of her body, but she placed all that under lock and key, to remain thus for a long time, and ended the story without even a final glance to bring down the curtain.

Tchelet-corn-on-the-cob found her mother and her father. Her small hands warmed in theirs and she smiled up at the sky. Soft and slender flakes landed on her pretty face.

*  *  *

The residents of Kharmish, incensed and increasingly self-assured, took off in pursuit of the uninvited. The blasts and smoke coming from the hilltop told them something was happening, and when something happens, that means the Arabs are going to get it, even if the settlers get it first. They neared the trio. Someone next to Nimer fired two flares into the air to frighten them. Nimer himself drew a pistol and fired twice into the air. Why is the one dressed for the hajj? And why does that one have a rubber bald wig and Roni a curly wig and glasses without lenses? They're making fun of us? They're drunk?

They were drunk. They stumbled and tried to flee. They were so afraid. Yakir wept in fear and rage at his father. Roni was no longer trying to convince anyone of his peaceful intentions. Josh continued to throw stones and curse. They ran toward the outpost. When Yakir heard the shooting and blasts, he threw down the Purim gift, pulled out the Desert Eagle, released the safety, and fired into the air. The thunderous blast startled Roni, who screamed, “What are you doing, jackass!” The pursuers scattered—like Jenia's cookies from the torn packet—but then renewed the chase with increased vigor. Roni was sweating, but somehow it didn't occur to him to remove the wig and glasses. Josh, too, stuck with the kaffiyeh and Yakir with his leftist paraphernalia—you don't think about such things when you're running for your life. Yakir fired into the air again, and again the shot momentarily deterred the chasing Palestinians, but then more shots and blasts came from them, too.

“Enough, enough with the shooting,” said Roni, his throat hoarse and out of breath, “we're almost there,” and Josh turned and hurled a fistful of stones. The Arabs gathered with renewed strength and increased adrenaline. Tires appeared from somewhere and were set alight, and black smoke rose and befouled the cold air. Josh yelled, “Shoot them in the head,” and Roni responded, “Have you lost your mind?” And Yakir took aim and fired one last shot into the sky, and thought with a quivering heart: It's not worth it, I don't want to die for this nonsense.

And then the snow stopped hesitating and really began to fall—in thick, slow, soft, regal chunks.

Soldiers, police, and settlers turned their heads toward the shots heard from the south, and saw a Palestinian mob storming toward them from the direction of Kharmish and black smoke rising into the air. “What the fuck?” mumbled Omer Levkovich just as the D-9 struck an electricity pole, the music stopped and the lights went out, a series of pops rang out and sparks flew from power cables, cries of panic and oh-my-God filled the air, and everyone scattered in all directions, and screamed, and cried, and only the mild-mannered snow continued its quiet descent, like Mordechai's raiment.

T
he snow lay on Ma'aleh Hermesh C. for three whole days, covering, silencing. The quiet froze, and the peacefulness slowed, and the surrounding hills winked in their whiteness, and the distant landscapes, the desert landscapes, the lower-lying ones, joined in the mood with a lighter than usual beige, which was reflected in the sky, which whitened and blinded the sun, which finally appeared somewhat feebly, hanging its head in humility.

And from within the silence came nothing but the sound of a small hammer, banging, knock-knock-knock: Gabi resurrecting the cabin. And the joyful cries of the children making snowballs in the Mamelstein playground and sliding down the hilltop slope on their bottoms on plastic bags.

Roni Kupper spent the first night after the Purim party in Josh and Jehu's bachelor trailer, which was also Gabi's temporary residence. He was consumed with thoughts and emotions from the events of the past days, from the phone calls with Rina and the quick visit to Tel Aviv, from the smashed trailer that had been his home in recent months, from the peace delegation he had led to Kharmish that went utterly awry—but in the end, he realized, achieved precisely the objective that Othniel had envisioned.

Despite the adrenaline and racing thoughts, he fell asleep the moment his head hit the mattress, and woke in the morning to the white hilltop, marveling at its pristine beauty. Rina rang, and they spent the snowy days on one endless heart-to-heart call, and the moment cars could set out from the hilltop, he went to Tel Aviv. They shared a clumsy embrace when they met, and a hesitant kiss on the cheek. Over lunch they continued to develop the idea: a bar-nightclub that they'd call Kindergarten After Hours, which would operate during the night hours out of Rina's kindergarten on Shlomo HaMelech Street. Rina stressed over and over—as if trying to convince herself—that the partnership between them was strictly business. She desperately needed money, because the municipality was bleeding her dry and children had left the kindergarten and the costs weren't coming down and she was spiraling into debt but didn't want to shut down. She loved the work, that's what she knew how to do, and she did it well. Roni was sure Kindergarten After Hours was going to be a hit. The customers would love the kindergarten décor because it wasn't décor but the natural setting of the place. People like authenticity. He'd set up a small bar in the one corner. He'd make sure that at the close of every night the place would be clean of cigarette butts and beer stains, fragrant and tidy. He even thought that by pulling a few strings from his pub days, he'd manage to get a semi-official permit from the municipality. He was excited, because he wanted it. Because it suited him. Yes, he promised Rina, it's strictly business, that's clear. But they parted with a long stare and a lengthy embrace, and when Roni wandered through the streets of the city afterward, he knew he was excited not only by the business and the return home but also, and perhaps mostly, by the warmth of her body and her brown eyes.

On his next and last visit to Ma'aleh Hermesh C.—after the snow,
after the winds had died down, after the final decision to return to Tel Aviv—he'll show up with a small black puppy, from a litter birthed by the dog of Rina's best friend. A charming puppy, quiet, tiny, and furry, that Roni decides will make a great roommate and friend for his brother. A farewell gift. It'll bring a smile to Gabi's face. He'll tickle the puppy under its chin and lay down a bowl with water and another with cottage cheese, which the dog will lick with its small and sturdy tongue. Amalia and Tchelet will go crazy for it, Gabi will think. He knew his brother thought he needed a friend to relieve the loneliness. Okay, let him think so, good luck to him. If he hasn't understood by now that I am never alone with the Master of the universe, he'll never understand it. The dog's cute, seriously cute. It'll have a good life here. We need to find him a name, we'll think about one with the girls. Gabi will tell Roni that it's tailor-made for him, Kindergarten After Hours. He'll wish him only well. And his brother will reply, “You know what? This Breslov thing, with the pompom at the top, is tailor-made for you, too. This time you'll manage to hold on, and the new cabin, too, may it be built quickly. Honestly, my bro.” They'll share a long embrace, and Gabi will feel light, light, light as a feather.

Roni will make do with a visit to his little brother. On his way out he'll stop and rest his eyes on Musa Ibrahim's olive groves. What's done is done. His gaze will wander to whatever remains are left of the trailer, the mobile home where the Gotlieb family got burned, the one that turned up one day by mistake, and stayed, and was nationalized, and looted, and populated, and deserted, and populated again, and again deserted, and finally demolished by the teeth of the heavy-duty engineering machinery of the Israel Defense Forces. Bad karma it had, that trailer. Perhaps its fate was for the best.

The guy from the Electricity Corporation will explain that there was an electrical short. It probably started in the trailer that was destroyed, which was full of patchwork electrical jobs. The electrician won't understand the manner in which they were hooked up to the grid, it was completely amateurish, and dangerous, and fortunately nothing worse happened. He'll install a new control panel and a spanking-new fuse box, a new world of three-phase electrical power on the hilltop: without power
outages and voltage drops and thinking twice about water boilers and geysers and air conditioners and heaters and losing material on the computer. “Just tell the guy from the demolished trailer,” the man requested of Othniel Assis and Hilik Yisraeli, who were escorting him, “to take it easy with exposed cables and improvised electrical connections, and not to leave the coil heater on all the time.”