The Hilltop (21 page)

Roni got word somehow of the meeting and requested and was granted a hearing, in which he tried to plead his case: In light of the unclear status of the trailer, originally designated for Givat Yeshua and still wanted there, and due to the High Court of Justice's rejection of the petition against the military demarcation order—in other words, the entire settlement was slated for evacuation at some stage in the future—it might not be worthwhile to bring in a new family before ascertaining which way the wind was blowing, and until then, “Regardless of what emerges, let me move in. I'm already here. If I need to move out, I'll do so
in a flash. Truth be told, I won't be staying longer than a month or two in any case, three at the most . . .”

“Until you tie up your deal for the oil from the Arabs from Kharmish?” came Rachel's question, followed by a chuckle from Hilik, and Othniel Assis fixed him with a look of stern disapproval. Roni had heard that Othniel was a believer in Jewish labor, despite once having employed Thai workers in his mushroom greenhouses for a period of time, and wasn't happy about Roni's business dealings with Musa.

“Yes . . . No . . .”

“Tell me,” Othniel said, winking at Hilik, “have you asked him yet about the Kibbutz Movement as a failure-in-waiting for your doctorate?” Hilik's smile turned a little bitter. He hadn't been working on his doctorate like he should have.

Roni lost. The status of the trailer, and of the outpost as a whole, was indeed hanging in the balance, but there was nothing new in that—for that very reason, there was a need to establish facts on the ground so as to tip that balance resoundingly and unwaveringly in their favor. Therefore it would be best, too, for settlers to move in rather than designating the home public use as a day-care facility. The committee thus decided to bring in the Gotlieb family, who came across in their hearing as very sympathetic—precisely the human makeup they were looking for, a young couple with two children from Shilo, the man an optician who wanted to open a store in Ma'aleh Hermesh A., the woman a rabbi's daughter.

“Please tell them,” Rachel requested, “to come for a welcoming Sabbath, and as far as I'm concerned, they can move in immediately afterward, with the greatest of pleasure and success. And tell them to speak to me about the home's missing pieces. We'll have a chat with the Settlement Division.”

The nerve of them, Roni thought, deeply disappointed. Instead of being thankful that someone normal like me is willing to live in their dirty asshole of a place, what do they do, make fun of me? Bunch of lunatics, they can go shove their trailer. He returned to his bed, Gabi's former sofa, and lay there, morose. The living room had become stifling and oppressive for both of them. He wasn't at ease, and he had noticed that even his brother was struggling with the situation. Gabi was all
smiles and love like always; everything, as he viewed the world, was God's will—tests, gifts, whatever he used to say. But Roni knew his brother well, and beneath his smiles, he could see his patience wearing very thin.

T
he bulldozers arrived on a scorching hot day in May, the Hebrew month of Iyar, when Israelis celebrated their independence and their memories. With concerned looks in their eyes, a group of outpost residents gathered on the outskirts of the hilltop and watched as the gray monsters slowly progressed, emerging from the alleyways of Kharmish like enraged chicks hatching from their shells.

“Are those loaders?” asked Elazar Freud, who had been roused from his desk by the noise.

Hilik snickered. “No, they're D-9s,” he said. “Loaders have wheels and are smaller. Those ones, with the tracks, are the real mean beasts.”

“They didn't dare come here, huh?” Elazar said.

“No,” piped in Othniel. “It's because they need to work on their side. The route of the fence runs adjacent to that olive grove over there.”

“Yes, Musa's,” Roni said. “The bastards!”

“And they also want to move up to our land. Do you realize just how absurd that is?”

Yoni arrived, his rifle at the ready angled across his chest. “Okay, guys,” he said, “let's break up this demonstration.”

“What demonstration?” The six residents, whose gazes had been firmly fixed southward until then, turned to face him.

Hidden behind his Ray-Bans, Yoni focused for a moment on the beauty mark next to Gitit Assis's ear and swallowed hard. “Listen, okay? I've been ordered to keep you in check if there's any trouble,” he said.

“Trouble . . . pshhh, if only someone would make some trouble around here,” Othniel snorted, and flipped open his cell phone with his thumb, first dialing Natan Eliav, the secretary of Ma'aleh Hermesh A., and then Dov, the head of the regional council, and MK Uriel Tsur next,
and so on—the usual round of calls. They all promised to look into the matter and get back to him. Othniel shut the device, which responded immediately by ringing.

“Yes, Dov,” he said to the regional council head, “I understand . . . Okay. And what's the council's stand on the matter? . . . No, not the regional council, the Yesha Council, the council of Jewish settlements in Judea, Samaria, and Gaza.”

Othniel noticed that everyone around him had gone quiet and was waiting for the response, so he went over to speaker mode. Dov's voice came through clearly: “At this stage,” the regional council chief said, “the Yesha Council's decided not to go with the proposal not to take a stand on the matter.”

Othniel stared at the instrument, confused. “What does that mean?” he asked.

“It means that we're going to decide quickly on our position. Either to attack the government for the decision to route the fence through here, and move to reverse it with the help of our friends in the Knesset, or to support the plans to construct the fence through the olive groves, while at the same time opposing any encroachment on the outpost's land, and then prevent the left-wingers from introducing a no-confidence motion. A third option would be to bring down the government no matter what, and to hope that by the time elections are held and a new government is in place, the entire story will be forgotten.”

Othniel gave Hilik a puzzled look and then turned to fix his daughters, Gitit and Dvora, with the same. “Just a moment,” he said to the phone, “so what did you decide today?”

“To rule out the fourth option,” Dov explained, “which was to do nothing at all, to wait and see how things develop, and to hope that we receive post facto approval for the settlement's master plan, which has been with the Planning Council for several months now. In fact, the timing of all this may even present an opportunity to secure its approval. And if it passes, we'll get an injunction based on the approval.
Capisce
?”

“Gotcha,” Othniel responded, and smiled at his daughters.

“So, anyway, this morning we ruled out that option—not to take a stand.”

“I'm actually all for buying time,” Hilik interjected, bringing his mouth closer to Othniel's phone. “It usually pays off. Within two years, the demarcation order won't be worth the paper on which it's printed, less than two years, in fact.” He looked at his old analog watch, ivory in color, with a small window displaying the Gregorian calendar date where the 3 would be. He switched to the corresponding Hebrew date in his head and did the math. “A year and nine months, more or less.”

“In any event” came Dov's voice again, “let us know immediately if the D-9s begin moving in and we'll send in thousands from the region to stop them. I'm going to try to get ahold of the defense minister, too. I spoke earlier with Malka, his aide on settlement affairs. Ah, yes, that reminds me, how does the defense minister know already that you've moved a new family into the settlement?”

Othniel hurriedly muted the speaker and, running his fingers through his beard, slipped away from the group. “What?” he spoke quietly into the phone.

“Malka said they were aware that a new family had moved in. Even I was in the dark. When did this happen?”

“I don't believe it. They moved in only yesterday, and the decision was made just last week. Are you sure that's what he said?”

“Come now, it's true, isn't it? Someone told them. Do me a favor, try to keep these things a little more under wraps. Malka said the same. It doesn't serve our best interests.”

“Sure, sure,” Othniel replied, thoughts racing through his mind. “We'll check it out.” He turned back to the group. “Come, people, let's go see if the soldiers over there know anything.”

“Ah . . . Othni, I'd like you to remain right here.” It was the soft-but-somewhat-rasping voice of Yoni. “I've been ordered not to allow you to approach the loaders—”

“It's okay,” said Othniel Assis, who, beyond being the oldest and longest-serving resident of Ma'aleh Hermesh C., was also blessed with a deep, authoritarian voice and a piercing gaze that wasn't readily challenged, certainly not by Yoni, even from behind his Ray-Bans. “We're just going for a short walk. That's allowed, right?”

“I'm asking you not to go,” Yoni replied with admirable courage. They continued walking.

“I need to have a word with my building contractor, Kamal,” said Hilik, who was expecting delivery over the coming days of half a container to expand his family home into a
caravilla
ahead of the upcoming birth of his daughter. Othniel had tried to talk him into finding a Jewish contractor and Jewish laborers, but wasn't willing to loan out Gabi, and hiring a Jewish contractor and laborers from outside the settlement was expensive. So Hilik made an arrangement with Kamal from Kharmish, who would bring along two workers and complete the job quickly and cheaply, without social security or pension payments, travel costs, and all the other hassles and headaches that came with employing Jews.

Othniel, however, was tenacious. “You need to set an example for the youngsters,” he said to Hilik while they walked.

“Believe me, Othni, I tried,” Hilik responded. “What choice do I have?”

Like others on the hilltop and from Ma'aleh Hermesh A. and B., Hilik would fill his gas containers in Majdal Tur for half price or shop at the Kharmish grocery store. But Othniel was a purist of Jewish labor, and stubborn, too. “I have someone for you. Herzl, an excellent contractor,” he said. “He'll give you a good price, trust me. And I'll organize some financial aid for you, too.”

“Financial aid from where?” Hilik's ears pricked up.

“A special rate for students, you can count on Othni, old man,” Othniel said, “and on Herzl. He's a contractor to die for, he'll do the job a thousand times better than the Arab, and he won't stick a
jambiya
in your back.”

Yoni surrendered. He called to update Omer, as he followed the group of settlers, his eyes darting back and forth between Othniel, the loaders, and Gitit Assis's hips and ass encased in their thick denim skirt. Behind them came the clopping of Killer's hooves, and Jehu quietly drew up alongside him.

*  *  *

The two track-type Caterpillar D-9N bulldozers, huge and dusty, weighing in at fifty tons, four meters high and eight meters long, including the
front blade and rear ripper, lay motionless like two lions at the entrance to a palace. Alongside their huge, threatening steel limbs that rested on the ground side by side, the work team—two commanders and two operators—had set up a small gas burner and were boiling Turkish coffee. Yoni hurried over to them and quietly relayed the company commander's instruction to refrain from conversing with the settlers. “Why not? All's good, bro,” one of them responded. “Let them come. We'll talk to them with pleasure. Tell me, is that a Thoroughbred?”

Jehu, atop his horse, barely acknowledged the soldier with a glance. Othniel glared at Yoni and then smiled at the soldiers. “Hey there, guys,” he said. “If you need anything, food, drinks, blankets, anything at all, just come and ask. We're happy to provide.”

“We're good, bro, thanks, but there's no need,” said the soldier who spoke previously to Yoni. The rank displayed on the sleeves of his shirt indicated he was an operator, not a commander, but he acted like the spokesperson for the group. He was chubby and dark-skinned, and one of his eyes tended to wander when he tried to focus his gaze.

“So what's happening here? When do you begin working?” Othniel asked, putting an end to the small talk.

“We don't know,” the soldier said. “We're waiting for instructions.”

“And when are you expecting the instructions? Today? Tomorrow?”

“We don't know,” the soldier repeated. “Today, tomorrow, in a week. Who knows with this fence? They're waiting for the High Court ruling.”

“No, the petition to the High Court was rejected,” said Elazar Freud.

Company commander Omer Levkovich's jeep pulled up in a cloud of dust that caused everyone on the scene to cover their faces with their hands and cough. “Don't speak to them, please, guys,” the captain instructed.

“We simply wanted to know what's happening,” said Othniel Assis. “And hello to you, too.”

“Nothing's happening. Let's break it up here. The bulldozers will sit here until the order to begin work comes through. We're waiting for the High Court ruling.”

“We lost our petition to the High Court,” Elazar reiterated. “Haven't you been informed?”

“Not your High Court petition. A petition filed by left-wingers and Arabs against the damage to the private olive groves.”

“Ahhh . . .” Othniel uttered with a smile. He hadn't heard about it. He called Dov, who promised to look into the matter and to provide any assistance he possibly could to the guys from the Peace Now organization.

“Holy crap, so that's what the High Court debate is all about?” said the chubby soldier. “I don't believe it. I don't get why anyone has to ask the High Court–Shmigh Court or the bloody Arabs for permission. Give me five minutes and I'll wipe out all those fucking trees. And if possible, lay down some of those dirty bastards among the trees and we'll wipe them all out together.”