The Hilltop (31 page)

T
he defense minister was back from Washington, where he successfully wormed his way into a brief meeting in the Diplomatic Reception Room and tried to minimize the damage caused by the McKinley article in the
Post
.

“McKinley went too far,” the minister charged. “We're talking about a small, insignificant outpost with a handful of families. You can't possibly make the claim that the American taxpayer or U.S. Treasury has had to
foot the bill for anything there, for the simple reason that no one at all has spent a dime there. Apart from Mamelstein, a private individual, and what, after all, did he donate? Nothing but a small playground.”

“But what about the water, the electricity, the military protection?” asked the U.S. president, who, much to the regret of the minister, had been thoroughly briefed. “What about the road that was paved there? That was the work of the Public Works Department—U.S. satellite photographs prove that—not a private donation.”

“Yes,” the minister responded. “It's complicated, because we have to protect our citizens against Arab aggression even if they have settled there only temporarily, and the young people who have grown up in the settlements don't have anywhere—” He tried not to stumble over his words, but the president interjected, “I've actually been reading about immigrants from the U.S., Russia, France, and not merely extended families. It's unlawful. And what's this about giving in to the people who were protesting the evacuation because they jumped onto a tractor? I don't get it,” the president said. “I don't understand how you run things there. Is there no law?”

The defense minister stared at one of the president's socks. “It wasn't a tractor, Mr. President,” he said. “It was a D-9 bulldozer.” The minister subsequently claimed, in off-the-record conversations that were then widely quoted, that the president wasn't up to speed with all the particulars.

The minister had expected the meeting to be his most difficult moment, after which he'd be able to breathe a little easier, but he was in for a surprise. On his return to Israel, his office was swamped with daily calls from the American ambassador, and even the U.S. secretary of state called for a progress report. He decided to go to Ma'aleh Hermesh C. to show the Americans he was doing something.

He convened a meeting with the head of Central Command—the de facto prime minister of Judea and Samaria—and the head of the Shin Bet security service's Counter-Subversion Department, commonly known as the Jewish Division.

“What are we to do with them, Giora?” the minister asked, turning to fix the major general with his sad-bulldog gaze.

The major general shrugged. “I'm supposed to know?” he responded. “Whatever you decide, we'll make it happen.”

The minister closed his eyes and shook his head. “I know that, Giora. But I'm asking you to tell me what the decision should be.” The major general remained silent.

The minister continued, “What happened there with the bulldozer? Why did you give in to a handful of lunatics? How do you think the rest of the world sees us? I've got the president asking me, ‘What is this? Is there no law there?' Can you comprehend the shame in that?”

“What happened was that the prime minister called and told us to stop. You know that. We had no part in the decision. We would have continued with the work of clearing the area. Those three clowns didn't change a thing. But the education minister was there, and he called the prime minister, and they brought in hundreds of demonstrators . . .”

“What do you have to say, Avram?” The minister looked at the Shin Bet official as if he had just then remembered his presence in the room. “Can't they be removed so I can get the Americans off my back?”

“Ummm . . .” The Shin Bet man pressed the fingertips of his one hand to the fingertips of the other. “Look—”

The door opened and one of the minister's aides said, “Sir, it's the ambassador again.”

“Tell him we're in a meeting at this very moment to prepare for a trip to the outpost. Tell him he can join us, we're going next— You know what, don't tell him any— One moment. Okay, just put him through.”

The head of Central Command, who had been standing, took a seat and sipped from a glass of soda water. At his request, Avram from the Shin Bet passed him the Sports section of
Yedioth
and he paged through it, but in the summer of an odd-numbered year, there's nothing interesting. Only tennis and swimming and cycling and athletics.

“Yes, Milton, yes. We are now sitting here preparing to go to the place next week. Don't worry, yes, I'm sitting here with good people from the army and the Shin Bet. They know exactly what to do, sir, yes.” He smiled and nodded. “Listen, if you want to join us next week, talk with my assistant. Of course, yes. No, we don't know yet . . .” He raised his eyes to look at his two guests, and they nodded with raised eyebrows. “Yes, yes, early
next week, maybe Sunday.” He winked at the head of Central Command and retrieved two pretzels from a bowl on the table in front of him. The major general smiled. He knew just how much the ambassador hated working on a Sunday.

“So what do you say, Avram?” the minister asked after hanging up.

“Look, our informant at the outpost, she said—”

“A woman informant?”

“She says there are a number of elements there who could spark unrest. We saw the last time that they can fire up the situation pretty quickly.”

“Fire up?”

“Be serious, Avram,” the major general said. “That's not exactly firing up—”

“One second,” the head of the Jewish Division continued, “let me finish.”

“Let him, Giora,” the minister said.

“In short, it's a sensitive issue. They'll fight. I'm not saying lives will be put at risk, I'm not talking about a subversive organization, but fierce resistance, the rallying of supporters, violence—without doubt. A mess. Not to mention the fact that the prime minister and half the cabinet will back them. I'd advise against an evacuation at this specific point in time, if that works for you.”

“Have you read the article? Nothing there is legal, none of the permits, as if . . . If we can't take action there, then where—”

“There are newer places, ones that are more makeshift. I can draw up a list for you. In the same area, too. Perhaps they'll appease the president. Those guys at Ma'aleh Hermesh C., after all, have been there for several years already. The place actually received a permit as an agricultural farm and has since developed. Other settlements can't even say that.”

“Okay, okay. Let's do it. Arrange a visit for us there, Giora. Sunday morning. Early. Pini, inform the ambassador and the media, particularly the Americans. Giora, you'll be joining us, of course. Avram, thanks.”

“But what are you going to say there?” Giora asked. “That we're evacuating? Leaving them be? We need to prepare accordingly.”

“We do, too,” the Shin Bet official echoed.

The defense minister fixed them both with a weary look. “We'll see,” he said to them, and left the office in the direction of the bathroom.

T
he heat was oppressive. The month of July had come and gone and they were in the midst of the Three Weeks, the period of mourning to commemorate the destruction of Jerusalem—long days, devoid of festivals, a recipe for troublemaking. Freshly squeezed lemons, cold water, and sugar yielded cool lemonade. The children spent all their waking hours outdoors. Fans and air conditioners, for those who had them, worked at full tilt, and the windows of the other homes were left open to the breeze—Gabi claimed that his cabin was built in such a way so as not to require air-conditioning, the positioning of the windows and doors ensured that during the summer the breeze coming off the edge of the cliff would stir up the air in the room. He forgot to mention that in the winter, the winds were capable of blowing the cabin into the Hermesh Stream riverbed.

It was the eve of Shabbat Hazon, the Sabbath before Tisha B'Av, the day of destruction of the Temple, pointless hatred the cause of its devastation. Preparations ahead of the Sabbath were in full swing, cooking and the chirping of telephones and the groaning of wheels on the outpost's dirt and gravel and tarred roads, and new tableware shipped off to the mikveh for purification. Gabi returned from the Ma'aleh Hermesh A. grocery store with heavy bags filled to the brim with Sabbath goodies. He found Roni sitting in the living room, shirtless, in front of the fan.

“Bro,” Roni called out from the living room. “Did you get any Diet Coke?”

“No. Did you ask me to?” Gabi said.

“Do I need to ask?”

Gabi distributed his haul among the kitchen cupboards and refrigerator to the sound of the rustling of the plastic shopping bags. His eyes
wandered to the sink, which overflowed with dirty dishes. Since arriving some six months ago, Roni hadn't washed a single fork. Gabi left the kitchen and stood at the doorway to the living room, pressing one hand up against the lintel. “What are you doing?” he asked.

Roni didn't look good. He was sitting in the armchair, his legs spread, in front of a fan, gazing—tired, or sad, or simply bored—out the window. He spent hours sitting in the trailer, and the highlights of the day for him appeared to be his conversations with Gabi, which usually spiraled into sermonizing and arguments where Gabi ended up on the defensive. Gabi didn't enjoy that but found himself sucked into the exchanges anyway, as he justified himself. Perhaps he felt a sense of obligation to help Roni unload his frustrations, or perhaps he, too, needed the confrontations, because he was angry.

“What am I doing?” Roni responded. “I don't know.”

Gabi smiled at him. “Enough, my brother, it's the eve of the Sabbath. It's a great mitzvah always to be joyful.”

“Yes, so I've heard. Keep saying that, you'll convince yourself in the end.” Roni sank deeper into the armchair.

Gabi turned to leave. Roni shut his eyes. “One moment, don't go.” He sighed. “I'd like to be happy all the time,” he said. “Who wouldn't? But it's not as simple as that. It's naïve to claim that just by saying it, it'll happen.”

“It's naïve to merely say it. But it's something else to truly believe it.”

“I don't see the difference. If you truly believe it, will the sorrow disappear? And where exactly will it go?”

“You can't see it from the place you are in. I know you like to make fun of everything I say, but you are in a place of sin, of folly, not a place of faith. And because it scares you to think differently, all you can do is ridicule.” It was the same conversation, with slight variations, time and again. Gabi never intended to fall into the endless loop, but did so every time anew.

Roni shook his head. “You weren't raised religious, you know it's just talk, the clichés the religious have about secular people. Where's the value in coerced praying and rejoicing? And desire is folly? Isn't the body deserving of desires?”

“Those are not the values of Judaism. Those are the values of Hellenists. Earthly desires are like rays of sunshine in a dark room. They appear to be of substance, until you try to grab one.”

“But they brighten the room, they warm it. What's wrong with that? Why do you need to grab them?”

“To have more depth to your life. Light and warmth are the superficial. That's all very well, but there's more, a lot more.”

“And where do you find it? In forcing yourself to be happy? You, after all, are not happy. And we both know why. Did you think you'd be able to forget about your son by going to the end of the world, secluding yourself, putting a piece of cloth on your head, and swaying wildly in synagogue? Do you think you'll be able to forget Mickey?”

Gabi closed his eyes. Of course he'd never forget Mickey. “We like to think that forgetting is a problem, but I believe it's an advantage. Knowing how to forget means letting go of the troubles of the past.”

“Well, that's great. A quote for every occasion.” Roni sniggered bitterly. “Forgetting is an advantage for someone who is afraid to confront his memories. What do you mean by ‘letting go of the past'? Is that your excuse for never in your life having seen anything through to the end—army, university, being a father? Perhaps you should deal with the troubles of the past, instead of looking for refuge in quotes and sayings.”

Gabi could almost taste the sting of Roni's sarcasm on his tongue. His brother spoke like someone bent on being offensive. Their arguments had turned increasingly mean. “The only frightened one here is you. Why is it so hard for you to accept that your world doesn't suit me? I've been there. It's not for me. Why don't you trust me to know what's good for me? I trust in the Holy One, blessed be He.”

“It's hard for me to accept it because I know you, perhaps better than anyone else, and you know that. I know what suits you. I can smell what you are truly feeling from a mile away. I know how long you lasted everywhere else, and I wonder how long you'll last here. How long you'll continue to spin yarns to yourself. You tell yourself that you're strong—Nehushtan, like copper. But I checked on the Internet, the name Kupper has nothing to do with copper. It's someone who makes barrels.”

Gabi went into the kitchen and began washing the dishes in the sink.
“I've heard about the barrels,” he said. “But a rabbi, an expert on Jewish names, told me that it's probably copper.” Several minutes of silence went by, nothing but the water from the faucet and the hum of the fan and the banging of a hammer in the distance. Gabi stopped washing and returned to the living room with an unwrapped Twist chocolate bar in his hand, and another that he tossed over to Roni.

Gabi sat down on the armrest of the sofa. He adjusted the position of his white Sabbath skullcap with the pompom and bit into his Twist. “Take a look at yourself,” he said quietly. “Think about why you are here, about the condition you were in when you arrived. You're the one stuck in this house for hours on end, doing nothing, feeling down. So how come you always turn things against me?”