The Hilltop (34 page)

What struck Hilik the most about Herzl Weizmann, more than the black curls and white eyebrow and odd gaze, and more than the heavy shoes that Hilik suspected were fitted with insoles to compensate for the man's small stature, were his plaster-casted forearms—two tubes of plaster, no longer white, from the wrist up to the elbow, equal in length.

“It's nothing, don't worry, it doesn't bother me. An accident,” Herzl Weizmann said in response to Hilik's stare. He didn't elaborate and changed the subject. “Forget about the container, we'll get lumber from the guys down there”—he pointed out the kitchen window in the direction of Gabi's cabin—“and we'll build a great little extension for you.”

“Who says he has enough to give me? His entire cabin is about the same size as the extension I'm planning.”

“So, we'll ask. And if there isn't enough, we'll order from his supplier. Or I can arrange something for you through my carpenter. No problem.” Herzl squinted and took in a panoramic view of the settlement.

Yemima-Me'ara, meanwhile, had fallen asleep, and Hilik set her down in her crib and went with Herzl to Gabi's cabin to ask about the lumber. The wood boards, it turned out, had come from the carpentry workshop at Ma'aleh Hermesh A. at a price that Herzl defined as “not bad, not bad at all—relatively speaking.” They returned afterward to Hilik's trailer. “Whoa, looks like that camel has escaped from the Bedouin!” Herzl exclaimed on the way back, pointing at the animal.

“What Bedouin?” Hilik said. “That's a camel cow, Sasson's camel cow.”

“Tell me, Dr. Hilik,” Herzl said once they were back at the house and were sitting in the living room sipping coffee, “what's the name of that guy at the cabin? He looks so familiar to me.”

“Who? Gavriel?”

“Gavriel?”

“Yes, Gavriel Nehushtan.”

“Gavriel Nehushtan.” Herzl rubbed his chin and pondered. “Gavriel Nehushtan,” he said again, as if repeating the name would somehow jog his memory. “No, the name doesn't ring a bell. Has he been here for long?”

“A few years, I can't recall exactly.”

“A few years, huh?” He rubbed his chin some more.

After the coffee, he got into his car and placed his plaster-casted arms on the wheel. “I'll call you with a quote,” he promised.

“Thanks,” Hilik responded indifferently.

“Okay, hang in there,” Herzl said, and stepped on the gas.

That evening, Gabi ran into Hilik at the evening prayer service. “Your handyman looks familiar to me,” Gabi said to him. “Is he from the Galilee or something?”

Hilik chuckled. “Not at all, from Mevasseret,” he responded. Gabi frowned and returned quickly to his prayer book.

N
ir Rivlin, with his red hair and beard, sat at the kitchen table and sipped from a large bottle of Goldstar beer. Tears flowed from his red eyes. Between sobs, he mumbled sentences like “I don't understand. What have I done?”

“You haven't done a thing,” Shaulit said while Zvuli suckled from her ravenously. “And that's part of the problem.”

Nir had come into the kitchen from the porch a few minutes earlier to retrieve the bottle of beer from the refrigerator—his third that evening, and they hadn't even sat down to dinner. He had been sitting on the porch for the past hour with his guitar, trying to compose a new song. But aside from coming up with the line “All pain is but another scale in the armor,” which he ended up repeating to himself over and over, and consuming two beers and a joint, he didn't make much progress—until he finally gave up and began playing “Berta.”

Shaulit, at the same time, had bathed Amalia and Tchelet, had made them dinner and then fed them with Zvuli in her arms, and the infant, too, demanded attention and his own food. Amalia wanted to help but she was too small to hold him, too impatient to play with him or watch over him for more than two minutes. After dinner, Shaulit put the girls to bed, read them a story, and returned to the kitchen to wash their dishes and begin preparing dinner for herself and Nir. All the while, the flat chord had repeated itself, the pain and the scale in the armor. For her, every slap in the face—or simply every minute of the day—was a scale in the armor. But tough armor could sometimes crack, too. And then things were said. Threats were made. And Nir, whom she knew well enough, would immediately revert to acting like the small child within him, that was his defense mechanism, and the beers didn't help things, weakening the walls of defense and self-awareness of the man he was meant to be, and then the tears would come, and she'd be expected to apologize, to take
pity on him, but she had reached her limit that evening. She knew what was coming—an admission to the fact that he had been wrapped up in himself of late, that he didn't know what had come over him, that he was struggling terribly with his culinary studies (What's so hard? she wanted to scream. Inserting a piece of cucumber in a sushi roll? Peeling a yam?), and with all this uncertainty concerning the outpost, no one knew if their home would even be there for much longer, the evacuation was on one day and off the next—he wasn't one for fighting battles, but just let them decide already, all this stress. Nir believed it would soon pass and he'd be able to be of more help to her. He felt that this phase he was going through would spark new creativity and that he'd be able to record these songs.

She knew he'd never record those songs anywhere at all, it was a waste of time, his and primarily hers, but she didn't have the heart, despite the anger and exhaustion. She didn't have the heart to yell at him and to tell him that—and perhaps it wasn't a matter of heart but of years of habit and upbringing. He could do as he pleased, while she kept the household functioning. And after the tears and the admission and the promise and the hope—she knew, expected it, readied herself—his spirit would be renewed, and with that would come the transfer of the blame.

“Perhaps it's postpartum depression?” he offered. At that stage, she had already tapped her hand lightly on Zvuli's tiny shoulder to encourage a burp and then placed him in the rocking chair, broke eggs into a frying pan and sliced tomatoes and cucumbers, removed hummus and cottage cheese and cream cheese from the refrigerator and bread out of the bread box, and set the table.

“Perhaps you should go speak to someone? Perhaps we should consider seeking help? Perhaps someone like Gitit could come over to help out for a few hours every day?”

She responded with nothing more than a weak “Perhaps,” but she knew that Gitit had her hands full with her five younger siblings, and that they didn't have the money to pay Gitit, and that the whole idea was stupid anyway—she only needed
his
help from time to time, goddammit. He couldn't even say, like most men, that he didn't know how to cook—he was studying to be a chef, for crying out loud! And as for the postpartum depression, who knew, maybe. Or perhaps they simply
weren't suited to each other. Perhaps they married too young, in their teens, without really getting to know each other and without knowing anything about life.

The strange thing was that their marriage didn't come about through an arranged
shidduch
. They had known each other from a young age, they both grew up in Beit El, and they were members of the Bnei Akiva youth movement together. She remembered him from her father's shiva, which he had come to every day with his own father. It was as though they had gotten together as secular people do. But after six and a half years and three children—the last one conceived after the onset of this tension, perhaps as a remedy, a distraction—one could now definitively say that it simply wasn't meant to be. More proof that the secular way of life didn't work. Shaulit had repeatedly put herself through the mill and agonized, in conversations with herself, and between herself and God, but had come to realize that it wasn't simply Nir's help or support that she lacked. After all, she managed somehow. It was more than that. She didn't know the man, didn't truly love him. Not that she really believed in the notion of falling in love, but she
really
didn't love him. She couldn't fathom spending years by his side. And as for the songs, well, there were one or two pleasant ones, but she hadn't heard any breakout hits being cooked up on the wide swing in the yard. She wasn't holding her breath. His music was not about to save them.

They chewed on slices of bread with cream cheese for several minutes in silence, their eyes fixed on arbitrary points on the table, and Nir sniffled every now and then and poured beer down his throat. When he was done, he dropped his fork with a clatter on the glass plate. He glanced at his watch. He was due to report for guard duty in forty minutes, he informed her, and left—without a guitar or any religious literature this time, and without another bottle of beer or something to smoke, either. He walked along the settlement's ring road. The evening sky was huge, and despite it being late July, there was a pleasant breeze, and he stopped, closed his eyes and sucked it in, and spread his arms to allow the air to reach his fingertips from the inside. They must not crack, he thought. There are ups and downs, there are rough patches. But they had to hang in there.

Shortly before reaching the Assis family home, he heard a door close and footsteps on the path. He pressed himself to the stone wall, disappearing into the darkness. It was Gitit Assis, who looked right and left and set out quietly on foot, hunched over. The manner of her gait, the urgency and the furtive glances, suggested she wasn't out for some fresh air at the end of the day. Nir followed her, sticking close to the fences, hiding behind whatever he came across—trash bins, cars, heaps of construction material, or empty refrigerators. With the contents of three bottles of beer swirling inside him, Nir could admit to himself—after trial and tribulation and begging forgiveness from his wife and from his God (He knew that “one who is slow to anger is better than a mighty man, and one who rules over his spirit is better than one who conquers a city.” He remembered Joseph, who resisted temptation. He knew that a man who is drawn to the temptations of the world and resists those temptations is no less a righteous man than one who is not tempted at all)—that he was attracted to Gitit. It wasn't a coincidence when he suggested that Shaulit have her help out with housework. He'd gladly pay for the privilege of seeing her in their home from time to time. Nir entered the playground and stepped on a soft toy, which squeaked. He froze. Gitit stopped and turned. The breeze picked up. Where's she going? he wondered.

The moment passed. She turned and continued on her way. He released the air from his lungs and slowly lifted his foot off the plastic duck, which, thankfully, didn't squeak. He watched from the playground as she walked into the wind, her long hair flapping, her dark dress billowing. The next trailer was the last before the guardhouse at the gate, the army's trailer, Yoni's. And instead of walking by it, she turned onto the entry path. Had she found something that belonged to Yoni? Had her father asked her to relay a message to him? Had her mother sent a cake, perhaps? Nir crouched down on one knee. His shift was scheduled to begin in twenty-eight minutes.

Gitit knocked three times on the door to the trailer, turned around, and began walking toward the playground, toward Nir! He looked around for somewhere to hide. At the far end of the park stood a small wooden shed where the laborers stored their tools and building materials. Yoni's door slammed shut, and his dark figure began making its way
toward the park. Just then, a huge bang sounded and a wedding firework from Kharmish exploded in the sky, shaking the outpost from its slumber. Taking advantage of Gitit's and Yoni's surprise, their gaze skyward, the barking of the dogs, Nir regained his composure, made a dash for the shed, and ducked in. It was hot inside, and stuffy, with the smell of sawdust and varnish and synthetic paints and turpentine. He hoped they hadn't spotted him.

Where were they? All he could hear was his own breathing, the beating of his heart. He focused on his discomfort and on the awful heat in the shed, which had absorbed the rays from a long day of sun, with hardly the smallest crack for air to slip in. He could feel his glands pumping sweat, onto his forehead, under his arms, onto his lower back (Shaulit would ask him in the morning why his shirt was so wet and smelled of turpentine). He pressed an ear to the door. Are they there?

A thump on the side wall a few centimeters to his right startled him. He heard whispering he wasn't able to decipher and then Gitit giggling. “You're crazy, be quiet.”

Yoni responded in a low tone, Nir couldn't make out the words, only the monotone hum of an accent.

“No! Are you crazy?” she said. “Not now.” Another short monotone hum. Nir waited for a response from Gitit, but none came. Suddenly he heard a familiar sound—lips smacking, teeth knocking together, the suction of mouths uniting for an instant, quickened breathing, voices soft, purring, shy. Nir listened intently, pressing an ear to the wall against which they were leaning, sweating from every pore, inhaling toxic fumes but failing to notice them because of the sounds coming from the other side of the thin wooden wall. The teenager, the daughter of the settlement's most senior resident, was kissing the Ethiopian soldier. The image filled his mind, hampered his breathing, thrilled him, disgusted him. What's she thinking? he wondered. How dare she?

Another monotone murmur, and a breathless “No. Are you crazy?” from her, and a giggle, and then their mouths must have locked together again because Nir could hear nothing apart from their bodies moving against the wall, snatched breaths, another smacking of lips, another wet suction. And then “No, not there . . .”

Where?

“Yoni!”

More shuffling against the wall, groping, clothes rustling. The click of a buckle? A button undone? A zipper tugged? The sounds swirled in his head, mixing with the odors and the humidity, and he was no longer sure what he was imagining and what was really happening. “Yoni, no!” Another whisper, and then Nir asked himself if he should go out and help her. Was the brash soldier forcing himself on her? And what exactly was he trying to force? And then silence.