The Hilltop (50 page)

Mickey pointed at a small hopping bird and said, “Birdeeee!” stressing the
deeee
. Gabi asked if he'd like to put a sweater on, but knew the response would be “No.” A chilly fall wind was blowing in a clear sky dotted with a handful of clouds, and darkness was about to fall on the day.

Gabi pushed the stroller in the direction of the park and asked Mickey if he'd like to see the ducks on the lake.

“Ducks on the lake!” Mickey repeated excitedly, and bounced his small body up and down in the stroller.

Gabi smiled to himself. They came to the crossing. The light was red.

“Ducks on the lake!” repeated Mickey, and continued to bounce his body, which was restrained by the stroller's safety harness.

Gabi looked right and left. The road was clear, almost. A blue bus was driving at a safe distance and was signaling to stop at a station.

But it didn't stop at the station. And Mickey was no longer buckled up. Had somehow freed himself from the safety harness, jumped quickly off the stroller, and ran into the road, heading for the ducks.

When Gabi turned to look straight ahead again and saw Mickey in the road, he screamed, “What are you doing, you fool!” and ran into the road after Mickey. The bus approached and Gabi could already hear the air brakes breathing down his neck. Gabi afterward wasn't able to reconstruct exactly what he did, the bus driver and his passengers either, the entire situation remained strange and unexplained, but a
review of the outcome tells the following story. The blue bus braked but hit the stroller, which for some reason Gabi had carried on pushing into the road, and sent it crashing into Mickey, and the blow from it and from the resulting fall broke the boy's right arm and cut into the flesh of his thigh. A light injury, very light, even. Lucky. Almost. Another almost, one that does indeed shake the heart more than a run-of-the-mill almost, but is likely nevertheless to subside and grow faint before long, after the cast is removed and the sutures dissolve. Gabi, meanwhile, exactly how remains unclear, completed his part in the scene some distance from the stroller, leaning over Mickey and showering him with hysterical screams, harsh curses, which frightened and offended the boy more than the blow, the fall, and the pain.

Mickey was a superhero that afternoon: on the drive to the hospital, the setting of the plaster cast and the stitching and the infusion. And perhaps it wasn't heroism but shock. He didn't cry, and he didn't speak, but he understood what was said to him and carried out the instructions efficiently. Gabi, for his part, sat hunched over next to him in the ambulance and shook, and was furious with Mickey, and furious with himself for being furious with Mickey, and felt terrible nausea. And when Anna arrived in a panic from Afula, he wasn't willing to say what had happened, left it for Mickey to describe, because he was furious with her, too, and since he left it up to Mickey to recount the manner in which the events had unfolded, Anna deemed him solely responsible for the injury to her son, and perhaps she was right.

They made up a few days later. Anna returned to Afula after Gabi promised he had calmed down and everything was okay. He went back to ferrying Mickey to and from preschool every day, they went back to walking around and laughing together on the way home. There was one moment that he recalled, when they were sitting at an ice-cream parlor and licking happily and Gabi thought, That's why you have children. At moments like these, what difference does it make if Anna's not here, or if I complete my degree, or what I end up doing with myself ? This is what I am doing with myself. These are the moments you live for. But it was a rare moment. The laughter diminished. Mickey persisted with his silences. Gabi gritted his teeth. He enjoys it, he thought, enjoys
bringing out the anger in me, the violence. He's mastered it and now he's playing with it and he's testing me. Mickey was now humiliating his father: When Gabi came to collect him from preschool, he refused to leave, screamed, and planted himself on the floor, lay down in the sand. Every morning he refused to dress. Every evening he refused to eat. It was a tough battle, one of the toughest in Gabi's life, and Gabi was determined not to get drawn in. To leave him be, to disregard the insults and humiliations. Mickey was a different child when Anna returned on the weekends—obedient, considerate, happy. There was no sign of Mickey the rebel, the provoker, the boundary-tester, the angerer-on-purpose, and Anna therefore, absurdly, tended not to believe Gabi's stories.

Mickey's skills improved as he neared the age of four—the ability to express himself, the scheming, his physical strength. He got into the habit of pushing his father away when he tried to forcibly dress him, yelled at him when he tried to ignore him. For days on end Gabi gave up trying to ready Mickey for preschool and simply remained with him at home. But then the preschool teacher called Anna and told her that Mickey hadn't been coming. And Anna called Gabi to ask what was happening. And one week she remained in Tel Aviv and took Mickey to preschool, and of course everything went smoothly.

*  *  *

It's inevitable, because that blond creature has learned in three and something years better than anyone else, better than Eyal in the dining hall and Alex from the groundskeeping team, better than the cooks in the army, better than any cheeky shit who's ever dared to approach me askew and has been dealt with, how to push my buttons. How to draw out the monster. He knows how to draw it out, and he wants to see it, because when he kicks and screams after preschool and doesn't allow me to carry him, he knows I'm left with no choice but to squeeze him, to pull his ear, to bite his shoulder until he lets out a yelp and calms down. He knows I have no choice, he wants to take me there. So here goes, if you want it so much, then take it, I don't care who you are, and I don't care about the norms. The norm for an animal like you is to shove it into a cage.

*  *  *

The preschool teachers informed Anna. And a nosy neighbor from upstairs recorded something on video. And bad luck left marks in various
places on the small body, the remnants of pinches and dry blows, bruises, and swellings. Everything he got he had justly earned, that's what Gabi wanted to say to Anna when she confronted him, and it's all your fault, you left us alone, you pushed us into this, you're the irresponsible one of the two of us! You, and your Sami, and your Afula, and your bullshit!

The final morning from hell was rainy and cold—Tel Aviv hadn't seen snow since 1954, but if there was a day out of all those that Gabi spent living in Tel Aviv that came close, it was that one. Strong winds swayed the palms along the avenues, the rain crashed down almost vertically, mixed with sudden bouts of hail.

*  *  *

No. No-no-no, Mickey. You're not going to take your coat off now.

Mickey, I said no. Are you crazy? On a day like today you . . . ?

Mick-ey. Mickey! Put the coat on right now. Leave the boots. Have you seen the puddles . . . Mickey.

Don't you dare struggle! Ow! Hitting now? Yes? Okay. Here-we-go. This-is-how-you-put-on-a-coat, got it? Like this with the arms, like this to close the zipper. Like this.

Excuse me? Madam, please don't interfere in my . . . Get outta here. Go!

Do you see what you're causing? Shut up. Shut up. Baby. Cry baby. Know what? Cry. We'll see if that helps you. Yes. Waaaaah-waaaaah-waah, baby!

Don't you dare take off your boots! I swear to you, Mickey. I. Here. Like this, like this, you understand, right? Ow! Cheeky-thing-you'll-learn-it-doesn't-pay-to-hit!

Cry, cry, no problem. Here, you little shit, like so. We'll see what your mother has to say. Here.

I'm asking you, mister, to mind your own business . . .

I don't care if you're a policeman! Because you're a policeman, does that mean you're allowed to interfere in my . . . Excuse me, piss off before I . . . So what if you're a policeman? Does that mean you understand anything? I'm the one who's been living with him for three and a half years. Shut it, Mickey, you little shit . . . Let go! Let go of me, I told you, I'm warning you. I said . . . Take-that-here-I'm-twisting-your-ear—yes—you-don't-like-it, huh? Here. Shut-it-take-that-and-shut-it, ow! You're biting? Now-you'll-get-it-
cheeky-motherfucker—Here! Take that! Take a kick in the mouth. Cheeky-biting-mouthing-off-shouting—kicks aren't fun, are they? You see what kicks can do? Here's another one! And take that, too!

*  *  *

That very winter, his wife was no longer his wife, and his son—no more his son. Under court order, she took him to one of the kibbutzim near Afula, Gabi wasn't allowed to know which, he was banned from coming into contact with him or even calling. In court he adamantly rejected the definition “murderous blows,” expressed profound and teary remorse, successfully argued against the bus accident being criminal negligence, and was eventually convicted and sentenced only to community service and a suspended prison term.

In the holding cells, bearded men in hats urged him to lay tefillin, shoved pamphlets with titles like “Why Suffer?” into his hands, and he had nothing to do except wait, and think, and get angry, and read those pamphlets—“Why Suffer?”—and again when he was released from detention they persuaded him to lay tefillin, and the feel of the black leather straps on his skin comforted him and continued to comfort him each time the rage within him rose to the surface. They were the only people who didn't view him as an outcast, the only ones who offered him redemption and solace, who took an interest in his well-being, who found an answer to his questions. The only ones. Dad Yossi didn't come to visit. Roni in New York didn't call, and the few friends Gabi had at work and school vanished into thin air. So he went to one Torah class, and to several more, laid tefillin, and listened, and wondered—Why suffer?—and opened his eyes to the light: Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I will fear no evil for Thou art with me.

H
is brother, Roni, saw the light, too, in New York. Two thousand six was a good year for him. He enjoyed the work, Eliot Lieberman had been a little over-the-top with the cryptic warnings, but Roni's days
were indeed stressful: long hours in front of seven screens, almost without breaks during the New York trading hours, and half an eye squinting in their direction while trading was going on in the rest of the world, not to mention the dozens of e-mails from brokers and team members, to which he replied only after getting home, sometimes at midnight or one in the morning, after an evening out with colleagues. Those evenings weren't for having fun, it was work; the never-ending effort to establish a social standing, glean gossip and tips, keep a finger on the pulse. Roni didn't sleep much.

Roni's trump card was his Israeli connections. They were networked across the entire continent, not only in the world of finance but also in industry, the energy firms, and of course in tech. He established his ties quickly and diligently, made sure to cultivate them and secure information before it was published, and to convert that information into deals. He then went on to trade himself, too—and after he made a name for himself as a gutsy, quick-witted, and mostly profitable trader, a fair number of Israelis, from the Hummus Forum and others, entrusted him with their investment portfolios. For the bankers and techies who knew nothing about stocks but had money to invest, Roni was the right guy, he spoke the right language and yielded the right profits.

Someone noted during one of the first seminars Roni attended at the Hummus Forum that a talent for winging it—a skill Israelis always prized—wasn't held in high regard in the United States. There was no cutting corners with them, they said, everything was by the book. They respected everyone, everyone got an equal opportunity, and they expected everyone to play fairly by the rules. That was the reason, it was said, why the American economy was so prosperous and attracted the finest minds from around the world, including ours. Wheeling, dealing, and scheming Israeli-style may sometimes help, in the short term, but there was no substitute for fair play and orderly work. But as he gained experience, Roni's opinion began to change. He learned that while perhaps many Americans don't cut corners, the Indians and Koreans and Croats—and some Americans, too—did in fact cut a corner or two, and he came to observe that on more than one occasion those corner-cutters left the honest Americans lagging far behind.

At one of the Hummus Forum gatherings, Idan Lowenhof asked Roni, “Remember Bronco?” Idan squeezed the shoulder of a short, pug-nosed guy. “Should I remember him?” responded Roni as he shook a firm hand. Bronco was part of Idan's team in the commando unit, was wounded and left for the 8200 intelligence unit before Roni arrived. Nevertheless, two or three minutes of conversation was all it took for them to find enough common acquaintances to share some laughs. In the army Bronco was Yoni, but now he called himself Jonathan and worked in Silicon Valley, at an Israeli-owned company that provided location services. He regularly traveled the San Francisco–New York–Israel circuit, and would stop by the Hummus Forum once every few weeks. Once, after Roni and Bronco spent an evening drinking beer, Bronco said, “I have a craving for sushi.”

Roni took him to Sushi Yasuda in Midtown, and after topping up the beer in their bellies with warm sake, they hopped into a cab to the Ulysses pub and chilled the sake with Guinness. They were in an advanced state of drunkenness when they began shooting pool. In the middle of the game, Bronco picked up a red ball and said, “You know this was once the tusk of an elephant?” Roni chuckled. “Once,” Bronco continued, “they used to make the balls out of wood.” Roni hit the white ball into a red one, which shot into one of the pockets.