Assaf Gavron - The Hilltop

When they had finished, Nimer said to his father, “Go home to rest, Dad. I’ll saw the branches and finish cleaning here.”

Musa asked his son, “Do you think it’s Roni?” Nimer thought and replied, “Who could it be? Who’d want to get back at us?”

“But why now? A long time has passed since we went with the Japanese. The harvest was already a few months ago, many olives, a lot of money from the Japanese. Maybe he was angry. But the season was over a long time ago.”

“God knows, we spoke about it, didn’t we? He couldn’t stop pestering us. Didn’t stop calling. And came and shouted, clutching that contract and claiming you signed. They said he got depressed. The Jew’s a snake, how can you trust him?”

Musa didn’t say anything. Just sadly stroked one of the burlap sacks. Then walked slowly along the remains of a short stretch of asphalt that had been shredded down to gravel recently by the administration because it was paved without a permit. Musa believed that deep down Roni was a decent guy. He didn’t say as much to his son when Nimer spoke about Roni and the settlers and the need for a response, but he wasn’t certain it was Roni. Musa was old enough to know that in this life, in this place, nothing was certain, and few things make sense.

Sackcloth was mentioned later in the morning, too, at an urgent meeting that convened on the new and gloriously sparkling porch that for the most part drew compliments of Hilik Yisraeli’s caravilla. Someone suggested praying with sackcloth and ashes to mourn the destruction, which would maybe alert the attention of the Supreme Being to the injustices taking place under His nose, or at least the attention of residents and citizens. “Where did we go wrong?” was the question asked, and several possible answers were offered: There was no need to brazenly tear down the orders; Josh shouldn’t have humiliated Yoni; it would have been best to take up the matter with friends in the Knesset, in the government, and in the army and deal with the orders in a diplomatic fashion.

Little by little, the wind changed direction. Self-doubts and remorse gave way to offense, and rebuke, and accusation. Yoni was always hostile, and Omer Levkovich was the devil, and the defense minister was a disaster, and even the leaders of the Yesha Council were leading them to ruin. All of them — the leftists, the administration, the government, the council, the media, the Americans, the Palestinians, the police, the army — they were all against us. Things had truly escalated this time, for the first time in the history of the settlement a home was destroyed, the army crossed a red line and upset the status quo. And why are they coming down only on us and not on the Arabs, who build freely without permits and scoff at everyone? Jean-Marc demanded they be taught a lesson — let the status quo be upset for the Arabs, too—“and inflict revenge upon His adversaries, and appease His land and His people.” Those present exchanged looks, but then Othniel tapped his finger under his eye and said, “The eye sees, people,” and not another word was said on the subject.

Othniel tried to call his friend the major general but couldn’t reach him. Close associate MK Uriel Tsur had become far less accessible since his appointment to the post of deputy tourism minister. The meeting ended with a series of decisions: to organize a mass demonstration; to print a booklet that explained how several governments supported the outpost for years and thus it could not be illegal; to take up a collection and help Gabi rebuild the cabin to show that they were pressing on; and especially — to get in touch urgently with all required parties in order to quash the demolition and military demarcation decree, or at least delay it for some time in the wake of the crisis, and thereafter obtain new building permits for a cabin and additional urgently needed buildings.

After arranging the sawed-off branches in a heap and cleaning up around the wrapped trunks, Nimer Ibrahim sat down among the trees. They needed to complain. To call the army. Roni had taken revenge on their trees because they didn’t go along with his plan. They needed to tell the army to arrest him. He probably got help from that village. Soon the army would come and they would tell them everything. The mukhtar needed to be told to talk to the army. Perhaps they should call someone. Or go to their village where the thin black soldier was stationed and tell him to tell the army. Or maybe to Roni himself and ask him what this was all about. He leaned against one of the burlap-wrapped stumps, looked around, waited for something to happen in response to the violent assault. But nothing happened. He huddled in the sweatshirt of BATTALION 13—THE WILD ONES against the cold wind. All that happened was the charred smell, and ants enjoying the loose earth, and the muezzin’s call to the second prayer service of the day that brought him to his feet and led him to the mosque. He stopped by at home on the way to check on his father. He found him smoking a cigarette with a holder. “I called Roni,” Musa said before Nimer opened his mouth. “He’s been in Tel Aviv since yesterday. I heard the noise around him, the honking of cars. He’s there, Nimer. I don’t think he was the one who set the fire.”

* * *

The day before at the outpost, Roni saw the soldiers arrive in their vehicles, the equipment they unloaded in the rain. When the demolition of the cabin started, he was in his trailer. He leaned over to the window and watched the commotion: searchlights and soldiers and the sounds of heavy metal implements crashing against wood. The longer the destruction of his brother’s beautiful new home went on, the more resolved Roni became regarding the decision he began forming while washing the dishes yesterday, to get the hell out of there. He needed a different vibe, alcohol, the sea. He wanted Tel Aviv.

Roni went out and walked with his head lowered, with his emotions running intensely high at the edge of the cliff. No one noticed him. It’s now or never. He was wearing his coat, his wallet was in the coat, a little cash in the wallet. He didn’t need a bag. Moran, the distributor and marketer for Othniel’s farm, pulled up alongside him in his pickup. “You I haven’t seen in a long time,” he said to Roni. “Jerusalem?”

“Even better,” Roni said, and got in.

“Finally the army’s doing something,” Moran said as he pulled off, and shot a cautious glance at Roni. He knew he was Gabi’s brother, but wasn’t familiar with his views.

“I don’t… It doesn’t really interest me…” Roni said.

“Me, neither. I come to work. Arrive, load crates, leave. Hardly exchange a word. Tell me…” Here was the question Roni knew was coming. “What happened in the end with the olive oil? Like, I know the Japanese set up that factory, but back then you spoke to me about something small, a boutique, like, did that work? Did you give up? Are you going now to that friend of yours?”

Roni didn’t want to talk about it. “Forget about it, the Japanese… The Japanese took…” he said blankly, and turned his head to the side of the road. He thought, Shame I didn’t shower before I left. When did I last shower? Shit.

“Too bad,” Moran said, “it could have been a nice project. You had a nice idea… Cooperation. Traditional oil of a high quality. A small niche but…” Moran went on talking but Roni didn’t listen. They drove through Jerusalem, where he hadn’t been in many months. It’s so simple, he thought. You get into a car and drive. He hadn’t managed to do that for a year. Unbelievable. It was so easy to get stuck. He felt dizzy from the number of cars, from the green fields alongside the highway, from the new interchanges and railway lines under construction. Rain started to fall, and the wipers screeched with every movement. The prickles on his skin, the deep breaths, the pressure in his gut, they all signaled his excitement.