Assaf Gavron - The Hilltop

“Go ahead.”

But he didn’t fall asleep because she said something, and he replied, and they went on like that for who knows how long — an hour? More? And Gabi felt a tenderness come over his body under the comforter, and the heat of the air between them, and there were moments of silence and maybe dozing off, and awakening, without talking, only breathing. And then fingers touched his hand. His body atremble. She caressed the back of his hand with her fingers, so pleasing and forbidden, but some things are permissible even when forbidden, when the intentions are pure and faith is sound.

And after one of the times his eyes opened, the light was starting to faintly rise, and now it no longer seemed right, so he got up cautiously and set out.

The winter brought such beautiful days that even the coldest nights were thawed and almost forgotten. A glorious sun smiled on the hilltop, almost a taunt of the night’s tribulations — the forecast heralded an approaching cold front, but the sun was having none of it, the air stood still and the temperatures climbed. Roni Kupper sat in the doorway of his home, his feet on an iron stair sullied with dried mud, between his fingers the first cigarette of the morning, a cup of coffee beside him, and his already narrowed eyes on account of the light narrowed even more at the sound of the Nokia ringtone that came from the edge of the bed.

“Hello?”

“It’s Rina.”

“Rina!”

And already by early afternoon he was on his way to Tel Aviv.

Captain Omer Levkovich invited himself over for a look around the place, bearing a summons for Josh to appear before the Jerusalem Magistrate’s Court for a hearing on charges of disturbing the peace and obstructing a soldier in the execution of his duty. Omer knew that Josh wouldn’t respond to the summons, and that no one would insist on enforcing his appearance, due to time and staffing constraints, but he pretended to be looking for him, went down to the demolished cabin, noticed the new girders and the beginnings of renewed construction, paid no attention — because what was he going to do, anyway? — and then went to Yoni and handed him the summons and said, “If you have time, find him and give it to him. Holy shit, I can’t believe you’re leaving, makes me want to cry.”

Yoni didn’t have time to find Josh. He was supposed to report to the induction center in seventy-two hours, and the thing that concerned him most right then was that, due to a miscalculation, he was short on underwear, and it was too late to do laundry. So he wore long johns without underpants, and for the next two days aired out two pairs that were in relatively good condition. He was troubled next by thoughts about Gitit and the question of whether he’d have a chance to say good-bye to her. He knew Purim was approaching, and wondered if she’d be coming home. Third on the list of things that occupied Yoni’s mind were the feelings of his commander, Omer, who had mumbled repeatedly that he couldn’t believe he was leaving, and what was he going to do without him, and why didn’t he sign up for longer, even if only for a few months, and he felt like crying. The fourth thing, and last for now, that weighed on the mind of the young Ethiopian soldier was Operation Bigthan and Teresh, about which Omer his commander had started briefing him.

Operation Bigthan and Teresh was the secret operation to empty the outpost of Ma’aleh Hermesh C. of its residents and homes. The target date was two days from now, Yoni’s last day in the army. It had been scheduled, in fact, for the next day, but the head of Central Command announced a one-day postponement due to a communication issue with the riot police. Operation Bigthan and Teresh, Omer explained, would include the deployment of a massive number of army, police, and riot police forces in Humvees and armored personnel carriers, an engineering crew with D-9s to demolish the structures, a team of psychologists, two military ambulances, and a helicopter in which the head of Central Command and the defense minister would hover over the scene. Following the successful demolition of the cabin, the sentiment was Enough with the nonsense . The harsh response had proved itself. Move in quickly, demolish, evacuate, move out. No discussion, no bullshit. They’ve been feeding us shit for years, and everyone’s had enough: the court, the command major-general, the defense minister, the U.S. president. The outpost was still making headlines, continued to be a thorn in everyone’s side, proof of the ineffectual command of the defense minister vis-à-vis the army, and of the government vis-à-vis the settlers, and of the American administration vis-à-vis the Israelis, and of whomever you like vis-à-vis whomever else you don’t like. Enough. Everyone was sick and tired of it.

A flush rose to Omer’s cheeks when he got worked up. He explained to Yoni why he’d had enough: the place, the people, the fun they made of him. Once, when he first arrived in the area, he thought that watching out for the interests of the settlers and joining in the mutual back-scratching would help him get ahead in the army, but he was no longer convinced of it. He needed to be a commander, not a politician. To execute a mission: a vigorous and successful evacuation. Yoni couldn’t understand how a complex military operation had fallen on his final day of service, why couldn’t they have postponed it for one more day and allowed him to go home in peace. But he remained loyal to his army and his commander. He promised to carry out the necessary preparations, which didn’t amount to very much, because the forces would show up by surprise.

“True, it may not be a surprise, because they’ve received demolition orders for that date. On the other hand, they’ve received numerous orders in the past, so they surely don’t believe it’s really going to happen.”

While they were talking in Yoni’s trailer, leaning up against the wall and sitting on the steel-framed bed, they heard the backup beeps of a large truck outside.

“What’s that?” the officer asked. The sergeant shrugged.

“What’s that, Herzliko?” Omer tried a minute later to aim the question at Herzl Weizmann, who was standing outside and using his plaster-casted arms to direct a truck bearing a huge crane. Written along the side of the truck were the words Israel Electric Corporation .

Omer didn’t get a response and tried again. “What’s this supposed to be?”

Herzl spun around. “Ah, honorable officer.” He smiled. “How are you?”

Omer tried to ask a third time, this time in mime.

“The Electric Corporation,” Herzl replied with the obvious.

“I noticed,” Omer said, “but what are they doing?”

“I think they’re finally hooking up the settlement to the electricity grid. It’s about time, isn’t it?”

“But…” Omer didn’t want to and couldn’t disclose the fact that the settlement would imminently be in no further need of electricity, and anyway, Herzl Weizmann wasn’t the appropriate person to confront with that truth. “Where did it come from? I mean, who—”

“Listen,” Herzl said, “I only know what I know.”

“And what do you know?” Omer asked.

“That Natan Eliav called and asked me to come here this morning to help the guys from the Electric Corporation and build the infrastructure for them.”

Omer turned and walked away while he punched numbers into his cell phone. A small crowd formed around the truck and expressions of joy rang out. “How fitting, on Purim!” said Neta Hirschson, rolled-up posters under her arms. “The Jews had light and joy! Tell me, why shouldn’t the Bezeq phone company lay down cables here while we’re about it, too? Cellcom’s cellular service is terrible, and the Palestinians with their Paltel are always hogging the reception, not to mention the price…”