Assaf Gavron - The Hilltop

The battalion commander, the brigade commander, the division commander, and the head of Central Command were all surprised. The defense minister had been unaware. Malka, his aide, thought he had heard something about electricity at some outpost, but wasn’t sure. The head of the Shin Bet security service was in the dark. A quick round of calls provided Omer with the following information: Deputy Tourism Minister Uriel Tsur had leaned as heavily as he could on his fellow party member — who attended the same Jerusalem neighborhood synagogue, and with whom he had studied at yeshiva years ago — the energy minister, who just that morning had spoken with the infrastructure minister on a similar yet different matter, and persuaded him to sign a temporary permit to lay a power line from the settlement of Ma’aleh Hermesh A. to the Ma’aleh Hermesh C. outpost, which had lost its generator.

“And all those people know that the outpost is being razed in two days?” Omer asked his brigade commander.

“Sure,” replied the brigade commander. “But a cold front is expected over the coming days. They didn’t want to leave them without electricity. Israeli citizens can’t be left exposed to the forces of nature like that. We’re human, after all, aren’t we? It’s easier to lay a cable from A. than to bring in a new generator. No one’s got the money for a generator. And the permits needed to set up a generator now, with the construction freeze, you won’t believe it. Besides, it’ll give them a false sense of security. They won’t be expecting an evacuation two days after being hooked up to the grid, now, will they?”

“But do the ministers and the command major-general know?” Omer tried nevertheless.

“Yes, yes, everyone knows. I mean, whoever needs to know…”

Omer hung up and turned to again face the gathering. Yoni beside him said, “Now they remember to hook up electricity? Dammit.” Neta Hirschson walked over to the notice board on the playground. Omer followed her with his gaze, squinting. “Come, Yoni, let’s go see what she’s doing there.”

She posted a large notice alongside the demolition order, which was holding up well. She noticed that Omer and Yoni were looking over her shoulder, and ignored them, but then she asked Yoni to lend a finger so she could insert a tack.

“What’s an Adloyada?” asked the soldier. Neta ignored the question, but Yoni went on reading the notice. “Ah! It’s on my last day here. You’re throwing a farewell party for me?”

Neta continued to busy herself with the tacks and didn’t answer, but then decided to cease the excommunication and addressed Yoni. “Sure, come, why not, perhaps you’ll dress up as a human being, too.” Then she addressed Omer. “And maybe you’ll dress up as an IDF soldier who defends the citizens of his state from the Arabs instead of expelling them? Shame on you, it’s the Sabbath of the Zachor Torah portion this week — you shall remember what Amalek did to Israel. The hatred of Amalek.”

Omer, who cast a quick glance over the invitation, chuckled. “You’re doing it here on the playground? In the middle of winter? Have you gone crazy? Haven’t you heard a cold front is expected?”

“Look who’s asking if I’ve gone crazy. I heard. It doesn’t scare me. The warmth in our hearts will keep us warm. Come, have a good time, there’ll be surprises. It’ll be fun. Rejoice a little with your people, what’s wrong with that?”

Neta had managed to secure a modest budget from Natan Eliav and Othniel. She sent Jenia Freud off to prepare hamantaschen and other snacks, called a Jerusalem company that specialized in providing DJs and sound equipment, and found an available car and a driver to take her to Jerusalem to buy prizes for the costume competition and rattles for the reading of the Scroll of Esther. Then she moved on to deal with the entertainment: She called Coco, second place at a Eurovision song contest for France in the ’70s, who had found religion, immigrated to Israel, settled in Ma’aleh Hermesh A., and sometimes appeared as a country singer with an American neighbor who was a wonderful banjo player. But Coco had been struck ill with cancer, God have mercy, and was undergoing treatment at Hadassah Medical Center, she’d return to the stage, God willing in a few months, so Neta booked the Settlers, a wedding band from A. that promised a joyful occasion and gave a discount “in honor of C.’s birthday.”

Omer looked at the large notice with a sense of astonishment mixed with admiration. “Adloyada!” it announced. “To make them days of feasting and joy! A big Purim party! Ma’aleh Hermesh C.’s fifth birthday! United we’ll stand against Haman the evil and the expulsion decree! The Jews will have light and joy in the Land of Israel! Costume competition! Music by the Settlers!” He shifted his gaze a few centimeters to the left, from the invitation to the demolition order: the date was the same date, 2.28.2010, and the Hebrew one, too, Adar 14, 5770, to avoid any misunderstanding; the message was a little different. Schizophrenia, he thought. He shook his head in wonder.

“Come, come.” Neta softened her tone. “We’ll celebrate the electricity grid, too, and Yoni’s farewell if you like. And also…” She caressed her stomach with pride. It would still be some time before it showed, but the entire hilltop already knew about the pregnancy, about how the Holy One, blessed be He, had answered her prayers, about the acupuncturist’s quince diet, about the recommendation from the rabbi’s wife to change her husband’s name to Yisrael and add the name, Bracha, to hers, about the blessing she gave her with water from the Jordan River. Neta mumbled, “Praise the Lord,” and looked up at the skies, and the two soldiers instinctively followed her gaze. Then she straightened the hood on her head and walked away.

A chill settled on the hilltop during the course of the night and sparkled when morning broke in millions of refractions of frost from among clods of earth, gardening tools, cacti, upturned push cars, and on the windshields of vehicles. The day opened its eyes with a wide yawn, and hours would go by before it would shake off the cold. Neta Hirschson, after a bout of morning sickness, cut up a few small pieces of pear for herself, sipped cautiously on apple juice, and before going out made a few sewing alterations to her Purim costume and even managed to send off an annoyed talk-back response into the far-too-left expanse of the Internet. Her husband, Jean-Marc, mentioned the miracle of Purim when he recited the version of the blessing over the meal that opens with “For the miracles,” and then devoured a breakfast of eggs and French toast, followed up with a croissant with butter and jam, and he still had a little room left for cornflakes with milk.

“I thought I was the one who’s supposed to be on an eating frenzy,” Neta said.

“I’m still wiped out from the Fast of Esther,” Jean-Marc offered.

The synagogue was full and the mood festive. Hilik served as the cantor and recited the blessing to give thanks to God and continued with “In the days of Mordechai and Esther” and went on to the reading of the Ve’yavo Amalek Torah portion, and then the various blessings for the reading of the Scroll of Esther, and then the Scroll was read, and the rattles shook the heads of the worshippers and struck down Haman and his ten sons, the lips mumbled in unison, the tightly packed bodies thawed the freezing air that infiltrated from outside. And then came the final blessing over the Scroll and joyous singing of Purim songs.

Othniel huddled in quiet conversation with Hilik on the way out of synagogue. Not a word from the army in recent days. Othniel was his usual concerned self; Hilik was uncharacteristically upbeat.