Assaf Gavron - The Hilltop

“They wouldn’t dare do anything on Purim, and certainly not without informing us first,” Hilik said.

“Look at the date that appears here,” Othniel said, and pointed to the demolition order posted on the synagogue wall. It stipulated Adar 14—March 5—as the very last and final day for the residents to vacate their homes. “That’s today. This silence on their part, I don’t know. I tried calling Giora yesterday, to wish him a happy holiday, to sniff around. He hasn’t called me back. It’s not like him.”

“They wouldn’t dare,” Hilik determined. “They didn’t realize it’s Purim because they’re fools, it’s not the first time. And if they dare, Purim is a day of miracles, of the abolishing of decrees.”

“I don’t think so.” Othniel twirled his beard with his left hand, and placed his right affectionately on the back of the neck of a teenager dressed in a PEACE NOW shirt, wearing a rubber baldness-wig on his head, adorned with round-rimmed glasses, boasting one of his mother’s clip-on earrings, and puffing on a peace pipe that rested in the corner of his mouth. His son Yakir, dressed up as a left-winger. He was holding a menu that Moran had brought him from a café in Tel Aviv. Among the dishes were shrimp and other seafood. Children and adults asked to see and browsed eagerly through the menu, amused and stunned. “They dared to destroy Gabi’s cabin,” Othniel noted, “then, too, you said they wouldn’t dare, didn’t you?” They couldn’t simply trust the status quo or rely on reason, he believed, because they’d already been violated.

“That was a different story. A nature reserve. The Nature and Parks Authority. Besides, why would they be hooking up electricity before an evacuation?” Hilik said. Othniel wasn’t swayed. “I’m telling you, they’re cooking up something.” He had known the authorities for too long, knew they couldn’t be relied on, they couldn’t allow themselves to drop their guard.

An idea took root in his mind. He recalled an unusual incident that had occurred in Samaria a few years back. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Roni, wearing a curly wig and round plastic glasses, and approached him. Without any preamble, he sounded him out. Roni chuckled as if he had just heard an amusing story for Purim, and sipped on a bottle of beer. Othniel said he was serious. Roni took another sip and thought. Othniel’s idea sounded over-the-top, but it could be an opportunity. It was his last day, and he wanted to bid farewell to everyone in good spirits, so why shouldn’t he say a nice good-bye to Musa Ibrahim, too? After all, they had been through several months of shared work, shared hopes, a friendship of sorts, you could say. True, he was disappointed with the ugly end to his venture, and felt betrayed, but come now, it’s Purim.

“But I’m not going alone,” he said to Othniel.

“Maybe your brother?” Othniel suggested.

“No way,” Roni replied.

Othniel thought, and then saw the answer standing right before his eyes—“Here, take this peacenik. Perfect!” He rested a hand on Yakir, his son.

“Your son?” Roni raised a Harry Potter — like eyebrow. “Seriously, you’re not worried about him?”

“The area is crawling with army personnel. You’ll be fine. Besides, just to be extra sure, take this with you.” Othniel lifted the edge of his shirt to reveal the Desert Eagle Mark VII tucked into his pants.

The contrasting attitudes of Othniel Assis and Hilik Yisraeli more or less represented the split mind of each and every one of the hilltop residents: fear of the power, blindness, obsequiousness or perhaps guile of the defense minister and his army, on the one hand, and faith in the justness of their cause and the Holy One, blessed be He, who will save us from their hands on a festive day, certainly after the fast, the prayers for forgiveness, the Aneinu and Avinu Malkeinu prayers of atonement and the customary giving of gifts to the needy yesterday, on the other hand. Thus, every time the hum of an engine was heard from beyond the sentry post at the gate, all eyes turned worriedly in that direction, waited for the appearance of the vehicles and the news heralded by their identity.

The first to ascend and arrive in his large vehicle was Herzl Weizmann, who, along with two workers immediately began arranging the playground and readying it for the party: a stage, stands for lighting and speakers, electricity, the temporary dismantling of removable playground equipment, a partition to separate the men and women that was stretched down the middle of the playground.

The next in line were four nimble dairy goats, new additions to Othniel’s farm. With so many worries on his mind, he almost forgot about the delivery, and here they were in all their glory, all several dozen kilograms of them, with their unkempt wool and their udders filled with goodness. And not only that, but out from the cabin of the truck stepped a beautiful Dutch girl, wooden clogs on her feet, a shiny blond wig on her head, heavily made up, sporting false eyelashes, her dress doll-like and European. The eyes needed a moment to adjust and focus, a gentle balancing of the mind between the recollection of facial features and recognition that it’s Purim — Gitit!

Yoni’s heart almost stopped at the sight of the beautiful smooth-skinned Dutch girl, and at the same time he was troubled. The forces were supposed to be here first thing in the morning, and Omer wasn’t answering his phone, and everyone was here with their costumes and celebrations, and the cold was eating into his bones despite the coverall and dog-eared hat and a double layer of undershirts and long johns. The hum of another engine was heard, and Yoni raised his eyes and, from his lofty height of five feet and five inches, spotted the vehicle of the Jerusalem sound system company, whose crew quickly began unpacking crates and setting up speakers and lighting and hooking up electricity and sound. After them came the Settlers, four bespectacled settlers with matching crocheted skullcaps in different colors, cheap black jackets, and thin piano ties from the ’80s, who conducted a quick sound check and went off to get something to drink.

Music came from the speakers positioned in the corners of the playground, a traditional Purim song from some festival collection or other. Silvery clouds were gathering in the sky. Omer finally answered Yoni and updated him. They were waiting for the final go-ahead. An urgent discussion was under way with the chief of staff — do they evacuate on the festival or not, do they deploy a helicopter or not. Like they hadn’t been planning the operation for days. Like they hadn’t known it was a festival and that the orders issued by the High Court of Justice of the State of Israel were about to expire. Omer asked Yoni not to worry. “I’m not worried, my bro,” Yoni said, gritting his teeth. “I’ll be at the induction center tomorrow, whether the operation moves forward or not.”

“What’s moving forward?” a large penguin asked him. It was Shaulit Rivlin, who had come to the army’s trailer in the company of an orange-ponytailed and freckled Pippi Longstocking, her elder daughter, Amalia, to deliver a colorful plate of treats.

“It’s nothing. I’m just wondering if I should go ahead and buy myself a stereo system as a gift for my discharge.” Yoni’s hesitant smile revealed his white teeth.

“Why aren’t you dressed up in costume yet?” Amalia scolded him, and he replied, “Ahh… I’ll be dressing up soon…”

“As what?” pressed the girl.

“Amalia, it’s a secret!” the penguin responded, and winked from inside her furry head. They left the plate of treats and walked off hand in hand back to the playground, from which another Purim song was now coming.