Assaf Gavron - The Hilltop

Approaching the Arab village were Harry Potter, a red-haired Arab, and a peacenik. They carried a festive assortment of Purim treats, a rustling cellophane bag with chewy candies, four mini chocolate bars, Jenia Freud’s coconut-chocolate cookies, and more sweets for the people of the village. Yakir and Josh spoke in low voices about some technology issue and Roni walked ahead of them in silence, smoked, wondered about Rina the kindergarten teacher and the closed kindergarten where he had spent his Tel Aviv nights. A desert lark that suddenly took to the sky above the barren hilltops caught his eye — is he flying to warmer lands? — and he recalled his last conversation with Musa, when he called to say someone had set fire to trees in his grove. Roni sensed he suspected him, called to find out where he was, but he was in Tel Aviv. He promised Musa he’d look into it. And tried he did, but ran into a wall of silence that reminded him of the kibbutz — everyone seemed to know who did what, but God forbid someone should talk about it on the outside. And Roni was on the outside. Even Gabi gave him this answer: Forget it, don’t poke your nose in, let us manage our own affairs. Roni wondered just how much his brother himself was a part of the inner circle on the hilltop, what did he know. He tossed his cigarette butt onto the soft earth and smiled a bitter smile. He was no fool. He’d been living here for a year, knew all the players. It wasn’t hard to work out who served as the hilltop’s go-to man for special missions, whether acting on his own discretion or on behalf of the community. The quiet kid on the horse called Killer, Jehu.

But Roni guessed only part of the truth — Jehu hadn’t been there alone.

In the village of Kharmish it was a wintry and sleepy day that had been disturbed by the Jews’ loud music. Someone looked out her kitchen window and saw the approaching trio and called to her brother, and the brother looked out the kitchen window and phoned a friend, and within minutes, despite the cold, a group of onlookers had gathered and were watching, with a mixture of curiosity, bewilderment, amusement, and agitation, the three Jews, or two Jews and one Arab, who were approaching them.

On the Sheldon Mamelstein playground at Ma’aleh Hermesh C., someone said, “Ooh-ah, look at that,” referring to the riot dispersal equipment — helmets and clubs and large see-through plastic shields. Following orders, the soldiers and police positioned themselves in front of the collection of costumed characters. Nefesh Freud tugged on his father’s sleeve and asked, “Who are those people who also dressed up as policemen?” Captain Omer went up onto the stage and requested the microphone. Only then did the band cease playing a slow waltz version of yet another traditional Purim song.

Silence fell while Omer cleared his throat and said, “Hello… Good evening, everyone. Sorry to disturb your Purim party. But the government of Israel has decided to evacuate this illegal outpost. Demolition orders were posted here ten days ago, and you were given the chance to leave quietly and without confrontation. This morning we received an order to come help anyone who has yet to leave. I’m asking for your cooperation and help in carrying out a peaceful and dignified evacuation. If you choose not to cooperate, we will respond accordingly. And I’m telling you now, so that you won’t be able to say I didn’t tell you. We’re stronger, we’re prepared, and we’ll succeed. Thank you.”

The silence ensued for a few seconds. And then the yelling began. And spitting. And people took off in every direction. The sheet that separated the women and men was pulled down and trampled. Urgent phone calls. And tears. And what the hell. And why right now. And what insensitivity. And what ugly provocation. And how come we’re the ones who are singled out while the Arabs are free to build as they please.

The helicopter hovered in the sky, observed. A D-9 made its way slowly down the hilltop, beyond the playground, and approached the first trailer to its right. “Wait, wait, wait, why can’t we talk for a moment?” For Hilik Yisraeli, with rouge on his cheeks and mascara on his eyelashes, it finally hit him. Stumbling in his high heels and bridal dress, a bouquet of flowers still in his hand, he chased after the large bulldozer. But the bulldozer didn’t listen. Neta-tigress and Rachel-Snow-White each clasped a hand over a gaping mouth, in disbelief, as the D-9’s blade slammed into the ceiling of the trailer and with a jarring, huge, heartrending noise, shattered the roof.

“What the hell?” roared the tigress, stunned to the core. “Disobey the order! Criminals!” Jehu-Queen-Esther galloped up on his horse, Santa-Killer, and tried to circle and approach the bulldozer from the front, but the D-9 went about its business. Captain Omer stood with his arms folded and observed the scene.

“Don’t you have a heart? You’re Haman!” a woman within a costume yelled at him. No, he answered to himself, I don’t have a heart. I don’t pity. I’ve had enough. The driver of the D-9 caught his eye for a second, and with a gesture of his hand, he instructed him, go on, go on. And he went on and demolished the trailer, contents and all. It sounded like the intense groans of agony of an elephant.

The prisoner grabbed the hand of the Dutch girl and pulled her forcefully, and she, her knees failing her, her mind in turmoil, went along with him. Her father was busy trying to get hold of the head of Central Command, who was overseeing the operation from the helicopter in the sky, and her mother was focused on maintaining eye contact with her younger brothers and sisters. She followed the prisoner. He reached the guard tower and climbed the stairs, and she behind him, her hand still in his. At the top, in the tower, he turned and held her and kissed her lips and said, “I’ve been going crazy, crazy, crazy without you.” And she didn’t answer, just kissed him back, and with a slender finger traced a line along his neck. He moved a hand to the buxom Dutch chest. She froze, didn’t stop him, couldn’t. Was in a dream. She was pure — that morning, at the boarding school, she had been to the mikveh, had even checked to make sure her period was over. For no special reason, she thought. Down below, screaming, rioting, straining engines, shattering fiberglass, tear gas, but she’s a buxom Dutch lass who’s been abducted to a high tower by a prisoner. And his small head with its thick curls was nestling between her breasts, and he moved aside her bra and panted, “Crazy, crazy,” and she didn’t stop him, she didn’t stop.

* * *

Yakir Assis was the first to notice the welcome party for the trio heading for Kharmish, and quickly brought it to the attention of his fellow walkers. Roni tried to signal he was coming in peace by raising and waving his hand with a smile, and then by raising a second hand. But when the villagers recognized Roni under the curly wig and behind the toy glasses, and alongside him another Jew dressed as an Arab, and another one that looked odd, tensions rose. “It’s Roni,” someone said, “what does that scumbag think he’s doing, what’s he coming here for? And bringing along someone who’s dressed up for the hajj? Has he gone crazy?”

Roni Kupper hadn’t been a popular man in Kharmish ever since the attack on the olive groves in the village. He was the immediate suspect because of his link to the olives, his venture that had failed. The investigation conducted by the Shin Bet’s Counter-Subversion Department made do with a solitary visit to the damaged groves and a brief questioning of Musa Ibrahim, and the people of Kharmish couldn’t find any reason to suspect anyone other than Roni. Musa had indeed called him, and he had claimed to be in Tel Aviv. But maybe that was an alibi? Maybe he went there to shake off suspicion? Maybe he sent mercenaries on his behalf ? After all, it was well known that the failed deal had left him frustrated and depressed.