Assaf Gavron - The Hilltop

The second time, a week later, was a little better. The third was already somewhat Dahn Ben-Amotz — worthy. Roni thought he was really good. A week after that, on the day they marked five months of being together, Yifat didn’t show up at school but wrote him a letter to say she’s confused, that she doesn’t know; she’s crazy about him and feels good with him, but she thinks she needs some alone time. She’s going through a weird patch. The five months together were the most amazing in her life, but now she feels maybe they need to take a time-out?

Maybe? He held the lined sheet of paper on which the hurtful words were written. He didn’t get it. He read again; his heart fluttered in his throat. He took the letter and went around back to the smoking den. Everyone had gone into class at the bell, and he sat there alone. He could smell the large pines and smoked cigarette butts. He read again, the drops smudged the words.

The violent pounding of his heart every time he saw her after that. Feeling sick to his stomach on being told she was seen hanging out with Ofer from the grade above them, from a different kibbutz. When he heard they were seen together in a tent at the Dead Sea. The long hours alone in his room, listening to Foreigner’s “I Want to Know What Love Is” over and over again on the black cassette player, “Don’t You Want Me?” by The Human League, and Matt Bianco’s “More Than I Can Bear.”

Tenth grade was colored with the optimistic and joyful pinks and whites of first love and arousing discovery; eleventh, with depressing and broken shades of the black and gray of intense disappointment and a heart shattered to pieces, a heart that would never fully heal, that would never let fall its barriers of suspicion and walls of defense, that would begin digging in to the bleeding wounds and asking the questions he didn’t truly ask, not in earnest, despite the fact that Mom Gila and Dad Yossi didn’t hide a thing. Because they, too, never really spoke of what happened back then, a little over a decade ago, when Roni was almost five and Gabi a year-old infant who still couldn’t walk.

Uncle Yaron moved up to the Golan Heights soon after the Six-Day War, which was indeed relatively short but nevertheless went on long enough to claim his right eye and the upper part of his right ear, from the shrapnel of an IDF grenade accidentally dropped by one of his fellow paratroopers in the battle at Burj Babil. He had just enough time to take two steps back and dive through the air like a goalkeeper facing a penalty kick — a wild guess, left or right; statistically, little chance of defense. The person or thing he landed on was hidden in the darkness. The scream came from God knows where… he didn’t hear the bang. He woke in an improvised medical tent with a giant bandage around his head. A few months later, following his eventual discharge from the hospitals and the army, boasting a Moshe Dayan — like eye patch and feeling revitalized and ready to take on life anew, he said to his younger brother, Asher, and anyone else willing to listen: “She took my eye and ear; now it’s time she gave me something in return.” He was referring to the Golan Heights. During its first years on earth, the kibbutz that welcomed him with open arms was relocated: heavy Syrian shelling, another big war, all on top of the regular hardships of a young community in a young country. When Yaron invited his brother and sister-in-law and two young nephews for their first visit to his Golan Heights, Uncle Yaron and his fellow kibbutzniks were still occupying the abandoned Syrian military post where they had initially taken up residence.

In the dead of night, after finally getting Roni to sleep, Ricki expressed her concerns to Asher — with the Syrians shelling and firing and abducting, a trip now to the Golan Heights wasn’t safe, and certainly not with two small children, one of them an infant. “The wars are over,” Asher said. “I think by now the Syrians have lost all hope of retaking the land.”

“But they’re still shelling,” she responded.

“Barely,” her husband said. “When was the last time they got close to Yaron’s kibbutz?”

“Wasn’t it just a month ago?” she asked.

“Longer, I think. Anyway, in all this time, no one’s been injured. It’s merely a scare tactic. A barking dog doesn’t bite. They have terrible weapons. They couldn’t hit a thing.”

“Other than that poor woman,” Ricki said.

“Other than that poor woman,” Asher agreed.

Gabi let out a small whimper. The parents sat up and went quiet. When they resumed their conversation, they spoke in a whisper.

“Anyway,” Asher said, “I promised my brother I’d come. The guy lost half his face in the battle for that place, and has chosen to make a home for himself there. That’s pretty admirable.”

“I do admire him,” Ricki said, although she didn’t particularly admire his insistence on settling in a godforsaken place that was under continuous bombardment, and she didn’t think that Asher, despite his love for his brother, admired that, either. “But can’t we postpone the visit a little?”

“No,” Asher said.

On arriving at Uncle Yaron’s kibbutz, Ricki’s arguments and concerns were forgotten. The children went crazy for the place: the open expanses, the freedom to play outdoors and run wildly in the yard or park, the air, the landscape, the animals that strolled among the houses — a donkey, a horse, a dog, several chickens, a cow. They told Uncle Yaron that he appeared to be in his natural habitat, at ease and content, and the children loved him and his eye patch when he played pirates with them (Roni played, Gabi smiled). Ricki even went so far as to tell Asher and Yaron one evening that she wouldn’t be opposed to raising her kids on a kibbutz in the north. Perhaps not on the Golan Heights — which, despite remaining completely free of artillery shelling for the five days they were there, was still considered a dangerous and under-fire area, and the kibbutzim and other Jewish communities established there after the war remained isolated and remote, with very rudimentary living conditions. But maybe, Ricki said, on an older, more established kibbutz in the Galilee. Uncle Yaron would remember that line all too well in years to come.

So much fun was had that the Kuppers put off their return to Rehovot until the very last minute. Asher and Ricki had to work that Sunday. Initially, the plan was to return home from the trip on the Saturday, without rushing, perhaps with a stop along the way at Lake Kinneret, whatever — a stress-free drive. But as the last few days of freedom always seemed to have it, Saturday came around way too quickly, and the children were having such fun with their uncle the pirate on the former Syrian army base turned fledgling kibbutz. So Uncle Yaron asked, and Asher and Ricki consented, and Roni cheered. Why lose out on one more whole day of fun if work’s only tomorrow? What’s the rush to get into the car when it’s hot and sweaty and a nuisance, and there’s more traffic on the roads? Why, when they’re wide awake, place the children into motionless and emotionless upright sitting positions that will require continuous creativity, numerous breaks, and endless patience? After all, stopping at Lake Kinneret, or anywhere else, for that matter, isn’t really necessary. They’ll leave Saturday evening. The children will sleep in the back, the drive will go by quickly, the parents will be able to talk a little. And when they arrive home in the small hours of the morning, they’ll carry the children to bed, and they’ll wake Sunday morning refreshed and relaxed after a wonderful vacation. That’s a much better plan for sure, agreed Asher and Ricki, with the enthusiastic support of Uncle Yaron and the kids.