Assaf Gavron - The Hilltop

Things didn’t work out as planned.

* * *

Roni loved the Golan Heights — close to the kibbutz, yet different and far enough from Yifat; greener and wetter and more mountainous than the Negev. Not that anyone asked his opinion, but he ended up serving most of his time in the military in the north: in the vicinity of Acre, around Safed, Eliakim. And when he got to the Golan every once in a while, he’d always remember to visit Uncle Yaron at the kibbutz, which had relocated two or three times since that family visit — itself erased from Roni’s memory entirely — and was by then a long-standing and well-established community.

Every year, an IDF colonel from Roni and Gabi’s kibbutz would pass on to the kibbutz’s conscripts-to-be confidential information regarding their initial psychotechnic rankings and security clearance checks, along with their options in the army, so that they’d show up prepared. Baruch Shani tried to arrange for Roni to be selected for the elite Sayeret Matkal unit. He made it through the trial period and felt it had gone well, but apparently they weren’t happy about something in the personal interview stage — perhaps because he was an orphan, or he had mentioned Yifat one too many times, or they had heard stories about his younger brother. He was better prepared for the Golani Brigade commando unit. Baruch Shani put in a good word for him there, too, and this time, Roni backed it up with a respectable showing, supreme motivation, and no superfluous details about his knee injuries from his basketball years or his broken heart or his brother who would sometimes run into trouble. He was accepted for two weeks of pre-basic training at Camp Peles, with the second week serving as an extremely rigorous trial period for the commando unit, just like the one for Sayeret Matkal.

All that occupied his mind throughout that week was that he just had to get through it, make it to the finish. If he made it to the end, he’d be happy, that would suffice — and the end came. After a week at Camp Shraga, he was told he had made it into the commando unit. Then came basic training in Eliakim, with the cows and the hills, and the remote geographical points, and “the orchards”—endless drills — and the constant assurances that until now, it was all child’s play, with the real hard work only just beginning.

He started out as a radio operator on treks and infantry drills — weeks in the field and learning how to prepare your own food and carry heavy loads and navigate all by yourself, or with one other comrade at best; and more exercises and orders and commanders riding your ass; and on the rare occasion, a little peace and quiet. A year and four months later, Camp Eliakim and Area 100 and the training course were behind him, and his chest bore the pin of the Flying Tiger, or, as he liked to call it, the laughing cat — sixteen months of toil, of broken sleep, of a back and legs under crippling strain, of yelling and humiliation, all for a pin.

* * *

Gabi was in the basketball hall with Yotam. He shot a ball at the basket, tried another shot, then another. Off he went to collect the ball, under the basket, or wherever it had ended up after rebounding off the court floor or the rim. He gripped the brownish-orange ball, smooth from overuse, dribbled it as he moved away from the basket, turned, aimed, bent a knee, left hand under the ball, right hand lightly keeping it balanced, whoosh. The ball left his hand in an arc, clang. It struck the outer rim of the basket. Yotam by now was a head taller than Gabi, and strong; he played for the youth team. Both boys shot at the same basket; bigger guys were playing on the other side of the court, three-on-three. Boom-boom-boom bounced the balls, and eek-eek-eek screeched the shoes. He and Yotam played in absolute silence, simply shooting baskets. Gabi had woken that morning at 4:30 and had gone out to work in the fields. He had watched as the dawn slowly broke, as the chilled air evaporated, as the darkness gradually thinned, the smell of the tomatoes enveloping him, touching him, making him itch. It was only after being assigned to that particular branch of the kibbutz’s farming enterprise that he realized just how much he hated the tomatoes, particularly when the sun came up and the heat moved in, and he was bending over and picking another one and then another one, and there was no end to them in sight. They gave off a pungent odor, and some were squished, and their stems were hairy and uninviting. He wasn’t particularly fond of the other kibbutz members who worked with him, either, or the volunteers, or the overseer, an immigrant from Australia who treated Gabi somewhat like a mentally retarded child.

The ball from the big boys’ game on the other side bounced into Yotam and Gabi’s half of the court. It happened all the time — for the most part, you’d throw the ball over to the other side and get on with your own thing, no big deal. But if you were in the middle of doing something, you’d finish what you had started and then return it, or someone from the side that lost it would go retrieve it.

The ball crossed sides, bounced, and rolled across the floor, ending up at Gabi’s feet just as he was aiming to shoot. Alex from the groundskeeping department who worked with Dad Yossi came over to get it. So as not to be a distraction, however, he stood to the side as Gabi took aim and waited for him to complete his shot. Gabi sensed him there, at his back. He didn’t like being watched, and he didn’t like Alex. He dribbled the ball once more and took aim again. By now, the other players from the game on the other side who were waiting for their ball were all looking over to see what was keeping Alex, and watched as Gabi was getting ready to shoot. Gabi looked back to see the five of them, sweating and panting, looking at him and waiting for him to shoot. He bounced the ball one more time and again took aim, feeling all the sets of eyes piercing his back and shoulders. Yotam, too, had stopped his bouncing. The hall had fallen quiet, everyone waiting for Gabi to take his shot. He bounced the ball again, and then held it, left hand underneath, right hand on the side, hands, reeking of tomatoes, close to the nose, elbow bent, knee bent, one eye closed. But just as he was about to release the ball, Alex let out a small and pressing “Well…” that threw off his shot completely, and the ball left his hands in a pathetic arc, a muffed shot, too weak, too close. The ball rose and fell some distance from the ring, and Alex chuckled and ran to collect his ball. “That’s what we were waiting for?” came from someone, someone else laughed, and two of them applauded. Gabi looked at Yotam, who was also smiling, and who then took his shot — swish, it dropped cleanly through the basket.

Gabi Kupper exited the gym through the back door, which overlooked the pool. He could hear two balls bouncing out of sync behind him, one Yotam’s; the other, the big boys’, boom-boom-boom, eek-eek-eek. He jumped the meter or so gap to the tarmac and began walking, oblivious of where he was going. The smell of the freshly cut and wet grass throbbed in his nostrils and irritated his eyes. He dug in his pocket — a crumpled Noblesse cigarette someone had given him, a few bits of gravel, a Twist candy bar wrapper, dirty grass, a box of matches, a small pocketknife key ring. He sat down on a bench and lit the Noblesse, feeling the sharp smoke swirling in his head, tearing into his chest. He dragged on the cigarette again, his body covered in sweat — playing basketball in jeans is no fun. Laying down the cigarette for a moment, he took off his shirt and wiped his brow, armpits, and smooth chest, picked up the Noblese again, another puff, then another — sharp, swirling, nauseating. The booms and eeks from the hall were now distant and weak. It was late and dark already, and he needed to take a shit. He’d take a shit on Alex, or cut the asshole’s throat with a knife. He of all people had to come over to get the ball. He’d stood there and humiliated Gabi, like always, snickering and taunting at every opportunity.