Assaf Gavron - The Hilltop

The officer then stood and addressed everyone via the bus’s microphone. “Until now, guys, it’s all been a joke, child’s play. Believe me. What have you done so far? Fitness drills? Firing range exercises? Standing battle orders? Parachuting? Courses and lessons? Forget them. They’re child’s play. What we’re about to do today is what we live for — reconnaissance. Functioning as a commando unit. Patrolling ahead of the forces, navigating, leading the way. All through unknown territory, and at the risk of being discovered. That’s why we’re going down to the Negev, to an area in which we haven’t worked much at all. When this personnel carrier lets out its pssst and you step through that door, I want you to show the world what the Golani commando unit is all about. You’ll be getting the orienteering charts. Study them and memorize them until they are etched in your brains, or on your asses, for all I care. Believe me. Come on, go out there and show the world and the chief of staff what you’re worth.”

Roni believed him and wanted to show the world, and even the chief of staff, what he was worth. He studied the charts and navigation routes until they were etched in his brain and on his ass. He readied himself in silence, checked his weapon and ammunition and water and snacks and boots, loaded his equipment on his back, obeyed every instruction, listened to all the briefings, responded to every question, helped his brothers in arms, and headed out — tight-chested, bold-hearted, narrow-eyed, and with good intentions.

He felt good for the first few kilometers. The equipment felt light on his back; his legs carried him almost playfully; he was even enjoying himself. But then a dark shadow began working its way in, into his thoughts and into the depths of his spongy brain. Because ultimately, you’re hopeless, you don’t stand a chance of repelling it. When you walk through the night for hours and have to remain focused, have to stay awake, you invite them in, the thoughts, you need them to maintain your rhythm, to block out the weight and the burning that starts in your toes and on the soles of your feet, you call to them because you have the time to develop them, to organize them in your overcrowded mind. And then they came flooding back, the mistakes he had made, the years of distancing himself, Yifat the fucking bitch, the tears. He had promised to pull himself together, to finish first, but his mind was consumed and it was difficult to focus.

Roni stopped and drank some water. He must focus. He had prepared for this week. He knew he could do it, and his commander knew he could, too. Gabi would come back. It wasn’t his responsibility. Others were dealing with the worrying and searching. Dad Yossi had things under control. And Roni wanted to remain a part of the unit. He retrieved a crumpled Noblesse cigarette from the pocket of his fatigues. Smoking while on orienteering exercises was forbidden, but how else was he going to clear his head? He sat down, leaned back against his equipment, pulled out a match, and lit up. Just one and he’d move on. He could picture the navigation coordinates in his mind. He was doing fine. He was heading in the right direction. The stars were helping him, the compass set him straight. He was going to finish first with ease, he’d show the chief of staff.

He continued walking. The load on his back grew heavier. The navigation coordinates etched into his brain and on his ass began to fade. He stopped to eat something small. To drink. To smoke. To shit. He’d be okay. Despite relieving it of water, food, and cigarettes, the load grew heavier still. He hadn’t seen a member of his unit for quite some time, not that he was supposed to see anyone, but you usually ran into someone, paths crossed, you’d join up and talk for a little while to stave off the boredom and then split up. But that night, not a soul. Here were the stars, here was the compass. He saw lights. What’s that? Is it the kibbutz? He was drowning in sweat, he’d take the load off his back for just a moment. He rested. He drank. He wanted to smoke but was all out of cigarettes. Perhaps he should go in, only to ask for a cigarette? It was so hot. He was breathing heavily. It would get a lot hotter after daybreak.

He found himself shivering, mumbling to himself, alongside the perimeter fence of some community or other, calling for Gabi, and then he thought he saw him. Where was he? There was the kibbutz, he was at the kibbutz, there were the lawns, the gardens that Dad Yossi and his groundskeeping team planted and tended so beautifully, there was the swimming pool and dining hall, the concrete paths. He felt drawn to the lights. There was Gabi. Gabi? Gabi fixed him with an odd stare. Gabi? Do you have a cigarette? He didn’t respond, but simply looked — what does he want, why does he look like that? Who the hell is that?

* * *

It wasn’t Gabi. At the time, Gabi was indeed down south, in the desert, but hundreds of kilometers from Roni’s IDF orienteering training exercises. He was in the Sinai Peninsula, in Ras Burqa, meandering over sand dunes and down to the blue water. His journey there had been a surprising, intoxicating, hitchhiking quest that took him from Ofra to Be’er Tuvia, from Be’er Tuvia to Eilat, and from Eilat to Ras Burqa. The Gam-zu-Le-tova family’s 600 shekels would provide for him comfortably for several weeks, he worked out, and certainly in Ras Burqa — what was there to buy there, anyway? He befriended a group from Haifa who were collectively buying food supplies and water and ice and beer, cooking together and sharing their meals, and he paid his part and shared in the cooking, dishwashing, and trips to get ice. They even gave him a blanket and he slept on it under the stars. They didn’t ask questions, that’s what he liked most about them, and thus he spent his days, lazing on the sand, occasionally putting on a mask and snorkel and exploring the reef a little, submerged in the silence, with snorkel-allotted breaths of air, with colors that exploded into view and moved and dodged away. There, under the water, the embers of his mind, his spiraling rage, his scorched nerve endings found peace and cooled. On the blanket, under a star-studded desert sky, he managed to suppress his anger toward Dad Yossi and Mom Gila, his longing for Roni, his thoughts of Yotam and Ofir and the kibbutz dining hall. He managed to close his eyes and fall soundly asleep, before waking to the pre-dawn chill.

“Hey, I want a turn, too!” Nili, one of the girls, responded when he asked one day for the air mattress and diving mask and snorkel. “Come,” Gabi said, and they went out together, she on the air mattress, legs on the cushion and mask in the water, he dragging the air mattress, watching the fish together. It was afternoon, the sun had disappeared behind the mountains to the west, and the visibility under the water wasn’t all that great, but it was the time when the fish usually emerged from the reef, and they got the chance to observe lionfish and puffers, spotted an octopus and saw sea horses and butterfly fish and clownfish. Gabi pointed and Nili followed with her eyes, then looked at him, and through the foggy glass of the mask, he saw her smiling back at him. From that afternoon on, Nili sat next to him at mealtimes, washed dishes by his side, moved closer and closer to his blanket, found it a few nights later and fell asleep on it, and they woke in the morning to find themselves cuddled together, shielding themselves from the dawn chill, and she smiled at him and lightly kissed his lips, and then pulled away and went over to her sleeping bag without saying a word.

Nili wasn’t the prettiest girl in the group, but she was the most enchanting. They shared their first real kiss up at the lookout point after a grueling climb in the scorching sun, totally exhausted, with the entire blue sea spread out below them, a long, deep kiss, spattered with sand and silky. Both were in their bathing suits, touching only exposed parts, not daring to cross any lines or disturb the resting places of any bands of elastic, a sweet and delicious and wet kiss. A kiss that should have marked a new and exciting stage for both of them, but remained only a promise.