Assaf Gavron - The Hilltop

“Where’s the bathroom?” Ariel, looking a little green around the gills, asked frantically as he hurried past his friend and burst through the door of the trailer. “Just don’t tell me that Gabi’s in there.”

“Gabi’s at work, feel free. I’ll put the kettle on.” Ariel, already out of earshot, hurriedly dropped his pants and sat on the toilet without drawing a breath. “That didn’t sound good at all. Oh God, it doesn’t smell all that great, either. Let’s get outta here,” said Roni, cups of tea in his hands, as Ariel emerged from the bathroom. “How was the drive?”

“Scary as hell,” Ariel replied. “I couldn’t relax for a second. They drive like lunatics, the Arabs — trucks, taxis, all going a million miles an hour. And their houses sit right on the road, almost. And where’s the army? I had the shakes the entire way. And what if I had taken a wrong turn and ended up in the middle of a hostile village?”

Roni smiled, sat back down in his easy chair, and gestured to his friend to sit beside him. He pulled out a cigarette and offered, but Ariel declined. “Sit, take it easy, man. It’s peaceful here. Believe me, I haven’t felt this secure since the kibbutz.”

Ariel barely heard a word and certainly wasn’t convinced. His eyes continued to dart left and right, and every few minutes he frisked the four pockets of his pants to make sure his wallet, phone, and keys were where they should be. Ariel was a large man, with a bald, egg-shaped head that housed thin blue eyes. Those eyes finally fixed on the easy chair alongside Roni, and he sat down.

“You’re crazy. I still can’t believe you brought me out to this battle zone. I’ve never been so terrified in my life. What’s that camel over there?”

“A camel cow — Sasson’s. Forget it, man. Look at the view. Take a deep breath. The Land of Israel.”

Ariel’s eyes met for a moment with the discerning orbs of the sand-colored camel cow and he attempted a deep breath. To no avail.

They sat quietly and sipped their tea.

“So, they’ve allowed you to come live here just like that? No questions asked?” Ariel asked.

“Sure, they ask questions. People always ask questions. But the people here are pretty laid-back for the most part. I’m visiting my brother… And what about you? How are things at the accounting firm? And what’s happening at Bar-BaraBush? Do you still hang out there?”

“For sure, just like always,” Ariel said, somewhat distracted by the view of the light-colored hilltops in the distance. “You know, it really is beautiful here.”

“Oh, I see someone is beginning to relax a little. Give it a few minutes and you’ll be addicted to the quiet.”

Ariel took the minutes, closed his eyes, and put his head back. “It’s working,” he mumbled. “Such quiet.”

“Trust me,” Roni said, “this place needs a B-and-B. It would make a killing. It’s closer than the Galilee, dirt cheap, quiet, the view. You should see the cabin Gabi is building himself on the edge of the cliff. Stunning.”

“Are you out of your mind? What lunatic would come here? Are you telling me you want to sell this beauty and quiet and these dirt-cheap prices to Israelis? They’ll never come here. Bring it to them.”

“As in bring olive oil from here to their doorstep?”

“For example,” Ariel responded rhetorically.

“Okay, let’s go see Musa.”

“Isn’t he coming here?” Ariel’s pulse rate and blood pressure, which had finally stabilized, reared their heads again.

“Are you crazy? No Ishmaelite ever dares to approach this hilltop. Come, let me first give you a small taste.”

The oil pleased Ariel’s palate.

“The firmament of the Land of Israel is different from that of the other nations,” said Roni, gesturing toward the ancient landscape, after the two men set out.

“Huh?” Ariel responded.

“Don’t worry, that’s not me. That’s the way Gabi speaks. Rabbi Nachman quotes all day and night.”

They passed by several of the outpost’s inhabitants, Jean-Marc Hirschson, and Josh the American, and Nehama the kindergarten teacher, and the cheerful, singing, babbling toddlers from the day-care center, one of whom, Shneor, Hilik Yisraeli’s son, was crying, with snot trickling from his nose. The locals waved greetings at the two men in their city suits, and they nodded in response, Roni with a knowing smile, Ariel with a touch of anxiety.

“Tell me, are they not lunatics, burning with messianic ideological fervor, outlaws and bullies who harass the Arabs and steal land and all that?”

“The only lunatic is my brother, and he’s proud of it!” Roni said, and went on to quote Gabi saying things like “Devotion to the Lord requires doing things that may appear like madness.”

Ariel laughed and said, “It won’t be long before you, too, are reborn.” Roni was quick to respond, “God forbid.”

“Seriously, though,” Ariel said, “aren’t there problems here with the army and the Arabs and who knows what?”

“Listen,” Roni said, “clearly there are people here who are afraid. And I really couldn’t tell you if there are or aren’t any Kahanists here who go out at night on raids against the Arabs. But from what I’ve seen, most of the people here simply get on with their own lives — work, family, school, and prayer and religious studies, too.”

“How’s Gabi?”

“He reads Rabbi Nachman. Prays like a madman. Rocks and sways like he’s on a carousel. He’s quiet a lot. He’s building a cabin. Who knows. We haven’t seen this much of each other since we were kids. To be honest, I’m enjoying it, and I think he is, too. It’s a little cramped in the trailer, but I’m trying to get into another one that is currently unoccupied, and Gabi will be moving into his cabin at some point… Okay, let’s head off here to Musa.” Roni turned onto a path between two trailers and drove on in the direction of the olive groves.

“Are you sure?”

“This is what you came for, right?”

The sun burned white over sleepy mountains. The past few weeks had seen the days drag by, get longer, gradually lose their chill. And the hills were covered in a thin film of sourgrass, much to the delight of the goats and sheep of all nationalities. Behind Ariel and Roni, Ma’aleh Hermesh C. faded farther into the distance and ahead of them the village of Kharmish drew nearer. In between lay Musa Ibrahim’s stretch of olive trees, absorbing the sun’s long rays, which would strengthen over the coming months and bring fruit to their branches, evidence of which could already be seen in the form of tiny clusters, like embryos at their initial stage of development. This year would bring a bumper crop, and if they wanted to close a deal, it would be best to do so now, before the harvest in the fall.

Ariel’s brow was covered in beads of sweat, his eyes were now hidden behind black sunglasses that wrapped around his head. “They aren’t hostile? Are you sure?” he asked.

“Chill, baby. Musa!”

Musa came over, and friendly greetings and handshakes were exchanged, and Ariel’s heart fluttered as he tried not to cast any mistrusting glances. They sampled another dark, bold-flavored oil, and then Roni said to the Arab, “Come, let’s see what we spoke about.” They walked along the boundary between the village and its groves, and then turned right into the alleyways. Ariel froze, looked neither left nor right, and not for a moment did he take his eyes off Roni, who, for Ariel in that moment, was the only representative of a safe and familiar world.

“So, like I tell you,” Musa said, a cigarette attached to a black plastic holder between his fingers, “an oil press like this one, you could find maybe two others in West Bank. The old kind, made of stone. They don’t make oil like this today no more. It’s the old way.”