Assaf Gavron - The Hilltop

“Yes, yes,” Roni said, spurring Musa on. “Millstones, that’s what we want to see.”

Musa continued. “My father worked the press for many years, and made oil for whole village,” he said. “Two years ago, he got tired, too much work, too many people to manage, too little oil. Someone in the village brought in an electric press and everyone takes their olives to him, me, too. Someone came and offered my father many dollars for each stone. But he didn’t want. He wanted to sit back with his narghile and said the press must continue to work for the family. I said, Father, take the money, we’ll make oil with the electric one. He said, No, the family has worked this way for a thousand years, and you will continue, and your son after you.”

“Of course,” Roni said. “He was right. It’s the traditional way, the real way.”

Musa fixed Roni with a tired look. Ariel, still scared stiff, hid behind his sunglasses despite the shade in the narrow alleyways.

Musa produced a large set of keys and opened a lock that hung from a corrugated steel door. The door creaked open. He flipped a switch and a pale bulb on the ceiling lit up. A dank, dusty odor assaulted their nostrils. The room was dark and had a dirt floor. Two millstones stood in a vertical position inside a wide basin, also of stone. Musa explained the process — the harvesting, onto lengths of tarpaulin, was done by hand and with sticks and rakes. From there, the olives went into sacks, which were then loaded onto donkeys and carried to the press — from the tree straight to the stone, min a-shajar ila ilhajar , yielded the best oil — the women sorted through the olives, discarding the dirt and leaves, separating the good from the bad and the black ones from the green, then the olives were pressed by the stones.

“What about washing?”

“There’s this washing pipe that can connect to water,” Musa responded, pointing to a thin brown rubber hose. “But the water in past years too little and weak. And my mother says washing is zift a-tin , takes all the flavor and color away. She say the dust and the earth is true flavor. The rain washes good enough. My mother and father aren’t willing to taste any other oil. It’s the taste of when they were children. They long for it.” He pulled out another cigarette and put it in the holder. Ariel anxiously followed Musa’s fingers with his eyes. The air inside the oil press constricted his lungs.

“I trust your mother, no washing for us,” Roni said, meeting the look of horror in Ariel’s eyes with a wink.

The cigarette Musa had lit up made it even harder to breathe, and little help was offered by the tiny barred window, through which they could now see the faces of children, snooping and inquisitive. Ariel was sweating: This is the end, what am I doing here? But then Musa’s wife entered with a tray bearing small cups of Turkish coffee, and Ariel accepted graciously and lifted one to his lips — delicious.

“From here, the olives we put on stone,” Musa continued. “The donkey we tie to thick beam, and his eyes we cover so he doesn’t go crazy. He walks and pulls the beam in circle like this, and the stone crushes the olives, cracks them. This is most natural way and best way, no knives, no shredders, and no machines. The flesh of olives turns into ajina, mash, with a good smell. We collect the ajina with special rakes and we spread on the akalim ”—he pointed out circular, flattened baskets woven from rope with a hole in the center—“and the akalim we put on this pole, one on top of other, and turn screw and press hard-hard, and so the oil seeps out into bath here. It’s water and oil together, and we let lie to separate, or separator tool is also possible to use. After we separate, oil goes into pitchers, and there it is good to let sit for a while because it is cloudy, pieces of olives are float in it, and after a week or two, they sink and the oil is clear, and is possible to pour into cans.”

Ariel glanced at Roni. Not the most sterile operation in the world. Again Roni winked at him.

“It’s the best oil,” Musa said. “But no one makes like this any longer because too slow, and gives too small oil, you need healthy donkey, or motor, and many people to work. With new machines, you push button and everything works by itself, clean, and press more oil from olives. You understand?”

Roni looked at Ariel and rubbed his chin. His eyes then drifted to Musa’s white mustache. “How much do they cost, the machines?” he asked.

“Six thousand dollar for small Chinese compressor, six manpower. For one hundred thousand dollar, from Italy is best compressor in the world — six hundred horsepower. Extracts most oil from olives in short time.”

“But the taste isn’t the same taste,” Roni said.

“No.”

“And that’s what matters.”

“Yes, a little money we need to fix here because not work for a long time. Electric motor for turning, separator to separate instead of letting settle.”

“You said the donkey will do the turning,” Roni responded. “I saw your donkey. As for the separating, you said it was best to wait.”

“I didn’t say best. Letting settle takes two weeks instead of few minutes. I think pity to wait. And donkey has heart problem, is weak.”

The eyes of the Israelis met again. Roni’s eyes read, I don’t have a cent to my name. Right now, I’d rather make a small profit on zero investment than a large profit after an investment — boutique oil. His mouth said, “For now, I say, let’s keep things down to a minimum. Original olive oil. Handmade. Boutique. Try with the donkey.”

“Okay,” Musa replied, “but oil only a little.”

On the walk back, Ariel aired out the sweat and clinging odors from his shirt and again frisked his pockets to ensure his wallet and keys and mobile were still there. The fact that he was still alive lifted his spirits, and soon they’d be back on the hilltop, which might have been an outpost in the heart of the occupied territories, but at this point in time, even Ariel felt secure there, surrounded by armed and bearded Jews and soldiers to keep the peace.

“What can I tell you, Roni? I’ve made several inquiries since we started discussing things. The people at the Olive Boutique on Rothschild Boulevard sent me to see oil presses, the top of the line. The way they do things here, with sticks and stones and donkeys and containers that have been lying around for who knows how long — the world’s moved on since then. The production lines from Italy are a different world.”

“Forget about it. Nothing beats the old way. The most natural, the purest. A production line means tons of oil a day. We’re a boutique, man. People want that. You tell them it’s organic, tried and tested for hundreds of years, made by hand, unrivaled quality, extra-extra-virgin.”

“Actually, in Italy, if the oil comes from a press like that, the label shows an illustration of millstones.”

“Exactly. You see? We’ll mark ours, too!”

“I don’t know,” Ariel said, returning to his original standpoint. “Didn’t Musa look a little tired to you? With machinery, it’s more precise, cleaner. There’s the washing…”

“A waste of water and a waste of space. Those Arab women are better than any machine when it comes to sorting out and discarding the leaves and shitty olives. That’s the real flavor, with the dust, and the earth, and the cigarette smoke, and a leaf here and there.”

“There are automatic mills…”

“And I suppose you also have a hundred thousand dollars lying around somewhere? Leave it, nothing beats millstones. A two-thousand-year-old success story, like the Jews!”

They walked on to Ma’aleh Hermesh C.’s circular road. “Everything in life is relative, isn’t it,” Ariel said. “When I first got in here, I almost passed out from fear. But after surviving the Palestinian village… Now I’m just trying not to think about the drive back.” His gaze lingered briefly on a group of children in push cars alongside a mother, and he felt a pang of longing for his own son and wife. His eyes then moved to fix on the damaged windshield of a car — a weblike formation of cracks around a small hole where the rock had struck.