Assaf Gavron - The Hilltop

Hidden behind his Ray-Bans, Yoni focused for a moment on the beauty mark next to Gitit Assis’s ear and swallowed hard. “Listen, okay? I’ve been ordered to keep you in check if there’s any trouble,” he said.

“Trouble… pshhh, if only someone would make some trouble around here,” Othniel snorted, and flipped open his cell phone with his thumb, first dialing Natan Eliav, the secretary of Ma’aleh Hermesh A., and then Dov, the head of the regional council, and MK Uriel Tsur next, and so on — the usual round of calls. They all promised to look into the matter and get back to him. Othniel shut the device, which responded immediately by ringing.

“Yes, Dov,” he said to the regional council head, “I understand… Okay. And what’s the council’s stand on the matter?… No, not the regional council, the Yesha Council, the council of Jewish settlements in Judea, Samaria, and Gaza.”

Othniel noticed that everyone around him had gone quiet and was waiting for the response, so he went over to speaker mode. Dov’s voice came through clearly: “At this stage,” the regional council chief said, “the Yesha Council’s decided not to go with the proposal not to take a stand on the matter.”

Othniel stared at the instrument, confused. “What does that mean?” he asked.

“It means that we’re going to decide quickly on our position. Either to attack the government for the decision to route the fence through here, and move to reverse it with the help of our friends in the Knesset, or to support the plans to construct the fence through the olive groves, while at the same time opposing any encroachment on the outpost’s land, and then prevent the left-wingers from introducing a no-confidence motion. A third option would be to bring down the government no matter what, and to hope that by the time elections are held and a new government is in place, the entire story will be forgotten.”

Othniel gave Hilik a puzzled look and then turned to fix his daughters, Gitit and Dvora, with the same. “Just a moment,” he said to the phone, “so what did you decide today?”

“To rule out the fourth option,” Dov explained, “which was to do nothing at all, to wait and see how things develop, and to hope that we receive post facto approval for the settlement’s master plan, which has been with the Planning Council for several months now. In fact, the timing of all this may even present an opportunity to secure its approval. And if it passes, we’ll get an injunction based on the approval. Capisce ?”

“Gotcha,” Othniel responded, and smiled at his daughters.

“So, anyway, this morning we ruled out that option — not to take a stand.”

“I’m actually all for buying time,” Hilik interjected, bringing his mouth closer to Othniel’s phone. “It usually pays off. Within two years, the demarcation order won’t be worth the paper on which it’s printed, less than two years, in fact.” He looked at his old analog watch, ivory in color, with a small window displaying the Gregorian calendar date where the 3 would be. He switched to the corresponding Hebrew date in his head and did the math. “A year and nine months, more or less.”

“In any event” came Dov’s voice again, “let us know immediately if the D-9s begin moving in and we’ll send in thousands from the region to stop them. I’m going to try to get ahold of the defense minister, too. I spoke earlier with Malka, his aide on settlement affairs. Ah, yes, that reminds me, how does the defense minister know already that you’ve moved a new family into the settlement?”

Othniel hurriedly muted the speaker and, running his fingers through his beard, slipped away from the group. “What?” he spoke quietly into the phone.

“Malka said they were aware that a new family had moved in. Even I was in the dark. When did this happen?”

“I don’t believe it. They moved in only yesterday, and the decision was made just last week. Are you sure that’s what he said?”

“Come now, it’s true, isn’t it? Someone told them. Do me a favor, try to keep these things a little more under wraps. Malka said the same. It doesn’t serve our best interests.”

“Sure, sure,” Othniel replied, thoughts racing through his mind. “We’ll check it out.” He turned back to the group. “Come, people, let’s go see if the soldiers over there know anything.”

“Ah… Othni, I’d like you to remain right here.” It was the soft-but-somewhat-rasping voice of Yoni. “I’ve been ordered not to allow you to approach the loaders—”

“It’s okay,” said Othniel Assis, who, beyond being the oldest and longest-serving resident of Ma’aleh Hermesh C., was also blessed with a deep, authoritarian voice and a piercing gaze that wasn’t readily challenged, certainly not by Yoni, even from behind his Ray-Bans. “We’re just going for a short walk. That’s allowed, right?”

“I’m asking you not to go,” Yoni replied with admirable courage. They continued walking.

“I need to have a word with my building contractor, Kamal,” said Hilik, who was expecting delivery over the coming days of half a container to expand his family home into a caravilla ahead of the upcoming birth of his daughter. Othniel had tried to talk him into finding a Jewish contractor and Jewish laborers, but wasn’t willing to loan out Gabi, and hiring a Jewish contractor and laborers from outside the settlement was expensive. So Hilik made an arrangement with Kamal from Kharmish, who would bring along two workers and complete the job quickly and cheaply, without social security or pension payments, travel costs, and all the other hassles and headaches that came with employing Jews.

Othniel, however, was tenacious. “You need to set an example for the youngsters,” he said to Hilik while they walked.

“Believe me, Othni, I tried,” Hilik responded. “What choice do I have?”

Like others on the hilltop and from Ma’aleh Hermesh A. and B., Hilik would fill his gas containers in Majdal Tur for half price or shop at the Kharmish grocery store. But Othniel was a purist of Jewish labor, and stubborn, too. “I have someone for you. Herzl, an excellent contractor,” he said. “He’ll give you a good price, trust me. And I’ll organize some financial aid for you, too.”

“Financial aid from where?” Hilik’s ears pricked up.

“A special rate for students, you can count on Othni, old man,” Othniel said, “and on Herzl. He’s a contractor to die for, he’ll do the job a thousand times better than the Arab, and he won’t stick a jambiya in your back.”

Yoni surrendered. He called to update Omer, as he followed the group of settlers, his eyes darting back and forth between Othniel, the loaders, and Gitit Assis’s hips and ass encased in their thick denim skirt. Behind them came the clopping of Killer’s hooves, and Jehu quietly drew up alongside him.

* * *

The two track-type Caterpillar D-9N bulldozers, huge and dusty, weighing in at fifty tons, four meters high and eight meters long, including the front blade and rear ripper, lay motionless like two lions at the entrance to a palace. Alongside their huge, threatening steel limbs that rested on the ground side by side, the work team — two commanders and two operators — had set up a small gas burner and were boiling Turkish coffee. Yoni hurried over to them and quietly relayed the company commander’s instruction to refrain from conversing with the settlers. “Why not? All’s good, bro,” one of them responded. “Let them come. We’ll talk to them with pleasure. Tell me, is that a Thoroughbred?”

Jehu, atop his horse, barely acknowledged the soldier with a glance. Othniel glared at Yoni and then smiled at the soldiers. “Hey there, guys,” he said. “If you need anything, food, drinks, blankets, anything at all, just come and ask. We’re happy to provide.”