Assaf Gavron - The Hilltop

“We’re good, bro, thanks, but there’s no need,” said the soldier who spoke previously to Yoni. The rank displayed on the sleeves of his shirt indicated he was an operator, not a commander, but he acted like the spokesperson for the group. He was chubby and dark-skinned, and one of his eyes tended to wander when he tried to focus his gaze.

“So what’s happening here? When do you begin working?” Othniel asked, putting an end to the small talk.

“We don’t know,” the soldier said. “We’re waiting for instructions.”

“And when are you expecting the instructions? Today? Tomorrow?”

“We don’t know,” the soldier repeated. “Today, tomorrow, in a week. Who knows with this fence? They’re waiting for the High Court ruling.”

“No, the petition to the High Court was rejected,” said Elazar Freud.

Company commander Omer Levkovich’s jeep pulled up in a cloud of dust that caused everyone on the scene to cover their faces with their hands and cough. “Don’t speak to them, please, guys,” the captain instructed.

“We simply wanted to know what’s happening,” said Othniel Assis. “And hello to you, too.”

“Nothing’s happening. Let’s break it up here. The bulldozers will sit here until the order to begin work comes through. We’re waiting for the High Court ruling.”

“We lost our petition to the High Court,” Elazar reiterated. “Haven’t you been informed?”

“Not your High Court petition. A petition filed by left-wingers and Arabs against the damage to the private olive groves.”

“Ahhh…” Othniel uttered with a smile. He hadn’t heard about it. He called Dov, who promised to look into the matter and to provide any assistance he possibly could to the guys from the Peace Now organization.

“Holy crap, so that’s what the High Court debate is all about?” said the chubby soldier. “I don’t believe it. I don’t get why anyone has to ask the High Court — Shmigh Court or the bloody Arabs for permission. Give me five minutes and I’ll wipe out all those fucking trees. And if possible, lay down some of those dirty bastards among the trees and we’ll wipe them all out together.”

Dvora stifled a giggle and squinted at her father. His eyes smiled back at her. Omer, red-faced, stepped out of his jeep.

“Um, excuse me, soldier,” he said. “What’s your name?”

“Dudu,” the soldier replied.

“Dudu, well, first of all, stand up straight when an officer addresses you, Dudu. Secondly, I said no talking, did you not hear me? Are you looking for shit?”

“No, sir,” Dudu replied, his chin up straight.

“Who’s your commanding officer? Listen, guys, I have lots of respect for heavy-duty engineering equipment and the Engineering Corps, but get ahold of yourselves, and if I tell you to sit tight and wait for your instructions, then that’s what you do. You don’t make any suggestions you got me?”

The four soldiers nodded.

“Okay, let’s break it up,” Omer said.

The group of settlers began making their way back to the outpost, and the four soldiers climbed up into the spacious cabins of the bulldozers to enjoy their state-of-the-art air-conditioning systems.

Shifra, the midwife, was on call twenty-four hours a day, rain or shine, and there wasn’t a single location anywhere in the Land of Israel outside her range. She didn’t own a car or have a driver’s license, and the word fear didn’t appear in her lexicon. Everything rests in the hands of God, and with the wheels of the rides she hitched. You wouldn’t be too surprised to find her standing at some dark intersection, near hostile villages, as late night turned into early morning, in the pouring rain or even in the snow, her one hand clutching her midwife bag, the other held out straight to hitch, her hair tucked into a modest hat, and her broad, thick spectacles covering those eyes that knew no fear.

And how could God not walk beside a saint like Shifra, who performed such sacred work? Experience had taught her she would always find that one settler, or army jeep, who nine times out of ten would go out of their way to deliver her to her destination. Hundreds of babies had taken their very first breath in this world with her help, her round face the first thing they saw. Hundreds of new mothers had shed tears of pain and joy with their hands held in hers as she soothed them in a New York accent that through the years remained as thick as ever: “That’s it, with the grace of God, we’re almost there, just a little more, push, sweetie, you are such a trouper. There we go, here’s your little beauty. Oh my, if that isn’t the most beautiful baby I have ever seen in my life.” That moment always choked her up with true emotion, and she closed her teary eyes and thanked God for guiding her there, for watching over her, for giving her the gift of birthing wonderful Jewish babies. When she immigrated to Israel, she changed her name and took on that of Shifra, the biblical midwife from the Book of Exodus, where it is written, about her and her fellow midwife, Puah, “The midwives, however, feared God”—she, too, would fear Him, and He would watch over her, blessed be His name.

The phone woke her at around 2 a.m. It was Nir Rivlin from Ma’aleh Hermesh C. Shifra was familiar with the outpost, where she had previously delivered several wonderful babies into a spectacular desert dawn. A truly biblical landscape. She rose quickly, prepared her midwife case, and walked the five hundred meters from her settlement to the highway in the light rain. On occasion, the fathers were able to pick her up in a car, but Nir couldn’t leave Shaulit alone, and no alternative driver could be found. Shifra changed rides twice, but Shaulit’s contractions were coming at a good rate and she wasn’t needed right away. She spoke with Shaulit on the phone, calmed her down, explained what she should do, how to breathe, how to sit. Then she asked to speak to Nir and gave him instructions on what to prepare and how to alleviate her pain. A yellow Palestinian taxi raced by and she prayed to God and closed her eyes, and she felt soothed and overcome with a sense of absolute tranquility. Menachem Politis from Givat Esther stopped for her. She wasn’t sure she remembered, but he insisted. “You delivered my two daughters, you saint. Where do you need to go?”

“Ma’aleh Hermesh C.,” she replied.

“No problem, and best wishes to all,” he said, and then drove her all the way to the home of Nir and Shaulit Rivlin.

“Excellent, you’re well dilated. Everything’s going like clockwork. Wonderful. I see a head with curls, oh my, oh my, a charming little boy, little girl?”

“A charming little boy,” Nir confirmed. Following two wonderful girls, this was their first son, they knew from the ultrasound.

“So charming, God bless.”

“Hallowed be His name,” an emotional Nir said softly.

“Nir, Nir, some warm water here, please, not boiling, but a nice temperature, okay? Thank you. I was at the big Ma’aleh Hermesh just last week, it’s good to be back. A contraction’s coming. Yes, push with the contraction, breathe in with it, you’re a star, Shaulit, your third birth, a piece of cake, you’re in control, you don’t need me. Nir, a cloth, my dear. A small sip of water, sweetie?”

Their second daughter, Tchelet, two and a half years old now, was also delivered by Shifra here on the hilltop. Amalia, the eldest, almost five by now, was born at Hadassah, before they moved here. Oops, a power outage. Shaulit cried out in panic.

“Everything’s fine, dear. Never mind. We’re almost done anyway. I think he’ll be out with the next contraction, here we go, that’s it, the head’s out, there we go.”