Assaf Gavron - The Hilltop

Out in the field, meanwhile, Yoni and Gitit remained as the only adults. Despite the heat, both were dressed in long, thick clothing, Yoni in his green army fatigues, Gitit in a white cotton shirt and dark skirt that hung ten centimeters below her knees. They exchanged meaningful looks and swallowed a smile, and Yoni said, “Go into the cave, and find Nehama, and help her out, because she needs air. We’ll get her to the road.” To the children, he said, “Sit, boys and girls, drink some water from the bottles and water flasks, eat fruit and sandwiches and candies from the knapsacks, and let me try to get ahold of…” He looked at his phone and used his finger to browse through the list of names, found Hilik’s number, and pushed the green Send button, but there was no signal in the ravine. He brought the device closer to his face and, peering through his Ray-Bans, observed that the antenna icon displayed zero bars.

“Everybody up,” he announced to the children. “We’ll head up to the top field with the white wormwood, the prickly alkanet, and whatever she called the hyssop earlier.” Shneor burst into tears, asking, “Where’s Mommy?” And Yoni said, “Mommy will come right along, Gitit is helping her.” And up came the good, quiet, well-behaved children, and even Shneor stopped crying, although he did turn to look back from time to time and ask about Mommy. “What’s Daddy’s telephone number?” Yoni asked Shneor, attempting to confirm that he had the correct number. “I don’t know,” Shneor responded, but his elder brother, Boaz, intervened and recited the number, and Yoni entered the digits and pressed the Send button. This time the cellular signals caught up with Hilik, and Yoni relayed the news just as Hilik heard the sound of Killer’s hooves outside the window. His face dropped, his mustache drooped, and he jumped into his car.

Hilik stopped at the point on the dirt road where the path led to the cave. He left the engine running and raced to his wife, whom he found leaning on Gitit’s slender shoulder. Together they hoisted her up the steep ravine and across the length of the field, for all the children to see, and Boaz asked, “Daddy, what happened to Mommy? Is Mommy dead? Did terrorists kill her?”

“No, Boaz, heaven forbid,” Hilik answered. “Mommy is fine, bless the Lord, and Daddy will take her to the hospital now and we’ll return, God willing, with a baby sister, just as we promised you. Isn’t that right, Boaz?” Boaz nodded and followed the slow progress of the three grown-ups. Nehama tried to smile at her son and the other children, and to say a few words of farewell, a comforting word or two, but suddenly, in the middle of the field, a contraction struck, and she burst into a stifled wail that turned into a moan.

Hilik looked at the alarmed children and said, “Don’t worry, kids, everything is fine, everything— Yoni! Can you—” Nehama bit down on the lapel of her blouse, and Gitit poured water from a bottle onto her hands and, with her wet fingers, gently caressed Nehama’s sweaty brow.

Only in the evening — after the children were dispersed to their homes, and Gitit and Yoni were left standing together on her doorstep, where they again exchanged a look, and then a feeble “See you,” because Gitit had to look after her brothers and sisters; after Jehu, aboard Killer, in all his splendor, circled the ring road to ensure that all were safe and sound, and after the sun set again in the depths of the west; after an emotional Hilik called to tell of the lightning birth of a beautiful and healthy baby girl, bless the Lord; less than an hour from the time Nehama landed on the hospital bed and following a few waves of contractions on the frantic drive to Jerusalem and several verses from the book of Psalms along the way and by her bedside; after dinner and evening prayers and the reciting of the Shema; after Roni Kupper’s after-dinner cigarette, smoke from which drifted through the netting on Gabi’s window; after the excited tales of the children, who relived the dramatic moments in the cave — only then did Dvora Assis recall the odd heap she and Nehama had discovered in the corner of the cave, and told her mother and her father and her brothers and her sisters about it, and Othniel looked at her sharply and asked, “Coins, you said?” And the green-eyed Dvora nodded. And Othniel said, “I’d like to go over there to have a look. And perhaps we’ll ask Duvid to join us, too, he knows about coins,” and he lifted a piece of his fried egg to his mouth.

The defense minister was back from Washington, where he successfully wormed his way into a brief meeting in the Diplomatic Reception Room and tried to minimize the damage caused by the McKinley article in the Post .

“McKinley went too far,” the minister charged. “We’re talking about a small, insignificant outpost with a handful of families. You can’t possibly make the claim that the American taxpayer or U.S. Treasury has had to foot the bill for anything there, for the simple reason that no one at all has spent a dime there. Apart from Mamelstein, a private individual, and what, after all, did he donate? Nothing but a small playground.”

“But what about the water, the electricity, the military protection?” asked the U.S. president, who, much to the regret of the minister, had been thoroughly briefed. “What about the road that was paved there? That was the work of the Public Works Department — U.S. satellite photographs prove that — not a private donation.”

“Yes,” the minister responded. “It’s complicated, because we have to protect our citizens against Arab aggression even if they have settled there only temporarily, and the young people who have grown up in the settlements don’t have anywhere—” He tried not to stumble over his words, but the president interjected, “I’ve actually been reading about immigrants from the U.S., Russia, France, and not merely extended families. It’s unlawful. And what’s this about giving in to the people who were protesting the evacuation because they jumped onto a tractor? I don’t get it,” the president said. “I don’t understand how you run things there. Is there no law?”

The defense minister stared at one of the president’s socks. “It wasn’t a tractor, Mr. President,” he said. “It was a D-9 bulldozer.” The minister subsequently claimed, in off-the-record conversations that were then widely quoted, that the president wasn’t up to speed with all the particulars.

The minister had expected the meeting to be his most difficult moment, after which he’d be able to breathe a little easier, but he was in for a surprise. On his return to Israel, his office was swamped with daily calls from the American ambassador, and even the U.S. secretary of state called for a progress report. He decided to go to Ma’aleh Hermesh C. to show the Americans he was doing something.

He convened a meeting with the head of Central Command — the de facto prime minister of Judea and Samaria — and the head of the Shin Bet security service’s Counter-Subversion Department, commonly known as the Jewish Division.

“What are we to do with them, Giora?” the minister asked, turning to fix the major general with his sad-bulldog gaze.

The major general shrugged. “I’m supposed to know?” he responded. “Whatever you decide, we’ll make it happen.”

The minister closed his eyes and shook his head. “I know that, Giora. But I’m asking you to tell me what the decision should be.” The major general remained silent.

The minister continued, “What happened there with the bulldozer? Why did you give in to a handful of lunatics? How do you think the rest of the world sees us? I’ve got the president asking me, ‘What is this? Is there no law there?’ Can you comprehend the shame in that?”