Assaf Gavron - The Hilltop

“What happened was that the prime minister called and told us to stop. You know that. We had no part in the decision. We would have continued with the work of clearing the area. Those three clowns didn’t change a thing. But the education minister was there, and he called the prime minister, and they brought in hundreds of demonstrators…”

“What do you have to say, Avram?” The minister looked at the Shin Bet official as if he had just then remembered his presence in the room. “Can’t they be removed so I can get the Americans off my back?”

“Ummm…” The Shin Bet man pressed the fingertips of his one hand to the fingertips of the other. “Look—”

The door opened and one of the minister’s aides said, “Sir, it’s the ambassador again.”

“Tell him we’re in a meeting at this very moment to prepare for a trip to the outpost. Tell him he can join us, we’re going next— You know what, don’t tell him any— One moment. Okay, just put him through.”

The head of Central Command, who had been standing, took a seat and sipped from a glass of soda water. At his request, Avram from the Shin Bet passed him the Sports section of Yedioth and he paged through it, but in the summer of an odd-numbered year, there’s nothing interesting. Only tennis and swimming and cycling and athletics.

“Yes, Milton, yes. We are now sitting here preparing to go to the place next week. Don’t worry, yes, I’m sitting here with good people from the army and the Shin Bet. They know exactly what to do, sir, yes.” He smiled and nodded. “Listen, if you want to join us next week, talk with my assistant. Of course, yes. No, we don’t know yet…” He raised his eyes to look at his two guests, and they nodded with raised eyebrows. “Yes, yes, early next week, maybe Sunday.” He winked at the head of Central Command and retrieved two pretzels from a bowl on the table in front of him. The major general smiled. He knew just how much the ambassador hated working on a Sunday.

“So what do you say, Avram?” the minister asked after hanging up.

“Look, our informant at the outpost, she said—”

“A woman informant?”

“She says there are a number of elements there who could spark unrest. We saw the last time that they can fire up the situation pretty quickly.”

“Fire up?”

“Be serious, Avram,” the major general said. “That’s not exactly firing up—”

“One second,” the head of the Jewish Division continued, “let me finish.”

“Let him, Giora,” the minister said.

“In short, it’s a sensitive issue. They’ll fight. I’m not saying lives will be put at risk, I’m not talking about a subversive organization, but fierce resistance, the rallying of supporters, violence — without doubt. A mess. Not to mention the fact that the prime minister and half the cabinet will back them. I’d advise against an evacuation at this specific point in time, if that works for you.”

“Have you read the article? Nothing there is legal, none of the permits, as if… If we can’t take action there, then where—”

“There are newer places, ones that are more makeshift. I can draw up a list for you. In the same area, too. Perhaps they’ll appease the president. Those guys at Ma’aleh Hermesh C., after all, have been there for several years already. The place actually received a permit as an agricultural farm and has since developed. Other settlements can’t even say that.”

“Okay, okay. Let’s do it. Arrange a visit for us there, Giora. Sunday morning. Early. Pini, inform the ambassador and the media, particularly the Americans. Giora, you’ll be joining us, of course. Avram, thanks.”

“But what are you going to say there?” Giora asked. “That we’re evacuating? Leaving them be? We need to prepare accordingly.”

“We do, too,” the Shin Bet official echoed.

The defense minister fixed them both with a weary look. “We’ll see,” he said to them, and left the office in the direction of the bathroom.

The heat was oppressive. The month of July had come and gone and they were in the midst of the Three Weeks, the period of mourning to commemorate the destruction of Jerusalem — long days, devoid of festivals, a recipe for troublemaking. Freshly squeezed lemons, cold water, and sugar yielded cool lemonade. The children spent all their waking hours outdoors. Fans and air conditioners, for those who had them, worked at full tilt, and the windows of the other homes were left open to the breeze — Gabi claimed that his cabin was built in such a way so as not to require air-conditioning, the positioning of the windows and doors ensured that during the summer the breeze coming off the edge of the cliff would stir up the air in the room. He forgot to mention that in the winter, the winds were capable of blowing the cabin into the Hermesh Stream riverbed.

It was the eve of Shabbat Hazon, the Sabbath before Tisha B’Av, the day of destruction of the Temple, pointless hatred the cause of its devastation. Preparations ahead of the Sabbath were in full swing, cooking and the chirping of telephones and the groaning of wheels on the outpost’s dirt and gravel and tarred roads, and new tableware shipped off to the mikveh for purification. Gabi returned from the Ma’aleh Hermesh A. grocery store with heavy bags filled to the brim with Sabbath goodies. He found Roni sitting in the living room, shirtless, in front of the fan.

“Bro,” Roni called out from the living room. “Did you get any Diet Coke?”

“No. Did you ask me to?” Gabi said.

“Do I need to ask?”

Gabi distributed his haul among the kitchen cupboards and refrigerator to the sound of the rustling of the plastic shopping bags. His eyes wandered to the sink, which overflowed with dirty dishes. Since arriving some six months ago, Roni hadn’t washed a single fork. Gabi left the kitchen and stood at the doorway to the living room, pressing one hand up against the lintel. “What are you doing?” he asked.

Roni didn’t look good. He was sitting in the armchair, his legs spread, in front of a fan, gazing — tired, or sad, or simply bored — out the window. He spent hours sitting in the trailer, and the highlights of the day for him appeared to be his conversations with Gabi, which usually spiraled into sermonizing and arguments where Gabi ended up on the defensive. Gabi didn’t enjoy that but found himself sucked into the exchanges anyway, as he justified himself. Perhaps he felt a sense of obligation to help Roni unload his frustrations, or perhaps he, too, needed the confrontations, because he was angry.

“What am I doing?” Roni responded. “I don’t know.”

Gabi smiled at him. “Enough, my brother, it’s the eve of the Sabbath. It’s a great mitzvah always to be joyful.”

“Yes, so I’ve heard. Keep saying that, you’ll convince yourself in the end.” Roni sank deeper into the armchair.

Gabi turned to leave. Roni shut his eyes. “One moment, don’t go.” He sighed. “I’d like to be happy all the time,” he said. “Who wouldn’t? But it’s not as simple as that. It’s naïve to claim that just by saying it, it’ll happen.”

“It’s naïve to merely say it. But it’s something else to truly believe it.”

“I don’t see the difference. If you truly believe it, will the sorrow disappear? And where exactly will it go?”

“You can’t see it from the place you are in. I know you like to make fun of everything I say, but you are in a place of sin, of folly, not a place of faith. And because it scares you to think differently, all you can do is ridicule.” It was the same conversation, with slight variations, time and again. Gabi never intended to fall into the endless loop, but did so every time anew.