Assaf Gavron - The Hilltop

Roni shook his head. “You weren’t raised religious, you know it’s just talk, the clichés the religious have about secular people. Where’s the value in coerced praying and rejoicing? And desire is folly? Isn’t the body deserving of desires?”

“Those are not the values of Judaism. Those are the values of Hellenists. Earthly desires are like rays of sunshine in a dark room. They appear to be of substance, until you try to grab one.”

“But they brighten the room, they warm it. What’s wrong with that? Why do you need to grab them?”

“To have more depth to your life. Light and warmth are the superficial. That’s all very well, but there’s more, a lot more.”

“And where do you find it? In forcing yourself to be happy? You, after all, are not happy. And we both know why. Did you think you’d be able to forget about your son by going to the end of the world, secluding yourself, putting a piece of cloth on your head, and swaying wildly in synagogue? Do you think you’ll be able to forget Mickey?”

Gabi closed his eyes. Of course he’d never forget Mickey. “We like to think that forgetting is a problem, but I believe it’s an advantage. Knowing how to forget means letting go of the troubles of the past.”

“Well, that’s great. A quote for every occasion.” Roni sniggered bitterly. “Forgetting is an advantage for someone who is afraid to confront his memories. What do you mean by ‘letting go of the past’? Is that your excuse for never in your life having seen anything through to the end — army, university, being a father? Perhaps you should deal with the troubles of the past, instead of looking for refuge in quotes and sayings.”

Gabi could almost taste the sting of Roni’s sarcasm on his tongue. His brother spoke like someone bent on being offensive. Their arguments had turned increasingly mean. “The only frightened one here is you. Why is it so hard for you to accept that your world doesn’t suit me? I’ve been there. It’s not for me. Why don’t you trust me to know what’s good for me? I trust in the Holy One, blessed be He.”

“It’s hard for me to accept it because I know you, perhaps better than anyone else, and you know that. I know what suits you. I can smell what you are truly feeling from a mile away. I know how long you lasted everywhere else, and I wonder how long you’ll last here. How long you’ll continue to spin yarns to yourself. You tell yourself that you’re strong — Nehushtan, like copper. But I checked on the Internet, the name Kupper has nothing to do with copper. It’s someone who makes barrels.”

Gabi went into the kitchen and began washing the dishes in the sink. “I’ve heard about the barrels,” he said. “But a rabbi, an expert on Jewish names, told me that it’s probably copper.” Several minutes of silence went by, nothing but the water from the faucet and the hum of the fan and the banging of a hammer in the distance. Gabi stopped washing and returned to the living room with an unwrapped Twist chocolate bar in his hand, and another that he tossed over to Roni.

Gabi sat down on the armrest of the sofa. He adjusted the position of his white Sabbath skullcap with the pompom and bit into his Twist. “Take a look at yourself,” he said quietly. “Think about why you are here, about the condition you were in when you arrived. You’re the one stuck in this house for hours on end, doing nothing, feeling down. So how come you always turn things against me?”

Roni threw the Twist wrapper onto the small table. Gabi got to his feet, picked it up, and threw it, together with his own, into the small triangular wastebasket in the dairy sink. “It’s so hot,” he said, opening the refrigerator and retrieving a jug of water.

“And what about bringing more children into this world?” Roni suddenly asked, in a softer tone.

“What?”

“Why don’t you get married? Aren’t Breslovs supposed to have many children?”

“It’s not easy to find someone in a small place…”

“You don’t even try, Gabi. I see you. You aren’t interested in anything aside from your Nachman and your noble values and this small place, which, I have to say, reminds me a lot of the kibbutz — a hole at the end of the world, a small idealistic society, shut off and holier-than-thou, where everything is more just and better than anywhere else in the world — the forerunners of the tribe. You’ve simply returned to your childhood, even your Arabs are like the Katyushas back then—”

“This hole takes you in, and look at your attitude toward it. You’re spitting into the only well that is giving you water. Just so you know, people here at the settlement aren’t comfortable with this olive oil story. And the same goes for me. People make an effort here to preserve the concept of Jewish labor. An Arab almost never steps foot in here, even though it costs us money. And you show up, as a guest, and do business with them… It’s not as if I am personally — I did give you the loan, after all — but how do I appear to the people—”

“You’ll get the money, don’t worry. Rosh Hashanah, right? Sure, it’s being taken care of.”

“I’m not speaking about the money,” Gabi said. But he wasn’t speaking about anything else. They both went quiet, tired.

“Are you incapable of saying Musa?” Roni finally asked from within the heated silence. He did want to talk. “The man has a name. Do you know what they did to him after the episode with the bulldozer? Was Neta Hirschson arrested? Was I arrested? We did exactly the same as he did. But they went to him, took things, smashed, pushed, arrested. If I hadn’t intervened, they wouldn’t have released him. Your Jewish labor thing sounds all clean and nice, but this insistence on not having anything to do with them — where’s the logic in that?” Roni looked at his brother, then yawned, almost swallowing up the trailer. “And it’s not that I’m a leftist or anything like that, you know,” he said from within the yawn.

“Of course you aren’t a leftist, you simply recognize an opportunity for some wheeling and dealing and suddenly the Arabs are your friends.”

“What exactly are you saying? You want me to leave?”

“Heaven forbid, that’s not what I said,” Gabi said, returning from the kitchen with two glasses of cold water with ice.

“Thanks,” said Roni — who throughout the conversation hadn’t moved an inch from his position in front of the fan, or offered to turn it to face his brother or switch on the rotate mode—“although it’s not really a substitute for Diet Coke.”

“You can stay for as long as you like,” Gabi said. “I’ve grown accustomed.”

“Me, too.” Roni laughed. “I’d no longer manage anywhere else.” And then he stretched and said, “I’m dead tired.” Gabi looked at the clock and stood up. There was more to do before the Sabbath came in — cooking, laundry, calls to make. Truthfully, however, he wouldn’t mind resting for a few minutes himself. He went into his room and looked at the bed, at the disheveled sheet, the crumpled pillow, and thought, I’ll lie down for just a brief moment, and then…

On the Sabbath, even the stray felt the heavens and the earth weighing on his shoulders and eyelids, which narrowed into tiny slits to stave off the sun’s glare, survey his surroundings, ensure no danger lurked. His nostrils flared, his nose was wet and primed, and his small brain processed the data and the odors, the sights, and the sounds.

He grew up not far from here. Folks in the outpost didn’t know if he was of Jewish or Arab origin, a settler or an Ishmaelite — but he did. He knew, in his capillaries and DNA, and even in fragments of memory that flashed through his mind from time to time, he was Palestinian through and through, a native of Hebron, one of seven brothers and sisters, most of whom had remained in the city of their ancestors — two with their mother and her family, two down the street with cousins (one of them a known criminal), and two to wealthy brothers in the village of Yata. One brother was a doctor with a clinic in the city who showed up one day with his daughter — saw the sweet puppies and simply had to have one — and the other a university lecturer whose daughter became jealous of her cousin. And thus the stray’s six brothers and sisters were scattered, whereas he — cross-eyed, with a partial second row of teeth on his bottom jaw, who on first impression appeared far less cuddly than the others, less useful — belonged to the street, and there he remained, tried to survive, followed the scent of the food in the market, and fell in with a street pack.