Assaf Gavron - The Hilltop

One day his nose and paws led him to the Jewish enclave in the heart of the city. And he — what did he know, what did he understand about borders and checkpoints and nations and soldiers, he knew smells and nothing more — he followed his nose to the black army boots, which kicked him and cursed him and yelled, “Piss off, you filthy mutt!” He sounded an offended yelp but stood his ground and sniffed the air, a mournful look in his eyes.

“Hey! Didn’t you hear what I said? Motherfucker!” came the voice again. And the army boots drew nearer. “Piss off before I—”

“Hey, hey, hey, Lichtenstein! What has that poor thing done to you?” Lichtenstein’s boot froze in mid-swing of a particularly hard kick that probably would have broken a rib or two and perhaps even left him dead, and the second voice, the voice that saved him, Yaakobi’s voice, whispered in his ear, “Come here, sweet boy, what have they done to you? What does Lichtenstein want with you, huh?”

Yaakobi took him into the military base. And gave him food. And petted him. And allowed him into the barracks when it rained. And stood up for him when Lichtenstein and the others made fun of his cross-eyed stare and his odd teeth. He was Yaakobi’s friend, and if it had been up to him, he would have remained with him all his life. But when Yaakobi’s platoon commander returned from leave on Sunday morning, he told Yaakobi that the dog couldn’t stay. Yaakobi requested, pleaded, argued a case for animal welfare, but the platoon commander said he was sorry but those were the rules. As a favor to Yaakobi, who was a good soldier, the platoon commander agreed to allow the dog to remain on the base until Thursday, when Yaakobi would then be able to take him home. The problem, Yaakobi explained to the platoon commander, was that he already had a dog at home. Anyway, it’s a Palestinian dog and who knows what diseases it’s carrying, it’s almost certainly never been seen by a vet, after all. Yaakobi wanted it to be his army dog, not his home dog. He told the platoon commander the dog would be happy, the soldiers would be happy, everyone would be happy. Looking after the dog wouldn’t be a problem, he’d take care of it himself — so Yaakobi promised.

“Know something, you’re right,” the platoon commander said to him. “Who knows what he’s carrying — a Palestinian dog that showed up out of nowhere. He’s never been seen by a vet. I’ve changed my mind. He can’t stay until Thursday, he needs to get outta here right now.” Yaakobi fixed the platoon commander with a look of disbelief, and the dog laid its head on the rug in the barracks and abandoned itself to its cherished and pleasing caress. “Right now!” the platoon commander reiterated.

Lichtenstein, who had just returned from the showers with a towel around his waist and a khaki-colored toiletries bag in his hand, laughed. “Go on, Yaakobi, get rid of that cross-eyed mutt, I told you he’s stinking up our room.” Yaakobi remained silent.

Yaakobi managed to get the dog onto an armored Hummer that left for Jerusalem, and he asked the driver to drop off the dog in a safe-looking neighborhood. It was the least he could do for the dog so that it wouldn’t have to return to the mean streets of Hebron.

The Hummer driver, a friend of Yaakobi’s, agreed. The platoon commander agreed, too. Even Lichtenstein bade the dog farewell when the armored vehicle exited the camp gates. Yaakobi said his good-bye with a kiss on the nose and a whispered “You’ll be okay, I know, right?” The dog nodded.

Had his friend Yaakobi not implored him and asked explicitly, the Hummer driver would have left the animal anywhere on the side of the road, abandoning it to its fate and the mercy of the elements. But he restrained himself and tolerated the smell and discomfort of his motionless, cross-eyed companion, and when he passed through the Har Homa neighborhood on the outskirts of Jerusalem to stop by his uncle’s place to collect a Beitar Jerusalem soccer club season ticket, he took the animal and left it by the side of one of the new roads under construction, some distance from his uncle’s house.

The dog watched the heavy-duty vehicle pull away with a roar of its engine — and sat there puzzled. Around him, he saw buildings and half buildings and the skeletons of buildings and heaps of sand. He saw an empty pool that had filled with rain, and he dipped his tongue in and lapped from its fine waters. He walked over to the framework of a building, found shelter from the wind, curled up in a corner, and went to sleep.

He opened his eyes at the break of dawn, to the calls of the laborers. One gave him a small piece of pita bread and a pinch of cheese, and water in a cottage cheese tub. Several nights and several days went by, and the dog lazed in its spot or went out on nighttime walks around the neighborhood, never running into a living soul other than a random fox, which raised its tail and fled.

Othniel, at the time, was adding on to his home at Ma’aleh Hermesh C., and was covering it in Jerusalem stone, and he needed cement and stones. A good friend discreetly informed him that he had taken out a mortgage on an apartment in Har Homa, construction there was going ahead at full steam, and construction material was plentiful, and Othniel was welcome to drop by one evening and load up his Renault Express with whatever he needed. The streets and houses had no signs or numbers yet, but the friend gave directions and said that even if Othniel failed to find the right building, it was no big deal. The materials were there to build up the country and its settlement, the government was all for it, the contractors were are all for it, and the home owners, too.

With Gavriel Nehushtan along for the ride, Othniel followed his directions to the new neighborhood, where they loaded the materials into the car. They saw a small dog, with a second row of teeth on his bottom jaw and a cross-eyed stare, but bright and friendly nevertheless, and Othniel said, “Whoever preserves a single soul of Israel is said to have preserved an entire world, God giveth and God taketh away, blessed be the name of the Lord.” They took him, and he was named Beilin, a stepbrother for Condoleezza, who had turned up a year earlier from Ma’aleh Hermesh A. Beilin grew, and grew stronger, and he tied his soul to the soul of the Assis family and became one of its children, and soon it was as though he’d been there all along.

Captain Omer Levkovich woke to the beeping of the alarm on his phone in his tiny Jerusalem apartment at 5:45. Early. The headache came on moments before his recollection of the previous night — too much beer, a short-haired girl, a student at Hebrew University’s Mount Scopus campus, studying something strange that he couldn’t recall, and he had consumed beer and talked about the ex who’d dumped him. When they left the bar, the student declined his invitation to come over and look at photo albums.

After a shower, he fixed his light hair with his fingers in the mirror. His gray-green eyes were shot with red streaks of weariness. He made himself a coffee in a thermal mug, got into his jeep and drove to the base, collected his crew, and headed to Ma’aleh Hermesh. The Situation Room was already abuzz with activity, he heard on the radio. Yoni was waiting at the outpost, having been summoned back for duty on Saturday evening the moment the minister’s visit was approved. Yoni got into the jeep and they went for a drive.

“What’s that all about?” Omer pointed at the sight of the people walking silently along the ring road at the early hour.

“Morning prayers,” Yoni answered.

“But so many? They always struggle to get a minyan together,” said Omer.

“Lots of visitors,” Yoni explained in a slow, scratchy voice.