Assaf Gavron - The Hilltop

The motorcade began arriving a little after nine. The defense minister’s adviser on settlement affairs had shown his boss newspaper headlines that spoke loudly of the minister’s “capitulation” to the U.S. president, and op-eds scoffing at his efforts “to suck up to” and “curry favor with” the U.S. administration. Up in front, in a command car bedecked with antennas that climbed the narrow and steep road to the hilltop, sat Giora, the head of Central Command. Toward the back, behind several other security vehicles, appeared the long silver car of the American ambassador in Israel, Milton White. And bringing up the rear, behind the security vehicle that followed the ambassador’s car, came a beaten-down and dusty line of vehicles covered with stickers from the corresponding end of the political spectrum.

Standing on a mound of dirt, his arms folded across his chest, Roni followed the convoy’s progress. Perhaps due to his position, elevated above the crowd, coupled with the defense minister’s constant need to demonstrate conviction, Roni attracted the attention of the minister, who exited his vehicle with his familiar sense of urgency, stretched out his hand, and firmly grasped and shook Roni’s, to the clicking of the photographers’ cameras. But the moment Roni said, “What’s up, bro?” the minister realized he had erred — not only in his choice of target for the handshake, but also in his estimation of the heat outside the air-conditioned car. He was dressed in a jacket and tie, and to remove them now would appear hasty — a surrender to the conditions, a capitulation. Beads of sweat covered his brow, his sunglasses abandoned somewhere in the car. His baseball cap would have been the ideal solution, but he had been instructed not to wear it at public events following the unfortunate photo op at Kibbutz Zikim last month.

Othniel Assis hurried over to welcome his friend Giora, the Central Command major general, who of course hadn’t forgotten his sunglasses, and who in turn quickly introduced the minister to the more typical settler. “I’m pleased you came here to show us, to show all the Jewish people and the American president in particular, that you are behind us and won’t lend a hand to the uprooting of settlement, minister, sir,” said Othniel, smiling as he held Shuv-el, who was clad in a white Sabbath shirt. Othniel knew what would look good in the papers. The minister smiled briefly at Othniel and, from the corner of his eye, glimpsed the lanky figure of Milton standing behind him. The ambassador was leaning in to ascertain whether the minister’s response to the settler corresponded with his promises to the administration. Regrettably, the minister spoke in Hebrew.

“Come, I’ll show you around,” Othniel said.

The minister looked around in an effort to locate his adviser on settlement affairs. The visit wasn’t going as planned. He didn’t feel in sufficient control of the way events were unfolding. A walk would only serve to intensify the heat and the sweat and the discomfort, and he hadn’t had a chance yet to relieve himself of his suit, not to mention the large circles of sweat that must have formed by then on his light blue shirt — he peered down as if to brush away a fly from his tie and noticed its light color — and removing his suit would surely involve a fair amount of embarrassment and yet another opportunity for the cynical photographers to go to town at his expense. He spotted his aide, Malka.

“Come here, Malka,” the minister said, and Malka turned away from a warm handshake with Othniel and an embrace with Elazar Freud (one year his senior at their pre-military service yeshiva) to confer with his boss. Othniel’s tour wasn’t going to happen.

“Malka, find me somewhere to say a few words and we’ll get the hell outta here. I’m drowning in sweat.” The ambassador approached, and the minister tried not to roll his eyes.

“Milton! Good to see you.” He smiled. “What’s got you out of bed so early on a Sunday morning?”

“Ha, ha,” Milton chuckled. “I guess my bosses really do believe it’s important.” The minister, his right hand still in the right hand of the ambassador, broke into a loud laugh and slapped the American’s shoulder with his free hand.

“Just look at him licking the Americans’ asses,” Neta Hirschson whispered into the ear closest to her.

“Disgusting,” agreed Jean-Marc, her husband.

Beyond them, the Central Command major general was in conversation with the sector’s company commander, Omer Levkovich, who then briefed the platoon of reinforcements.

Ambassador White, meanwhile, was asked by reporters what message he expected to hear from the defense minister that morning. “A message of peace, and of progress, within the framework of the law and the vital agreements reached between the countries in recent months,” he responded. The defense minister, his back to the ambassador and still speaking to Malka, heard the words and his body responded with another wave of perspiration. Everyone then walked the short distance from the synagogue, where the throng had formed, to the Mamelstein playground. The security guys led the way, followed by the aides of the dignitaries, the dignitaries themselves, the crowd, and the soldiers. Malka instructed the minister to stop alongside a yellow swing set. Ambassador White, Central Command Major General Giora, and the outpost’s longest-serving resident, Othniel, then lined up alongside him — click — that was the photograph that appeared the next day in the morning papers: bright, almost overexposed, the minister visibly uneasy and squinting his eyes against the high sun, the Central Command major general authoritative and sure of himself in sunglasses, a tall and content ambassador, and Othniel displaying the ease of a landowner. Close behind, but out of range of the cameras, stood the minister’s aide, Malka, and Omer Levkovich. Jehu and Killer trotted jauntily back and forth along the edge of the park, and one of the bodyguards kept a constant eye on them.

“Good evening, everyone, excuse me, good morning,” the minister began. Sporadic laughter rang out.

“Shame on you!” shouted Neta Hirschson. “Coming here as the emissary of the American president—”

“Shhh… Let him speak,” someone said. Two soldiers approached Neta.

“I’m not here as the emissary of any president, please hear me out and be patient—”

“Patient? How can you expect us to be patient when you’re selling out the country to foreigners and screwing us over?”

“Excuse me, madam, you focus on abiding by the law and the Americans won’t make any demands on us.” He diverted his gaze away from Neta Hirschson to a nonspecific point above her, beyond her, catching sight of the white desert hills, the crevices of the Hermesh Stream riverbed. “It’s beautiful here,” he continued, almost in surprise, “and there’s no denying our rights here. But we must respect the law. Mistakes have been made, by the government of Israel, too. There are many legitimate settlements, but there are also some that have been established in places where they shouldn’t have been. What I’ve come here today to say…” He cast his eyes over the gathering. The sun had brought out large beads of sweat across his brow. The tie practically choked him. Malka handed him a bottle of water and he sipped from it. “… is that we are going to make a few adjustments. And these adjustments will come at a price—”

“How dare you?” Neta now yelled. “What adjustments? What price? What’s he talking about?”

“Madam, allow me to finish.”

“Let go of me!” the cosmetician shouted at the soldiers now holding her by the arms. Her husband, Jean-Marc, screamed at them in French, mentioning the Holocaust.