Assaf Gavron - The Hilltop

The American millionaire chuckled, and his staff followed suit. Othniel was very familiar with Sheldon Mamelstein and his political views. Nonetheless, a man of his standing clearly could not afford to be involved in anything that might be construed as criminal in nature. “What do you mean, it can’t be illegal?” Mamelstein asked.

“Ma’aleh Hermesh C. cannot be illegal because, according to Defense Ministry records, the outpost was evacuated years ago,” Othniel replied. “The outpost, in fact, doesn’t exist. But we do have an approved agricultural farm, which the military protects.”

Mamelstein raised an eyebrow and turned his gaze toward the IDF officer and female soldier standing on the porch, both busy texting on their phones. His eyebrow dropped and his mouth widened in a smile. “But doesn’t the army fall under the responsibility of the Defense Ministry?” one of his advisers wondered out loud.

“It does. So what? As far as the Defense Ministry is concerned, the outpost has been evacuated; and as far as the army is concerned, there are Jews here and therefore a guard post and soldiers, too,” Othniel responded, glancing over at Captain Omer, who was on the phone.

“The Settlement Division of the World Zionist Organization arranged for the establishment of the agricultural farm, which doesn’t require government permits. Through the Civil Administration, they also secured the generator, and the army took care of the water supply. Most of the trailers were provided by the Housing Ministry, via the Amidar public housing company. Fortunately for us, the right hand has no clue what the left one is doing.”

Othniel smiled as Josh translated his words into English. Hilik smiled, too; he took a sip of coffee and cautiously placed the glass on the table again.

On leaving the house, the millionaire took a closer look at the Jerusalem-stone covering that ran along the bottom half of the walls of the trailer, nodding in astonishment. Captain Omer again tried to engage Othniel in conversation. “Five minutes and we’re done here,” Othniel hissed. “What do you think — that we aren’t just as keen as you to be over and done with this?”

They passed by the guard and water towers and returned to the new playground. “What the hell! What’s happening over there?” the American benefactor suddenly asked, pointing a finger at one of the homes. Everyone turned to see Elazar and Jenia Freud’s trailer shaking like a Parkinson’s patient, dancing and vibrating on the backdrop of the darkening skies.

“Ah,” said Othniel Assis, “you should know that if the trailer is shaking and everything inside is moving about, it isn’t an earthquake, only the washing machine!”

On hearing the translation, Mamelstein’s raucous laughter was infectious, managing to put a smile even on the face of the IDF officer. “I must tell Norma about this!” the American said, slapping his thigh.

They all bade farewell with mutual expressions of appreciation, embraces, and kisses, got into their cars, and disappeared in a cloud of dust. Washington Post correspondent Jeff McKinley headed off on foot toward the entrance to the settlement. He had thought of asking Mamelstein’s people for a ride but decided against it, preferring instead to keep his identity to himself.

Othniel turned to Captain Omer Levkovich. “Now, my friend, you can tell us what’s been eating you,” he said, looking at the soft-faced, fair-haired officer.

Omer opened the file he was carrying under his arm. “This,” he said, handing over a document, “is a land demarcation order signed by the head of the IDF Central Command.”

“A demarcation order? What are you on about?” Othniel eyed the document suspiciously. “What’s this all about?” Hilik, too, peered at the piece of paper in Othniel’s hand.

“A demarcation order,” the section commander affirmed — and then continued, fully aware of what was going through the minds of these seasoned settlers. “Not the suspension of illegal construction. Not a Civil Administration issue. Nothing to do with the demolition of isolated structures — you know all too well that your trailers have been under demolition orders for years, and that no one has done anything about it because they know you’ll just bring in others in their place. That’s why they’ve issued a demarcation order. The structures aren’t the issue, the entire area needs to be evacuated — all the residents, all the belongings. And all the structures are to be razed. What do you think, that the right hand has no idea what the left is doing?”

Othniel read the order:

All individuals are required to vacate the area in question within eight days of publication of this declaration. Additionally, effective immediately on publication of this declaration, all construction activities in the area are banned, including entry into the area of individuals or equipment for the purpose of carrying out construction operations.

The order had been signed by the head of the Central Command and came with a map that outlined the demarcated area — Ma’aleh Hermesh C. in its entirety, all its structures and agricultural land.

Othniel stopped reading and glared at Omer. “You people are such ags,” he said. “Oh well, I guess we’ll have to take it up with the Military Appeals Board, and if that doesn’t help, we’ll petition the High Court of Justice, and if we lose there, we’ll wait out the two years until the order expires, God willing. In any event, you aren’t going to forcibly evict us, right?” He searched for a glimmer of a smile or supportive look on Omer’s face — but found none. All he encountered was a look of curiosity and the cautious question, “What are ags?”

Othniel drew a breath and let out a deep sigh. “Aggressive little pains in the butt,” he spat out as he punched the council head’s number into his phone.

“Good luck and Shabbat shalom,” the section commander responded before signaling his driver to start up the engine and climbing into the jeep. They pulled over at the gate alongside the soldier.

“Take these, Yoni, and tell your men to post them this evening on all the structures in the outpost,” Omer said, handing over a pile of papers on which the order had been printed. He allowed the American journalist, who was hitching a ride just outside the gate, to get into the jeep, and then disappeared down the slope, into the darkening twilight and the winds. Yoni, the soldier, shifted his gaze from the departing jeep to the pages in his hands and closed the gate.

Roni Kupper didn’t attend the ceremony. After Othniel Assis dropped him off outside the trailer belonging to “the only Gavriel in the settlement,” he dragged his suitcase out of the trunk and wheeled it along the short but rough pathway that led to the property, entering through the gate and walking to the front door through the yellowish yard. ENTER BLESSED, read a perplexing sign on the door. It wasn’t locked. “Gabi? Gabi?” he called out, walking through the rooms of the home. He sniffed at the air — a strange dank odor. His eyes were drawn to a dark stain in the corner. He wheeled his suitcase into the room on the right, which appeared to be the living room, and lay down on his back on the raised mattress that was serving as a sofa. He looked up at the ceiling and took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and then opened them again. He turned to look at the simple bookcase. His eyes passed over the rows of red-bound books, religious literature that Roni understood nothing about at all, taking in the titles one by one: the Zohar, the Shulchan Aruch, compilations of sermons and writings by Rabbi Nachman of Breslov, The Guide for the Perplexed , Rabbi Abraham Isaac Kook’s Orot , and more. “Gabi?” he cried out once more, thinking he heard something, but no one responded.