Assaf Gavron - The Hilltop

The strange thing was that their marriage didn’t come about through an arranged shidduch . They had known each other from a young age, they both grew up in Beit El, and they were members of the Bnei Akiva youth movement together. She remembered him from her father’s shiva, which he had come to every day with his own father. It was as though they had gotten together as secular people do. But after six and a half years and three children — the last one conceived after the onset of this tension, perhaps as a remedy, a distraction — one could now definitively say that it simply wasn’t meant to be. More proof that the secular way of life didn’t work. Shaulit had repeatedly put herself through the mill and agonized, in conversations with herself, and between herself and God, but had come to realize that it wasn’t simply Nir’s help or support that she lacked. After all, she managed somehow. It was more than that. She didn’t know the man, didn’t truly love him. Not that she really believed in the notion of falling in love, but she really didn’t love him. She couldn’t fathom spending years by his side. And as for the songs, well, there were one or two pleasant ones, but she hadn’t heard any breakout hits being cooked up on the wide swing in the yard. She wasn’t holding her breath. His music was not about to save them.

They chewed on slices of bread with cream cheese for several minutes in silence, their eyes fixed on arbitrary points on the table, and Nir sniffled every now and then and poured beer down his throat. When he was done, he dropped his fork with a clatter on the glass plate. He glanced at his watch. He was due to report for guard duty in forty minutes, he informed her, and left — without a guitar or any religious literature this time, and without another bottle of beer or something to smoke, either. He walked along the settlement’s ring road. The evening sky was huge, and despite it being late July, there was a pleasant breeze, and he stopped, closed his eyes and sucked it in, and spread his arms to allow the air to reach his fingertips from the inside. They must not crack, he thought. There are ups and downs, there are rough patches. But they had to hang in there.

Shortly before reaching the Assis family home, he heard a door close and footsteps on the path. He pressed himself to the stone wall, disappearing into the darkness. It was Gitit Assis, who looked right and left and set out quietly on foot, hunched over. The manner of her gait, the urgency and the furtive glances, suggested she wasn’t out for some fresh air at the end of the day. Nir followed her, sticking close to the fences, hiding behind whatever he came across — trash bins, cars, heaps of construction material, or empty refrigerators. With the contents of three bottles of beer swirling inside him, Nir could admit to himself — after trial and tribulation and begging forgiveness from his wife and from his God (He knew that “one who is slow to anger is better than a mighty man, and one who rules over his spirit is better than one who conquers a city.” He remembered Joseph, who resisted temptation. He knew that a man who is drawn to the temptations of the world and resists those temptations is no less a righteous man than one who is not tempted at all) — that he was attracted to Gitit. It wasn’t a coincidence when he suggested that Shaulit have her help out with housework. He’d gladly pay for the privilege of seeing her in their home from time to time. Nir entered the playground and stepped on a soft toy, which squeaked. He froze. Gitit stopped and turned. The breeze picked up. Where’s she going? he wondered.

The moment passed. She turned and continued on her way. He released the air from his lungs and slowly lifted his foot off the plastic duck, which, thankfully, didn’t squeak. He watched from the playground as she walked into the wind, her long hair flapping, her dark dress billowing. The next trailer was the last before the guardhouse at the gate, the army’s trailer, Yoni’s. And instead of walking by it, she turned onto the entry path. Had she found something that belonged to Yoni? Had her father asked her to relay a message to him? Had her mother sent a cake, perhaps? Nir crouched down on one knee. His shift was scheduled to begin in twenty-eight minutes.

Gitit knocked three times on the door to the trailer, turned around, and began walking toward the playground, toward Nir! He looked around for somewhere to hide. At the far end of the park stood a small wooden shed where the laborers stored their tools and building materials. Yoni’s door slammed shut, and his dark figure began making its way toward the park. Just then, a huge bang sounded and a wedding firework from Kharmish exploded in the sky, shaking the outpost from its slumber. Taking advantage of Gitit’s and Yoni’s surprise, their gaze skyward, the barking of the dogs, Nir regained his composure, made a dash for the shed, and ducked in. It was hot inside, and stuffy, with the smell of sawdust and varnish and synthetic paints and turpentine. He hoped they hadn’t spotted him.

Where were they? All he could hear was his own breathing, the beating of his heart. He focused on his discomfort and on the awful heat in the shed, which had absorbed the rays from a long day of sun, with hardly the smallest crack for air to slip in. He could feel his glands pumping sweat, onto his forehead, under his arms, onto his lower back (Shaulit would ask him in the morning why his shirt was so wet and smelled of turpentine). He pressed an ear to the door. Are they there?

A thump on the side wall a few centimeters to his right startled him. He heard whispering he wasn’t able to decipher and then Gitit giggling. “You’re crazy, be quiet.”

Yoni responded in a low tone, Nir couldn’t make out the words, only the monotone hum of an accent.

“No! Are you crazy?” she said. “Not now.” Another short monotone hum. Nir waited for a response from Gitit, but none came. Suddenly he heard a familiar sound — lips smacking, teeth knocking together, the suction of mouths uniting for an instant, quickened breathing, voices soft, purring, shy. Nir listened intently, pressing an ear to the wall against which they were leaning, sweating from every pore, inhaling toxic fumes but failing to notice them because of the sounds coming from the other side of the thin wooden wall. The teenager, the daughter of the settlement’s most senior resident, was kissing the Ethiopian soldier. The image filled his mind, hampered his breathing, thrilled him, disgusted him. What’s she thinking? he wondered. How dare she?

Another monotone murmur, and a breathless “No. Are you crazy?” from her, and a giggle, and then their mouths must have locked together again because Nir could hear nothing apart from their bodies moving against the wall, snatched breaths, another smacking of lips, another wet suction. And then “No, not there…”

Where?

“Yoni!”

More shuffling against the wall, groping, clothes rustling. The click of a buckle? A button undone? A zipper tugged? The sounds swirled in his head, mixing with the odors and the humidity, and he was no longer sure what he was imagining and what was really happening. “Yoni, no!” Another whisper, and then Nir asked himself if he should go out and help her. Was the brash soldier forcing himself on her? And what exactly was he trying to force? And then silence.

Nir’s breathing was labored. Nausea rose up in his chest. He tried to lean on something in the dark, to sit down perhaps. He needed water. Beer-flavored burps filled his throat. And still not a sound from outside. He couldn’t see the time but assumed his shift should be starting any minute now. He was the first guard on duty that evening, and the first guard needs to report to and update — and suddenly it dawned on him — Yoni. Had the Ethiopian done something to her? Strangled her? Then came another of Yoni’s monotone hums, and Gitit burst into laughter, which started out loud and was then stifled, a hand over her mouth, and then the sound of more movement and rapid breathing— What are they doing there?