Assaf Gavron - The Hilltop

“No,” he heard Gitit whisper. “Not today. I have to go. Next time.” Another distant firework made them jump, and then stifled giggling, and then a monotone hum. “Next time, I promise.” A hum that sounded like a question. “Yes, I promise,” and a brief kiss. The thin wooden wall groaned and clothes rustled, and then came the sound of receding footsteps, with another soft giggle from Gitit.

Nir’s face was hot from sweat, from heat, from shame. After a few minutes, he turned the handle and inhaled as though it were crisp Alpine winter air — not that Nir had ever been in the Alps in the winter. He made sure they were gone, stepped out from the shed, and circled the structure to the place where the pair had been moments earlier, sniffing around, looking for proof, clues that would perhaps add substance to the audio experience, but aside from a faint smell he couldn’t quite put his finger on — his brain was awash with odors and chemicals — there were no clues as to what had just happened there.

He walked to the center of the playground, spread his arms, and allowed the breeze to cool his wet clothes, his forehead, the back of his neck, and all the remaining sweat-soaked areas. He inhaled deeply, sighed. And then he crossed the road to Yoni’s trailer to let him know that the night shift was starting.

“You’re ten minutes late, dude,” Yoni said. “Don’t let it happen again, okay? I was just about to call you.” Nir nodded, ran his hand over the telephone in the front pocket of his pants, and then over the butt of the pistol tucked into his pants at the back — and left without a word.

During his shift, Nir returned twice to the scene of the incident, trying to reconstruct it, to find evidence, and the more his mind sobered up from the beer, with the help of liters of water and the passing of hours, the more he wondered what really had happened. While snooping behind the shed for the second time, he heard footsteps and a voice, and the love scene that had been playing over in his thoughts made way for a new show. He pressed himself to the wall of the storeroom and froze again, again tried to blend in with his surroundings. At least he was outside now, breathing in fresh air and the smell of the wooden boards, a far more pleasant odor than that of turpentine. He could hear better, too, the sounds were less muffled — undoubtedly an upgrade in conditions.

Someone was speaking on the telephone in a low, self-conscious voice. He caught the sound of rope straining under the weight of a body, of a gentle movement slicing through the air — a swing in motion. Thank the Lord, it had yet to start creaking and squeaking, as it would in time, when rust and dirt have accumulated in its joints; still new and well oiled, it coped just fine now with the body weight of an adult woman, who quietly said, “Is there not names list?”

Nir’s ears pricked up. What did she say? And then “No, I no check. I what you say to me. No find. Roni Kupper, no. No talk to Roni Kupper, but…”

Nir peered into the darkness. Were the beers and the joint still messing with his head? What was going on here this evening? He slowly shifted his position, peeling his body from the wall of the shed to turn to look at the woman. He had of course recognized her voice the moment he heard her first word, but he had to see with his own eyes, and now, under the faint light of the stars, he saw her, Jenia Freud, swinging on a swing too small for her dimensions, her left hand gripping the rope, her right clutching a phone to her ear. Why is Jenia talking on the phone, in the playground, at night, about Roni Kupper?

She resumed talking quietly. “No, before minister come, I not hear talking, nothing. After he say scram, also no. Jehu and Josh I watch. Yes, I know I said they can make problem. But no, there are nothing. Okay. Okay, I talk with Roni Kupper. Yes, with Arab, but I no see anything there. Yes, okay. Kupper I check.”

Nir slid his back down the wall of the shed until he was sitting on solid ground. He closed his eyes and then opened them again, and turned his head to look at Jenia, who was holding the phone in the air, swinging and deep in thought. The world froze for thirty seconds, a chill wind blew through the playground and rustled the leaves, the Arabs and their fireworks went quiet in deference to the moment, and even Condi, who was barking earlier, fell silent. Jenia blurted a few words — a curse in Russian? — got off the swing, and went into her home across the road.

Nir remained where he was for several minutes, his eyes closed, his back to the wall of the shed, his butt on the ground. Finally, he gathered himself, stood up, and headed off to patrol the ring road. When Gabi Nehushtan relieved him, he barely said a word, merely nodding, his eyes low, and went on his way. Gabi watched him, puzzled, stroked his sparse beard, and went up into the guard tower to recite the Tikkun Chatzot prayer.

Duvid, an expert in ancient artifacts and a longtime settler whom Othniel knew from his early days in Samaria, and also from reserve army duty, came to the outpost a few days after Dvora Assis found the coins in the cave, and after her father, Othniel, “popped over to have a look.” Duvid combed the cave’s rooms with a metal detector and found a total of thirty-eight coins. His initial conclusion: they had been unearthed, thanks, probably, to a rock rabbit that had been digging in the cave in the hope of finding water or food, and come across the coins instead, buried under the sandy earth and soft limestone.

Othniel invited Duvid back on a number of occasions, and he repeatedly declined, citing various reasons, until Othniel, annoyed, instructed Yakir “to check his Internet” to see if he could find any information about ancient coins in the area.

For Yakir, delving into the archaeological archives of American universities was an intriguing challenge. The research project offered him an excuse to remain awake and chat with people in American time zones — or so he explained to his father — and so he was left with plenty of time to spend on Revival with his friends. Because they were in the midst of the long summer vacation, and because Othniel was bent on looking into the matter of the coins and not relying solely on Duvid, Yakir spent many hours at night in front of the computer undisturbed.

Duvid, meanwhile, finally succumbed to Othniel’s pleas and came again to visit. After a cup of tea and some small talk about the defense minister, the Central Command major general, and the other obligatory niceties, Othniel asked about the coins.

“What can I say, Othni, you need patience with this type of thing. I know you’d like to know right away, but it takes time. We’re cleaning the coins, we’ll send them for various tests, we’ll get an accurate dating, and then we’ll see. I’d also like to send a few to expert colleagues of mine. There are several distinguished researchers in the field of ancient artifacts — most of them Jewish — who are located at Duke University in America. And I have someone in Australia who knows more about these things than anyone else. Show a little patience and we’ll eventually have trustworthy results.”

“And then?”

“And then we’ll know if the coins are authentic. We’ll know what period they come from. We’ll be able to identify the symbols that appear on the bronze under the greenish layer of patina. If they’re Roman dinars or Hellenistic drachmas, it won’t be worth the effort. If they’re from the Hasmonean dynasty, and we know the Hasmoneans inhabited these caves, they could be worth a little more. The most valuable are the ones from the rebellion era, in particular the silver shekels from the Bar Kokhba Revolt. If that’s what we’re dealing with — and my initial hunch with the naked eye tells me no — then you can sell to collectors or museums via an antiques merchant or public auction. That’s where there could be big money.”