Assaf Gavron - The Hilltop

“And what do we get from the big money?”

“Ha, ha, ha, ha,” thundered Duvid.

Othniel wasn’t amused. His brown eyes were locked on eyes that were practically swallowed up behind the glasses on Duvid’s chubby face when he asked, “What’s imprinted on coins from the revolt period?”

“Jewish symbols — pomegranates, chalices. A little like the ones that appear on shekels today. And the year of the revolt is imprinted on them too. Every year has a different value.”

Othniel rubbed his chin through his beard. “Listen to this, Duvid. My son Yakir did some checking on the Internet. He found something interesting. Yakir! Yakir! Come here for a moment!” he called. Yakir rose from his seat at the computer and came to the living room. There he found Duvid — fat, bespectacled, with silver hair and beard and a look of disdain in his eyes.

“Listen, Othni,” the visitor said, “there’s lots of crap on the Internet, I’m telling you, it takes time, let us—”

“Listen to what the kid has to say,” Othniel interjected. “And then do with it as you please.” Duvid reached out for his cup of tea and sipped.

“What was the name of that monk, Yakiri?” Othniel egged on his son.

“Saint Onuphrius.”

“Saint Onuphrius. Heard of him?”

Duvid motioned with his head in a manner that could have been construed as a yes, but he was clearly unmoved by the information being fed to him. “Yakir found an archaeologist in America who once lived in Ma’aleh Hermesh A.,” Othniel continued. “I remember him, an American, from the first days of the settlement, a good guy, despite being a good friend of Shimoni, that son of a bitch. Anyway, he did his doctorate on this Onuphrius guy. He— Yakir, you know more about this than me, tell Duvid.”

“Saint Onuphrius was an Egyptian-born monk who lived as a hermit in the desert, in this area, for several decades during the fourth century,” Yakir recited. “He was abducted by bandits along the road and taken out into the middle of the desert, and returned naked, with only his long white beard covering his shame, and for the remainder of his days he lived as a hermit, enduring extreme thirst, hunger, and discomfort. According to the archaeologist from Duke, Onuphrius lived in the Hermesh cave and had a trove of coins that he hid, that he probably received for safekeeping from nomads who passed through the area.”

“Well, okay,” Duvid said, coughing slightly, “the Internet is full of stories like this — too many, if you ask me.” His fat lips smiled at Othniel and he forced a laugh.

Troubled by Duvid’s apparent apathy, Othniel joined Rachel in bed earlier than usual. He soon fell asleep. Gitit was asleep already, too, and so were all the little ones, naturally. The house fell silent, with only the buzz of Othniel’s snoring providing the rhythm, casting a subconscious sense of security over the members of the household tucked away in their beds.

* * *

Yakir logged in to Second Life and hurried off to meet his friends on Revival. The Star of David spam attack had stirred stormy reactions in the virtual world — Arab solidarity demonstrations, the establishment of new mosques, increased anti-Semitic sentiment and expression, and even a botched retaliation attempt at a synagogue. Reactions had filtered into the real world, too, and images of the mosque flooded with Stars of David popping up on blogs and websites, and even on Ynet. King Meir was pleased. He wanted to move on to the next stage — a real terror attack. Yakir retrieved a jam cookie from the box, took a bite, and waited for his friends Klaus, Menachem, and a new recruit, Harvey, who had told Yakir that he was a follower of Rabbi Kook, and King Meir himself, too, of course.

They were standing alongside the Flame of the Revival synagogue, chins adorned with tapered beards, Uzis on their shoulders, a Kach T-shirt stretched across King Meir’s chest, the others in flannel shirts, light blue tzitzit peeking out from under them to always bring to mind the Holy One, blessed be He. King Meir was smoking a virtual cigarette.

They teleported themselves to Taste of Arabia, which was teeming with people, Muslims who had come to demonstrate solidarity after the Stars of David spam, and various other curious and bored Second Lifers who had heard about the controversy and had come to check it out. The Revival gang entered the large mosque. A bearded Arab man welcomed them and asked them to remove their shoes. They ignored him and went in. Yakir’s heart was pounding. King Meir gave the order and they pulled out Palestinian flags they had created and, with the click of a mouse, set them alight with a flame-making application Yakir had downloaded for free. They stood there holding the burning flags, and then in came the Arab characters and their supporters, enraged, shouting, ordering them out, to cease the desecration. There were many non-Arabs, who were carrying placards and shouting with angry faces. King Meir spoke to Yakir. He wanted the mosque then and there. But the computer was acting strange. Its fan was working and stopping every few seconds. Yakir bent down and looked at the computer case. He couldn’t figure out what was happening, it had never acted like this before. Don’t crash now, he pleaded.

Yakir punched some keys, and from his Second Life User folder, the Inventory, he retrieved the mosque he had built — an exact copy of the mosque they were in moments before, the big mosque in Taste of Arabia. He felt a pang in his heart when he thought of all the hours he had spent at the computer building the beautiful mosque, complete with its arches and colorful adornments. He positioned it, and the two mosques stood there side by side, the original in its place, the replica Yakir had built on a sandbox — a nonrestricted public area — beside it. Curious onlookers turned up to see what and why, exchanged bewildered looks, someone asked if it was a gift, recompense for the violence, an effort to bridge the differences between the religions. King Meir laughed. He gave Yakir the signal and Yakir ran Particles, the explosion simulation software he had bought, with the replica mosque as its target.

The first boom destroyed the walls. The fire was impressive. Passions flared. People yelled. King Meir raised his arms. The fan in Yakir’s computer labored. Yakir dipped his hand into the box of jam cookies and found crumbs. His brother Shuv-el started to cry, but stopped and slept on, a bad dream. On the screen, meanwhile, the nightmare of the Arabs and their leftist friends continued. Flames filled the mosque. King Meir pushed for more. Yakir ran another explosion program and the mosque’s column broke and fell. Klaus and Menachem were dancing. An Arab brandishing a sword approached Yakir, but he could do him no harm. Yakir sent him the only curse in English that he knew, and in mid-sentence, the computer froze.

The days grew short. August flowed into September. Darkness fell a little earlier, accompanied by crispness in the air. During the day, a gust of air would occasionally rise up, as if to declare, It won’t be long now before the summer gasps its final breaths.

The babies grew steadily, their rounded bodies drew in fluids from every nipple, plastic or human, that agreed to provide them, and immediately translated them into additional grams. Filled with anticipation, their brothers and sisters were driven into the city and returned with colorful notebooks and shiny writing implements, ready for a year of hard work. The Ki Teitzei weekly Torah portion passed, and the Ki Tavo portion arrived, and soon the season of new beginnings was on the doorstep, white shirts were pressed, and new dresses were acquired. And the synagogue was cleaned and rejuvenated and readied, and rose to the occasion. Verses of the Mishnah were memorized and commentaries lengthened and the festive mood filtered in and took over. The days were beautiful and the nights clear, and clouds gathered, increasingly darker and thicker. The curses of one Jewish year perished and a new one—5770—began to the sound of the shofar and with the turning back of the clocks and the Days of Awe.