Assaf Gavron - The Hilltop

“Anti-Semites,” Othniel said. His phone vibrated in his pocket and he took it out and went into the yard to talk. Yakir continued to browse quickly through the article — the phrases machine equipment, regional olive presses , and cans of tuna jumped out at him from the screen, but the financial terms exhausted him. He listened to make sure his father was still engrossed in his call and, heart pounding, returned to Second Life.

He went into Revival virtual region. King Meir rushed over in welcome. “Where’ve you been, champ?” he asked, and reached out for a handshake. If sensations could be conveyed on Second Life, King Meir would have deemed Yakir’s handshake weak and limp.

“You won’t believe it,” continued the bearded and yellow-T-shirted character in the speech bubbles floating above his head, “things have gone crazy, there’ve been demonstrations, they want to kick us out. I think the people who run Second Life are looking for me.”

Yakir panicked. Looking? Soon would come the days of repentance and the Day of Judgment, but King Meir was rejoicing, and the other friends were excited, spoke about the ban, the curses, the Arabs’ pathetic attempts at retaliation. They wanted to continue, to intimidate, to blow things up, to show the Arabs who they were. But Yakir couldn’t share their fervor. He was worried. He didn’t want to get into trouble. Didn’t want anyone showing up at the door, or anything arriving by e-mail, accusing him of causing destruction, disturbing the peace, breaking Internet rules of conduct. Not only that, as hard as he tried, he derived no joy from the bombing of the mosque. He struggled to understand why he had done it, and for whom — who are these people, his so-called friends, an odd collection of guys from where? Texas? Germany? The neighboring settlement? Why blow up a mosque, a place of worship? He was a person of faith, who visited a place of worship all the time.

King Meir must have sensed something because he asked, “What’s up, Yakir? Everything okay?” If Second Life could have displayed facial expressions, Yakir’s friends would have been looking at a pale, agonized face. He heard his father bid farewell on the phone with wishes for a good year and inscription in the Book of Life. Inscription in the Book of Life — how would he look his Creator in the eye? How would he be rewarded with inscription in the Book of Life? He had committed a crime, sinned, and now his punishment would come. If you could have seen someone’s eyes on Second Life, the exultant, messianic Jews on Revival would have been looking at frantic eyes, racing back and forth like a lab rat’s.

His father’s footsteps approached, and Yakir left Second Life, fled, shut down the computer, dropped to his knees, and quickly disconnected the Internet cable, the power cable, and just as he was asked, “Yakir, what are you doing down there? Something happen to the computer?” a light brown stream speckled with bits of meat, pasta, potatoes, and chunks of fruit shot out of his mouth, and another, and another, with his chest heaving violently and a terrible tightening of his throat. His eyes welled with tears as the waves rose up and burst forth from within him, emptied his stomach until nothing remained, and he continued to retch and cramp up and eject awful-tasting bile, and Othniel laid his large and warm hands on his overwhelmed son, one tenderly stroking the back of his neck, the other offering a glass of water, and all he said was “Small sips, small sips, small sips.”

A few days after Shin Bet informer Jenia Freud emerged from the dark into the light, Othniel invited her and her husband, Elazar, over for a private chat. Initially, Othniel asked all those in the know — Nir Rivlin, Hilik Yisraeli, and his wife, Rachel — not to cause a fuss and not to spread the word. He consulted with Hilik — perhaps it would be a good idea to use Jenia as a double agent, a mole? Perhaps through her they could obtain information about the security forces’ plans for the evacuation, the building of the fence, and so on?

But when rumors began spreading across the hilltop, Othniel realized that the affair wasn’t going to remain under wraps for very long. He decided to inform the residents himself in order to avoid unnecessary tension, and to warn against falling asleep on their watch. The talk with Jenia and Elazar was a precursor to his briefing of all the residents of the outpost.

“Elazar, explain to me again what it is you do, something on the computer, right?” Othniel began.

“I run ad campaigns on Google for a number of companies, some in Jerusalem and some in America, most of them in the field of printing…”

Othniel nodded, but was distracted because just then Rachel placed on the table a pot of coffee and a cake Jenia had baked. He wasn’t listening. Jenia was rubbing her fingers together. She smiled as a sign of gratitude when Rachel poured her a cup of coffee, her red eyes betraying sleepless days and nights. Elazar appeared even more stressed than she did, his Adam’s apple particularly active. Silence fell. Rachel left the living room and went into the kitchen. Othniel sipped.

“Why did you do it, Jenia?” His tone, much to the surprise of the Freuds, was soft, not accusatory.

A shrug of the shoulders. Pursing of lips, lowering of eyes. A hesitant hand running through a mass of blond hair. And again the broad shoulders hunched up. “I don’t know. I… Someone talk to me at ride station. She speak Russian. Not remember what we talk about, maybe recipes, cookies.” She looked up with hesitant eyes — perhaps he didn’t want to hear all those details, perhaps he was impatient? But Othniel’s eyes conveyed a sense of ease, and his hands gestured to continue. If he was in a rush, or angry, it didn’t show.

“She gave phone numbers. Don’t know how happened, a long time we are in contact. She was my friend…”

“I met her, too,” Elazar intervened. “Daliah, her friend from the ride station. Sure.”

“Did you also speak to her regularly? Meet with her?”

Elazar shook his head. “I don’t know Russian. And she never visited us.”

“And after a while she started talking about politics,” Othniel said.

“ Da … You know how it works?” She looked up at the leader of the outpost.

“I know, I know. I know them well,” Othniel said. “She probably told you she’s a settler herself. And lauded the settlement enterprise. And complained about the government and about the army and about the Arabs. And then started talking about the extremists. About the price-tag incidents. The lunatics who give us all a bad name. Who have to be stopped because they’re damaging the settlement enterprise. That if we don’t stop them, if we allow them to run wild and carry out their extreme actions, then the Palestinians will also take revenge on us, and the army, too, will retaliate and evacuate us — she frightened you.”

Jenia and Elazar looked at him, stunned. They weren’t expecting this. Weren’t expecting a show of understanding for what Jenia had been through. What Othniel was displaying here was a lot more than understanding. He had described exactly what had happened. But then his benevolent face stiffened, and Jenia’s and Elazar’s hearts skipped a beat. “But that’s still no reason to spy on your friends.”

“True,” she quickly agreed. “I…”

“We can’t tolerate such betrayal.”

“They told me you follow only Jehu. That it bad seeds, youth of hilltops. I not betray outpost. Not look for others.”

“We heard you said something about Roni Kupper, too.”

“They ask Roni Kupper but I don’t know. And he’s not from residents. I don’t give them anything about him! And about residents! I only Jehu!”