Assaf Gavron - The Hilltop

Gavriel had attended the dedication ceremony for the new playground and had gone from there to the synagogue for late-afternoon prayers, after which he had hung around with everyone to chat for a while. Only afterward did he return home to find a large suitcase that was taking up half of the living room floor and his elder brother snoring loudly on the sofa, facing the ceiling, a look of utter serenity anointing his face. Gabi looked at his brother. At the rise and fall of his chest, at his lips trembling with every snore, at his arms folded across his chest in perfect rest, at his broad feet in their formerly white sports socks with their threadbare heels. His eyes wandered back to the large suitcase. Oh, Roni, my brother, he thought — and smiled at him, and tugged on his nose. Roni responded with a snore.

Gabi went into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. He turned on the light. He’d drink first and then make dinner for them, and then say the evening prayers. He turned on the kettle, which responded a few seconds later with an ever-loudening groan until the final bubbling noise and the automatic flip of the switch. He placed a Wissotzky tea bag into a glass cup with a thin handle and mixed in the sugar, clattering the teaspoon against the side of the glass.

“Make me one, too, whatever it is you’re having,” came a gravelly voice from the living room.

“Already have,” Gabi responded, walking back into the living room and placing a glass, the granules of sugar still swirling on the bottom, on a small shelf beside Roni’s head. “Tea,” he said, and sat down on the armchair on the other side of the room. He recited the customary blessing, blew on his tea, and cautiously sipped the hot beverage. “Welcome, my brother. It’s been a while.”

Roni sat up, stretched, and tried to exorcise the sleep and jet lag that were clouding his mind. “Aahh!” he yawned out loud. He picked up the glass and sipped noisily. “Sweet,” he said. Roni looked over at his brother, who was still smiling. “I’m going to have to stay here for a while,” he said.

“I got that. The suitcase gave you away.”

“Yes.”

They drank in silence. What’s with the big white skullcap with the pompom on top? Roni thought. The beard’s still thin, but a little longer now. And those sidelocks? Aren’t those only for people in the ultra-Orthodox Mea She’arim neighborhood? He admitted to himself, however, that the look suited his brother. Religious observance seemed to sit naturally on his slender build, to suit the dreamy brown of his eyes and his fair skin. Of the two, Roni had always looked like the true kibbutznik, with his dark skin and solid frame, the self-assured, sometimes arrogant, yet more lighthearted look on his face, which always appeared to be on the verge of breaking into a smile.

“How about a cookie or something?” Roni asked.

Gabi glanced toward the kitchen — but he didn’t need to. There were no cookies. The silence settled in again, broken only occasionally by the sound of the two brothers sipping their tea.

“So, what’s up?” Gabi finally asked, fixing his brother with a long stare. “The last time we spoke was on your fortieth birthday. You said you were busy and that you’d call back, and I haven’t heard a word from you since. That was months ago. And the time before that was on your previous birthday. Aren’t you supposed to be in America?”

Roni stood up from the sofa. He looked out the window. The wind whistled under the trailer. “What a view, eh? Really something else,” he said, turning to face his brother. “How are things with you? The guy who gave me a ride told me you were a great guy, a prince.”

Gabi laughed. “Just great, thank God. Wonderful.”

“Wonderful? What’s so wonderful?”

“Everything, everything’s just wonderful. I’m pleased you are here.”

“So I can stay for a while, then? This ‘wonderful’ you’re talking about isn’t a girl or something, is it?”

“For you, wonderful always has something to do with a girl.”

“I just need to know if I can stay for a while.”

“You can stay for as long as you like.”

“So why the sad face? Is it too much for you to have your brother as a guest?”

“No sad face at all.”

Roni walked into the kitchen. “Where’s the bathroom?” he asked.

Gabi remained in the armchair, an example of simple workmanship from the 1970s, with its worn brown upholstery — his furniture was a collection of items found over the years on the streets of Jerusalem — and drank his tea. He could hear his brother’s thick stream of urine splashing directly into the water in the toilet; Roni was never one to try to muffle the sound by aiming at the porcelain sides of the bowl. Gabi closed his eyes.

“Don’t sit there looking upset,” Roni declared on his return. He picked up his cup of tea. “I was always there for you when you needed help.”

“I’m not upset,” Gabi replied serenely. “But how could you have known that I needed help if you haven’t been in touch for years?”

The trailer was suddenly thrown into darkness. Gabi stood up and looked out the window. “The generator’s down,” he said. “Thankfully, it’s not from my kettle, so we have tea to drink at least until the darkness passes.”

“I’m going out for a walk,” Roni said, and began feeling his way to the door. Passing by his brother, however, he turned to him suddenly and spread out his arms. “Come here,” he said, “give us a hug.” Their embrace was a little clumsy, and brief. The darkness hid the expressions on their faces but Gabi’s, presumably, was reserved, Roni’s perhaps a touch forced.

“I’m pleased you came,” the younger brother said after they had let go of one another. Roni didn’t respond. He left, slamming the door behind him and causing the entire structure to shake. Gabi decided to say his evening prayers at home.

The trailers cast in darkness. The entire hilltop blacked out. The profound silence, the all-encompassing blackness, the sounds from the Arab village — so different from his own life in recent years, yet still capable of summoning a vague familiar feeling, from his childhood on the kibbutz, perhaps. Roni felt exhausted from the long journey and jet lag.

The strumming of a guitar could be heard coming from the far end of the outpost. A sad, slow song, somewhat solemn. Roni imagined himself heading toward the notes. He passed by a number of people and spotted the man who had given him the ride, standing outside his home alongside a young boy wearing a skullcap, a tranquil expression on his spotty face.

“Good evening,” Roni said.

Othniel Assis smiled. “Well,” he said, “did you find your brother, the saint? Was it him?”

“Yes, yes, thanks.”

“We’re going over to see what’s up with the old generator. Wanna tag along? We may need a helping hand.”

Roni Kupper followed Othniel and his son Yakir to the entrance to the outpost. Yoni was already there, shining a flashlight, and one of the other soldiers was restarting the generator with a sharp tug on a cord.

“How many more years will we have to wait before we’re connected to the electricity grid?” Othniel growled as lights flickered on in the nearby homes. “There are women and children here; they shake in fear every time the generator goes down.”

Roni continued to tag along behind the group, which headed back from the gate toward the center of the settlement. “Did you know anything about a new trailer?” Othniel asked Yoni as they passed by the latest arrival.

“No,” the soldier responded.

“Did Omer not say anything about it?”

“Omer didn’t say a word aside from telling me to post the new orders. He was with you all the time.”