Assaf Gavron - The Hilltop

“How do you find people who want to leave their money to Israel?” Gabi asked.

“Ah, it’s complicated. A JNF person needs to be well rooted in the Jewish community and the synagogues. He’ll present brochures on the JNF activities and offer people the chance to adopt projects. He’ll give lectures, leave business cards. Sometimes he’ll hear of candidates in advance and make contact with them. Sometimes the donors themselves make the approach. We also publish ads.”

“And then what?”

“You set up a meeting. They’re usually elderly Jews. Sometimes they have a family or friends or other organizations, and we get a portion of the inheritance. But the really big fish are people with money and assets who don’t have a family, no heirs, and then we step into the picture. That’s the real work.”

“What’s the work?”

“I meet with them for lunches. Call to maintain the relationship. I show them the work the JNF is doing, and befriend them, try to make them feel that the State of Israel cares about them. There are financial arrangements, too. Sometimes they’re complex, with lawyers and accountants. Sometimes it’s simpler. The details are finalized over time: the size of the bequest, the validity of the will, the precise wording, where exactly the money will go, what will be done with the property.”

They drank coffee at a truck stop. Meshulam, who insisted on wearing his suit and tie the entire journey, suddenly sighed, and Gabi wondered what he was truly feeling. “So your work is really just making friends with old people, sucking up to them, making sure they don’t pick up the phone to a lawyer to tell them they’ve discovered some distant relative whom they’ve decided to leave everything to, and waiting for them to die.”

Meshulam smiled. “Not all the work, but that’s a part of it.”

“Not bad.”

“You’re away from home a lot, you eat with them, listen to them, treat them well. It’s not that simple.”

“Actually, doesn’t sound too bad to me.”

“It’s tough with those people sometimes. They’re not the most interesting. Or they’re angry with someone, or something hurts them. You have to be there for them all the time.”

“Better than carrying boxes and sofas on your back.”

“I guess. And also, don’t forget, it’s Zionism in the end. We’re building the country. We need that money.”

They resumed their journey. Gabi drove. Meshulam drove. Gabi drove and Meshulam slept. They stopped to spend the night in a city called Charleston, and at dinner Meshulam told Gabi about a client he once had in that city, not even a Jew, but he contacted the organization and decided to bequeath his home, a beautiful house with a large garden in the heart of town. Meshulam met him for dinner, at an amazing fancy seafood restaurant. It was a fascinating evening, the man had an interesting life story, he was a CIA agent in Italy for many years. They finalized all the details, the man was supposed to call his lawyer the following morning to change the will, but before he had a chance, he suffered a heart attack and died of food poisoning, and Meshulam himself spent all day hanging over the toilet throwing up and having diarrhea.

As he slowly emerged from sleep after the night at the motel, Gabi thought about Meshulam’s work. He didn’t like the parasitic element of it, the way the State of Israel sent emissaries to hover like vultures over human carcasses, or worse, even, over living people, waiting for them to become carcasses and then swooping down and scavenging whatever they leave behind the moment they die. There was something disturbing about the cold and calculated process by which they found candidates for death, secured their bequests, waited for their demise. On the other hand, he thought, they offer the caring and warmth that’s missing from the lives of childless people who’ve come to the end of the road. Even if the motive is a selfish one, it’s still caring and warmth that no one else offers, and who says the warmth and caring offered in more conventional ways, by family members or friends, stems from less selfish motives?

The next morning they continued in driving rain. Gabi liked rain, but quantities like that were too much even for him, and in the month of June as well. Meshulam smiled and said it was the norm in this part of America, there were hurricanes sometimes, too, which was a lot crazier. They drove slowly, a bit pensive and withdrawn, the wipers working vigorously and noisily, the rain slamming down on the metal.

After one more night at a motel, they arrived at Meshulam’s new house. The foreman called to say the stormy weather had slowed the progress of the truck, which wouldn’t arrive until evening, thus leaving Gabi and Meshulam with an entire day to wait in an empty house. Hollywood, Florida, did indeed remind Gabi of the kibbutz. The contrast with New York surprised him. In front of every house was a well-groomed square of lawn, the houses themselves were tidy, spacious. The storm passed, maybe didn’t even reach that part of Florida, and it was the most sun-filled day since he’d landed in America. He sat on a deck chair someone had left in Meshulam’s yard, sipping the coffee in a paper cup that Meshulam got from around the corner.

Meshulam took him on a tour of the neighborhood. Gabi got into the Chevrolet and three minutes later caught sight of the most beautiful sea he had ever seen, a deep and intoxicating turquoise, and long white beaches, and the girls… He took off his pants and went into the sea in his underwear, and couldn’t believe how gratifying and familiar it felt when the water engulfed him. Like the kibbutz? The kibbutz wished. It was a hundred times better; it was like the kibbutz, only without strange looks in the dining hall and with the most beautiful beach you’d ever seen, with all due respect to the Sea of Galilee.

He lay on the sand and said, “This is paradise, Meshulam. This is what I dreamed of when I dreamed of overseas. Not about a million people and tall buildings in which I go up and down with furniture.” Meshulam smiled. He took him to eat at a restaurant on the beach, and when they returned home, he showed Gabi the small apartment adjacent to the main house. It had a separate entrance, one small room with a kitchenette and bathroom.

“I’ve been thinking about renting this out, what do you think?” Meshulam asked. He meant, what did Gabi think of the idea of renting it out, and of the unit in general.

But Gabi said, “I’m in.”

Meshulam looked at him in surprise. “You’re in what?”

“I want to live here,” Gabi said.

Meshulam laughed. “Are you serious?”

“Totally.”

“And what will you do?”

“Don’t you need an assistant?”

While his brother left for the United States, and many of his friends for the Far East and South America, Roni remained in Tel Aviv. It was far enough for him. He had ended up there almost by chance. Started dating a girl from Ra’anana, an economics and philosophy student at Tel Aviv University, whose father had an office in an apartment on Shlomo Hamelech Street with a vacant room, and the girlfriend suggested to Roni that they take over the room. During work hours they shared the apartment with the office, and because Roni didn’t feel comfortable, he preferred to go out and frequently just went with the girlfriend to the university, started sitting in on classes, and discovered that the courses interested him.

In the evening and on weekends they had the apartment to themselves. They bought a fishbowl and two fish for a few shekels from a pet store around the corner. Their “rent” was to clean the apartment and wash the dishes of the office employees, usually three mugs with the remains of coffee or water. He decided to register for studies — if he was already investing the time in lectures, why shouldn’t he glorify himself with a degree? But just a few months later the girlfriend told him she was pregnant, which ended in an abortion and despair and a teary breakup.