Assaf Gavron - The Hilltop

The rain turned down the volume a little, and Othniel said to his children, “At least the car will be clean!” He laughed and stroked his beard. They didn’t laugh. Despite the pause in their argument thanks to the rain, they were still in an agitated mood. When they drove by the officer, Gitit echoed her father’s sentiments and cursed, “Bloody traitor.”

Yakir responded, “Watch your language, you should be ashamed of yourself.”

“I should be ashamed? You should be ashamed. And shame on the army that sends us those ingrates and then they give interviews and badmouth us. Screw him, the bastard.” Othniel searched for a radio station but got static.

“You’re a hypocrite,” Yakir said, “they’re protecting us. Guarding the roads, the settlements. Dad, why didn’t you stop, I think he drove over a ninja.”

“Guarding?” snorted the big sister. Ever since she was sent to the all-girls’ religious high school in Samaria, she’d adopted more extremist views, and every time she returned for a holiday, she sounded more adamant and aggressive. Othniel and Rachel had conferred between the two of them about the changes in her.

“Yakir,” Gitit continued, “I really hope you won’t enlist, and if they force you, then God forbid, only a hesder yeshiva, a year and four months instead of three.”

Yakir responded that the army took precedence over everything, that if everyone were to dodge their service, there’d be no army, and then who would protect the country and us? Othniel stroked his beard and remained silent. The windshield wipers provided the rhythm. Yakir wouldn’t be enlisting for another three or so years. Who knew what would happen by then? Who knew what was going to happen by next week? His children joined in his silence. The rain slowed but didn’t stop. Who would protect us? Yakir’s question reverberated through the silent car. Perhaps the image of Yoni, the Ethiopian soldier, flashed through their minds. Rage flared in Gitit’s eyes. “You know that Yoni gets discharged next week?” Yakir asked. Gitit shot him a look.

An engine emitted a huge roar and propelled a large truck past the sputtering Renault. The Assis family turned their gazes to the rear of the large vehicle, which was emblazoned with a decal: Weizmann Bros. Renovation & Construction . Herzl Weizmann waved a plaster-casted arm and flashed a broad smile from the driver’s compartment during the passing maneuver. Othniel smiled back. “The road belongs to everyone, pop, be my guest.”

Captain Omer Levkovich stepped out into the rain. He went to the back of the jeep and removed the spare tire and the tools. He shouted to the driver and medic to come out. The driver was new, he wasn’t familiar with the jeep. Omer barked instructions in the rain.

A car signaled and stopped next to them. “Need some help, sir?” asked a bespectacled gentleman with graying hair. When he stepped out with a large black umbrella, Omer saw the dark suit he was wearing.

“Excellent, hold that umbrella here over us,” Omer said, and loosened the wheel nuts of the flat tire.

The man stood over him and the driver. “What rain, huh?” he said. Omer’s face was flushed red. He continued to instruct the driver. “Tell me,” the man tried, “do you know where Ma’aleh Hermesh C. is?”

Omer turned his head up toward the man with the umbrella. “Why, are you a journalist or something?” he asked, a glint of apprehension in his gray-green eyes.

“Journalist?” the man repeated, and chortled. “God forbid. I’m from the Antiquities Authority, the unit for the prevention of antiquities theft… Never mind, it’s a little complicated, in any event…”

“You’re going to Othniel?” Omer asked.

“How did you know?” asked the man.

“Well, have you brought him the coins at last?”

The man appeared confused. “Do you know Mr. Assis? How do you know about the coins?”

“He just went by, in the Renault Express, you didn’t see him?”

The man shook his head. “I don’t know him.”

“Come,” Captain Omer said, and rose from his crouch, while the driver tightened the wheel nuts. “We’ll take you to him.”

The David jeep roared up the incline, passed Ma’aleh Hermesh A., and turned onto the dirt road that had been prepped meanwhile for tarring by God knows who, who had flattened and leveled it and made it far more travel-friendly. The driver stopped at the guard post at the entrance to C., and Omer extended a hand to shake Yoni’s. He sensed a kind of pre-longing, a feeling that always arose before the discharge of a soldier with whom he had spent a long time and who would soon leave, never to return.

“Call your soldiers,” the company commander said, “we’ll go post these things up.”

“These things” were new demolition orders he’d received from the Civil Administration’s Inspection Unit. They were similar to the orders that were posted on the same walls the year before, but this time they came with final authorization from the High Court of Justice. The defense minister’s decision, from that fateful meeting at the end of the summer, to evacuate the outpost without delay, suffered delays in the form of legal petitions, appeals, government and cabinet debates, and other time-wasting actions, which included lengthy commentaries and analyses of the meaning of the word “Scram!” But according to the new orders, the residents of Ma’aleh Hermesh C. would now truly and seriously be required to evacuate the hilltop within ten days.

Omer and his team, along with Yoni and his soldiers, went in thick army coats from trailer to trailer, from house to house, silently sticking up the sheets of paper with a special adhesive, like workers hanging posters to advertise shows on a municipal notice board. The wind howled and no one disturbed them; everyone was tucked away indoors next to their heaters. Only when they approached Gabi’s cabin did he open the door to receive them, but didn’t say a word. Just stood there, his beard sparse and unruly, his broad skullcap motionless despite the wind, and looked into the eyes of the officer. Omer looked over the cabin and, after a few seconds, said, “Leave this, it’s a different procedure. An order to suspend work will be issued against this.” He turned and walked back to the jeep, sensing Gabi’s stare on his back.

He stood at week’s end on the looted linoleum floor, his hands in the sink, and began washing the pile of dishes that had accumulated. The average family washed this number of dishes after every meal, but the thought didn’t comfort him while he checked the temperature of the water, which in the winter was never hot enough and in the summer never cold enough, and got to work. He looked for a moment at the dish scrub sponge. It was heavy and soaked through with stale water, the once-coarse scouring pad worn down to almost nothing; all that remained was a strip of faded green that within days would fray and tear and leak bits of sponge and disintegrate among the simple tableware he had amassed from here and there, three plates and a mismatched collection of cutlery and a mug that read THE BEST DADDY IN THE WORLD. He focused on the green remnants that had been scoured to oblivion on nameless frying pans and the remains of egg, toast crumbs, and baked bean sauce from a can, and wondered, Which of them causes the most wear and tear? Does the sponge prefer to clean a specific food? A specific dish? And on the other side of things — particularly loathsome food remains, prickly, painful? What kind of grip does it prefer or hate? Does it enjoy being held lightly between two fingers or when you smother it with your entire hand?

He suddenly realized what he was doing. It was a moment of clarity in which he gazed at himself from the outside and saw the lonely man, the bachelor, in a dilapidated trailer seeped in a sour, manly, odor, standing alongside a pile of dishes and contemplating a sponge. And he realized he was debating a dish sponge like his brother and his friends debated Jacob and Joseph and Esau and the Holy One, blessed be He. So much babble, so many interpretations and commentaries on some stories from the Bible, and a year later the cycle is repeated and they reinterpret the very same stories anew — in pamphlets and in synagogues and in homes. How much bullshit can you feed people about what to drink and how to eat and what to wear and what to say when and which button to push with which finger, all the questions and the answers. At first he even admired it, thought it might help people keep life in check, save one from the endless considerations of the secular world, the questions that relentlessly buzz in one’s thoughts — What color? At what time? What should I eat now? But eventually he realized he preferred the secular considerations, despite the agonizing. He couldn’t live according to a random interpretation of a few old books.