Assaf Gavron - The Hilltop

The issue of the coins had dragged on since the summer. Duvid, the antiquities expert, Othniel’s friend, hadn’t come to the hilltop in a long time. Othniel pestered him on the phone. Eventually, at some point in the fall, Duvid called to say that most of the coins had returned from abroad. The tests revealed that most of them were made in all likelihood during the time of the rebellion. They were ordinary bronze coins, and probably not worth much. A question mark still hung over two coins, and they hadn’t come back yet. They might be silver shekels from the time of the Bar Kokhba Revolt, but he was waiting to receive the complete findings.

Othniel continued to pester, and his friend the coin expert continued to put him off for various reasons — more tests, waiting for a shipment, another expert who needed to weigh in. Othniel’s frustration was driving him insane. Almost six months had gone by since Dvora discovered the coins. Why was it so difficult to get an answer? Until one day, some two weeks earlier, the phone rang, and Duvid was on the line.

“Do you want the good news first or the bad news?”

“The bad, of course,” Othniel replied worriedly.

“Leave it, we’ll start with the good. There’s a final answer about the last two coins. They are indeed silver shekels from the time of the Bar Kokhba Revolt. One from the second year, which is worth up to ten thousand dollars, and one — take note — the fourth year, forty thousand greenbacks, Othni, you got that?”

“And the bad?”

There was silence for a few seconds, after which Duvid cleared his throat and said, “Ah… look. There was a small screwup. A misunderstanding. One of the calls I made was to a friend of mine, an expert in numismatics, the history of currency, and when he got back to me, he mistakenly called a different David, from the Antiquities Authority, and left him a message. And thus the Authority got wind of your collection.” Duvid stopped there.

“What does that mean, that the Authority got wind of my collection? Why should that concern me?”

“Essentially, it shouldn’t be a worry. Look, in principle, anyone who finds coins is supposed to inform them, although they know that no one ever does. But when there’s a leak or a rumor, they have to come check it out. They’re concerned primarily with documentation — photographing, cataloging, recording, marking. Things like that. They won’t take the coins from you, I believe.”

“You believe?”

“I’ve spoken with my people at the Antiquities Authority. Everything will be okay.” It sounded to Othniel like Duvid didn’t believe himself.

“So what happens now?”

“Someone from the Authority will come to visit you. They’ll ask questions. They’ll sniff around the cave. Give them what they want and I’ll make sure from here that it all goes smoothly.”

“A cup of tea?” Othniel offered to the man in the suit, who said he was from the Antiquities Authority, the unit for the prevention of antiquities theft.

“Thank you.” The man sat on the sofa and opened his folder of documents. He rummaged through it, retrieved several pages, and handed them to Othniel.

“What’s this?” Othniel asked.

“I need to complete these forms with you, regarding the trove of coins you discovered in the Hermesh Cave. Afterward we’ll go to the cave and look around. We’ll call in the unit’s team and detectives, we’ll check to see if there are more antiquities at the site, we’ll document the location, and if need be, we’ll preserve the site. After that we’ll conduct precise tests on the coins that were found.”

“They’ve already done tests. You can get the results from Duv—”

“We like to conduct the tests ourselves, at the forensic crime laboratory,” the man interjected, and smiled closemouthed.

“And then you’ll return the coins to me?”

The man laid the forms on the table and looked again at Othniel. “There’s a good chance we will,” he replied. “It depends on a few things. We’ll definitely be in touch about the matter. And now”—he pointed at the papers with a thin pen—“let’s start filling out the forms.”

Herzl Weizmann had turned in recent months into Ma’aleh Hermesh C.’s resident contractor, a multitalented jack-of-all-trades, combination welder, handyman, floor layer, plumber, and various other tradesmen who always complained and raised prices because of the drive to the isolated — and dangerous , they claimed — hilltop.

The hilltop was experiencing a construction boom, insofar as that was possible in the framework of the freeze imposed by the irresolute government under pressure from the gentiles since the middle of November. Gabi finished building the cabin, Herzl constructed an extension for Hilik Yisraeli’s caravilla, a pre-cast concrete structure was brought over in pieces from Ma’aleh Hermesh A. to serve as a day care and free up the synagogue for sacred work — and the synagogue itself underwent a comprehensive refurbishment that included a new roof, stone walls, tiles, colorful stained-glass windows adorned with images of the Temple, and an air conditioner.

On that day, Herzl Weizmann’s laborers couldn’t get there. Both were sick at home with high fevers and in sweats. And when you insisted on Jewish labor, it was hard to find replacements on short notice, certainly on a day like today. Herzl called en route and explained the problem to Hilik, who was overseeing the renovations on behalf of the settlement. Hilik wasn’t even aware that Herzl was coming that day, but Herzl explained he had a little more work to do on the synagogue before the Sabbath, and on the day care, too. Hilik called Jehu, who didn’t answer — he never answered; and then Josh, who was running errands in Jerusalem; and then Gavriel, who said he’d be happy to help at the synagogue, no problem, he’d be there in five minutes, it was impossible anyway to work in the fields in such rain, and no, no need to pay him, it’s sacred work.

Hilik was pleased. He was a good guy, that Nehushtan. Hardly any like him left, who are willing to give and don’t expect anything in return. If there were any at all, then they existed only here, on the hilltops. He walked over in his slippers to flip the switch on the kettle. Coffee, that’s what he needed now. To sit inside with the heat on as the storm raged outside, and enjoy a coffee and a cookie and a Gershwin CD. He browsed through his CD rack, pulled out Rhapsody in Blue , and slipped the disc into the player. He thought about going to the university to work on his doctorate, but who’d be crazy enough to go out in weather like this? How many opportunities were there for a relaxing day? Thank God for such weather.

The phone rang. The display identified the caller as Othniel. Do I answer or drink the coffee in peace? Hilik agonized, adjusted his skullcap, stroked his mustache. “Well…,” he muttered. Curiosity got the better of him. Othniel didn’t pester for nothing. He pressed the button to take the call. “Yes, Othni.”

“Did you see they’ve posted new orders?” A small poisoned arrow shot out from the device straight into the coffee, cookie, Gershwin plans.

* * *

Gabi met Herzl at the synagogue. “Bless you,” the handyman said. “Good for you, coming to help.”

“Sure thing,” Gabi replied, and removed the hood of his coat. The skullcap, broad and white on his head, with a pom-pom on the top, and that wide smile. “It’s sacred work, and you’re a good man for coming all this way for our Sabbath. A truly righteous man.” While the two of them worked in the same field, and at the same settlement, they had never had a chance to work together. Herzl always had laborers, Gabi was always busy with Othniel or the cabin. Aside from “Hello — Hello” and once or twice when they borrowed tools or sugar for coffee, not a word was exchanged between them.