The Hilltop (62 page)

Meanwhile, a tale of love and darkness. After all efforts to deal with the venerable generator had failed, and after the freezing wind had died down a little, Gavriel Nehushtan left the scene and decided to walk back the long way, in order to pass by Shaulit's trailer. He didn't plan to go in, only to check from afar, with a glance, that everything there was quiet, that the power outage hadn't ruffled the fabric of life in the Rivlin home. As his feet crunched over the gravel along the descent by the gate, he heard the door open and close and footsteps in the dark.

“Ah, it's you,” Shaulit said in a broken voice. “What happened?”

“Nothing. There's a power outage. The generator died and they weren't able to fix it, it'll be like this all night. I just wanted . . . Will you be okay? The children? You have enough blankets?”

She smiled a smile he didn't see and giggled a giggle he heard, and whispered, “Thank you. Yes, I think so. If I can find them in the dark . . .” He laughed with her. And came with her to look for the blankets in the closet. And smelled her hair, drowsy and warm from an interrupted winter slumber. And heard the breathing of her children: tender, regular, soothing. And bumped into her leg and heard her stifle an uncontrollable stream of laughter that turned into a series of rapid, choked breaths.

Candles she didn't find; matches, yes. She made tea on the gas burner. He sat on the sofa and she on the armchair in the light of a blue, docile flame, under the kettle. They spoke in the darkness about the darkness: pitch darkness; the darkness falling on the world outside, and the light igniting inside; the ongoing conflict between inside and out; the plague
of darkness that brought down death on all the land. And the darkness would become darker—you can feel the darkness. Following a series of invisible but clearly sensed yawns, Gavriel said, “Don't you want to go to sleep?”

“Dying to sleep . . . Too cold here in the kitchen . . . But I want to continue talking, too . . . Want to come to the other room?”

The pulse from one sentence to the next. The cold air that warmed with every word, every breath. The pulse in Gabi's wrist, in the vein. Of course he wanted to join her. She got under the comforter and he sat on the edge of the bed, excited and sheepish. They spoke quietly, took care not to wake the children, whose marathon of rhythmic breathing didn't cease for an instant.

“Okay, this isn't right,” she finally said.

“What's not right? You feel uncomfortable, you want me to leave. Of course, sorry . . .” He got up from the edge of the bed.

“No, silly, it's not right that you aren't covered. Get under the blanket. The bed's big enough. Each on his own side. Do you think it's allowed? Maybe we should send a question to Rabbi Aviner's cellular Q&A service? Send a text message: ‘Is a divorced man allowed to share a bed with a divorced woman, at two separate ends, without touching, without seeing one another?' . . .” Her words were broken up by her laughter, rattling and joyful, Gabi could only imagine her teeth and eyes, and perhaps because she wasn't able to quiet herself this time, Zvuli woke with a high-pitched wail. Shaulit fed him and hummed to him until he fell asleep again.

“If you carry on humming like that, I'll fall asleep in the end, too.”

“Go ahead.”

But he didn't fall asleep because she said something, and he replied, and they went on like that for who knows how long—an hour? More? And Gabi felt a tenderness come over his body under the comforter, and the heat of the air between them, and there were moments of silence and maybe dozing off, and awakening, without talking, only breathing. And then fingers touched his hand. His body atremble. She caressed the back of his hand with her fingers, so pleasing and forbidden, but some things are permissible even when forbidden, when the intentions are pure and faith is sound.

And after one of the times his eyes opened, the light was starting to faintly rise, and now it no longer seemed right, so he got up cautiously and set out.

T
he winter brought such beautiful days that even the coldest nights were thawed and almost forgotten. A glorious sun smiled on the hilltop, almost a taunt of the night's tribulations—the forecast heralded an approaching cold front, but the sun was having none of it, the air stood still and the temperatures climbed. Roni Kupper sat in the doorway of his home, his feet on an iron stair sullied with dried mud, between his fingers the first cigarette of the morning, a cup of coffee beside him, and his already narrowed eyes on account of the light narrowed even more at the sound of the Nokia ringtone that came from the edge of the bed.

“Hello?”

“It's Rina.”

“Rina!”

And already by early afternoon he was on his way to Tel Aviv.

Captain Omer Levkovich invited himself over for a look around the place, bearing a summons for Josh to appear before the Jerusalem Magistrate's Court for a hearing on charges of disturbing the peace and obstructing a soldier in the execution of his duty. Omer knew that Josh wouldn't respond to the summons, and that no one would insist on enforcing his appearance, due to time and staffing constraints, but he pretended to be looking for him, went down to the demolished cabin, noticed the new girders and the beginnings of renewed construction, paid no attention—because what was he going to do, anyway?—and then went to Yoni and handed him the summons and said, “If you have time, find him and give it to him. Holy shit, I can't believe you're leaving, makes me want to cry.”

Yoni didn't have time to find Josh. He was supposed to report to the induction center in seventy-two hours, and the thing that concerned
him most right then was that, due to a miscalculation, he was short on underwear, and it was too late to do laundry. So he wore long johns without underpants, and for the next two days aired out two pairs that were in relatively good condition. He was troubled next by thoughts about Gitit and the question of whether he'd have a chance to say good-bye to her. He knew Purim was approaching, and wondered if she'd be coming home. Third on the list of things that occupied Yoni's mind were the feelings of his commander, Omer, who had mumbled repeatedly that he couldn't believe he was leaving, and what was he going to do without him, and why didn't he sign up for longer, even if only for a few months, and he felt like crying. The fourth thing, and last for now, that weighed on the mind of the young Ethiopian soldier was Operation Bigthan and Teresh, about which Omer his commander had started briefing him.

Operation Bigthan and Teresh was the secret operation to empty the outpost of Ma'aleh Hermesh C. of its residents and homes. The target date was two days from now, Yoni's last day in the army. It had been scheduled, in fact, for the next day, but the head of Central Command announced a one-day postponement due to a communication issue with the riot police. Operation Bigthan and Teresh, Omer explained, would include the deployment of a massive number of army, police, and riot police forces in Humvees and armored personnel carriers, an engineering crew with D-9s to demolish the structures, a team of psychologists, two military ambulances, and a helicopter in which the head of Central Command and the defense minister would hover over the scene. Following the successful demolition of the cabin, the sentiment was
Enough with the nonsense
. The harsh response had proved itself. Move in quickly, demolish, evacuate, move out. No discussion, no bullshit. They've been feeding us shit for years, and everyone's had enough: the court, the command major-general, the defense minister, the U.S. president. The outpost was still making headlines, continued to be a thorn in everyone's side, proof of the ineffectual command of the defense minister vis-à-vis the army, and of the government vis-à-vis the settlers, and of the American administration vis-à-vis the Israelis, and of whomever you like vis-à-vis whomever else you don't like. Enough. Everyone was sick and tired of it.

A flush rose to Omer's cheeks when he got worked up. He explained to Yoni why he'd had enough: the place, the people, the fun they made of him. Once, when he first arrived in the area, he thought that watching out for the interests of the settlers and joining in the mutual back-scratching would help him get ahead in the army, but he was no longer convinced of it. He needed to be a commander, not a politician. To execute a mission: a vigorous and successful evacuation. Yoni couldn't understand how a complex military operation had fallen on his final day of service, why couldn't they have postponed it for one more day and allowed him to go home in peace. But he remained loyal to his army and his commander. He promised to carry out the necessary preparations, which didn't amount to very much, because the forces would show up by surprise.

“True, it may not be a surprise, because they've received demolition orders for that date. On the other hand, they've received numerous orders in the past, so they surely don't believe it's really going to happen.”

While they were talking in Yoni's trailer, leaning up against the wall and sitting on the steel-framed bed, they heard the backup beeps of a large truck outside.

“What's that?” the officer asked. The sergeant shrugged.

“What's that, Herzliko?” Omer tried a minute later to aim the question at Herzl Weizmann, who was standing outside and using his plaster-casted arms to direct a truck bearing a huge crane. Written along the side of the truck were the words
Israel Electric Corporation
.

Omer didn't get a response and tried again. “What's this supposed to be?”

Herzl spun around. “Ah, honorable officer.” He smiled. “How are you?”

Omer tried to ask a third time, this time in mime.

“The Electric Corporation,” Herzl replied with the obvious.

“I noticed,” Omer said, “but what are they doing?”

“I think they're finally hooking up the settlement to the electricity grid. It's about time, isn't it?”

“But . . .” Omer didn't want to and couldn't disclose the fact that the settlement would imminently be in no further need of electricity, and
anyway, Herzl Weizmann wasn't the appropriate person to confront with that truth. “Where did it come from? I mean, who—”

“Listen,” Herzl said, “I only know what I know.”

“And what do you know?” Omer asked.

“That Natan Eliav called and asked me to come here this morning to help the guys from the Electric Corporation and build the infrastructure for them.”

Omer turned and walked away while he punched numbers into his cell phone. A small crowd formed around the truck and expressions of joy rang out. “How fitting, on Purim!” said Neta Hirschson, rolled-up posters under her arms. “The Jews had light and joy! Tell me, why shouldn't the Bezeq phone company lay down cables here while we're about it, too? Cellcom's cellular service is terrible, and the Palestinians with their Paltel are always hogging the reception, not to mention the price . . .”

The battalion commander, the brigade commander, the division commander, and the head of Central Command were all surprised. The defense minister had been unaware. Malka, his aide, thought he had heard something about electricity at some outpost, but wasn't sure. The head of the Shin Bet security service was in the dark. A quick round of calls provided Omer with the following information: Deputy Tourism Minister Uriel Tsur had leaned as heavily as he could on his fellow party member—who attended the same Jerusalem neighborhood synagogue, and with whom he had studied at yeshiva years ago—the energy minister, who just that morning had spoken with the infrastructure minister on a similar yet different matter, and persuaded him to sign a temporary permit to lay a power line from the settlement of Ma'aleh Hermesh A. to the Ma'aleh Hermesh C. outpost, which had lost its generator.

“And all those people know that the outpost is being razed in two days?” Omer asked his brigade commander.

“Sure,” replied the brigade commander. “But a cold front is expected over the coming days. They didn't want to leave them without electricity. Israeli citizens can't be left exposed to the forces of nature like that. We're human, after all, aren't we? It's easier to lay a cable from A. than to bring in a new generator. No one's got the money for a generator. And the
permits needed to set up a generator now, with the construction freeze, you won't believe it. Besides, it'll give them a false sense of security. They won't be expecting an evacuation two days after being hooked up to the grid, now, will they?”

“But do the ministers and the command major-general know?” Omer tried nevertheless.

“Yes, yes, everyone knows. I mean, whoever needs to know . . .”

Omer hung up and turned to again face the gathering. Yoni beside him said, “Now they remember to hook up electricity? Dammit.” Neta Hirschson walked over to the notice board on the playground. Omer followed her with his gaze, squinting. “Come, Yoni, let's go see what she's doing there.”

She posted a large notice alongside the demolition order, which was holding up well. She noticed that Omer and Yoni were looking over her shoulder, and ignored them, but then she asked Yoni to lend a finger so she could insert a tack.

“What's an Adloyada?” asked the soldier. Neta ignored the question, but Yoni went on reading the notice. “Ah! It's on my last day here. You're throwing a farewell party for me?”

Neta continued to busy herself with the tacks and didn't answer, but then decided to cease the excommunication and addressed Yoni. “Sure, come, why not, perhaps you'll dress up as a human being, too.” Then she addressed Omer. “And maybe you'll dress up as an IDF soldier who defends the citizens of his state from the Arabs instead of expelling them? Shame on you, it's the Sabbath of the Zachor Torah portion this week—you shall remember what Amalek did to Israel. The hatred of Amalek.”