The Hilltop (22 page)

Dvora stifled a giggle and squinted at her father. His eyes smiled back at her. Omer, red-faced, stepped out of his jeep.

“Um, excuse me, soldier,” he said. “What's your name?”

“Dudu,” the soldier replied.

“Dudu, well, first of all, stand up straight when an officer addresses you, Dudu. Secondly, I said no talking, did you not hear me? Are you looking for shit?”

“No, sir,” Dudu replied, his chin up straight.

“Who's your commanding officer? Listen, guys, I have lots of respect for heavy-duty engineering equipment and the Engineering Corps, but get ahold of yourselves, and if I tell you to sit tight and wait for your instructions, then that's what you do. You don't make any suggestions you got me?”

The four soldiers nodded.

“Okay, let's break it up,” Omer said.

The group of settlers began making their way back to the outpost, and the four soldiers climbed up into the spacious cabins of the bulldozers to enjoy their state-of-the-art air-conditioning systems.

S
hifra, the midwife, was on call twenty-four hours a day, rain or shine, and there wasn't a single location anywhere in the Land of Israel outside her range. She didn't own a car or have a driver's license, and the word
fear
didn't appear in her lexicon. Everything rests in the hands of God, and with the wheels of the rides she hitched. You wouldn't be too surprised to find her standing at some dark intersection, near hostile villages, as late night turned into early morning, in the pouring rain or even in the snow, her one hand clutching her midwife bag, the other held out straight to hitch, her hair tucked into a modest hat, and her broad, thick spectacles covering those eyes that knew no fear.

And how could God not walk beside a saint like Shifra, who performed such sacred work? Experience had taught her she would always find that one settler, or army jeep, who nine times out of ten would go out of their way to deliver her to her destination. Hundreds of babies had taken their very first breath in this world with her help, her round face the first thing they saw. Hundreds of new mothers had shed tears of pain and joy with their hands held in hers as she soothed them in a New York accent that through the years remained as thick as ever: “That's it, with the grace of God, we're almost there, just a little more, push, sweetie, you are such a trouper. There we go, here's your little beauty. Oh my, if that isn't the most beautiful baby I have ever seen in my life.” That moment always choked her up with true emotion, and she closed her teary eyes and thanked God for guiding her there, for watching over her, for giving her the gift of birthing wonderful Jewish babies. When she immigrated to Israel, she changed her name and took on that of Shifra, the biblical midwife from the Book of Exodus, where it is written, about her and her fellow midwife, Puah, “The midwives, however, feared God”—she, too, would fear Him, and He would watch over her, blessed be His name.

The phone woke her at around 2 a.m. It was Nir Rivlin from Ma'aleh Hermesh C. Shifra was familiar with the outpost, where she had previously delivered several wonderful babies into a spectacular desert dawn. A truly biblical landscape. She rose quickly, prepared her midwife case, and walked the five hundred meters from her settlement to the highway in the light rain. On occasion, the fathers were able to pick her up in a car, but Nir couldn't leave Shaulit alone, and no alternative driver could be found. Shifra changed rides twice, but Shaulit's contractions were coming at a good rate and she wasn't needed right away. She spoke with Shaulit on the phone, calmed her down, explained what she should do, how to breathe, how to sit. Then she asked to speak to Nir and gave him instructions on what to prepare and how to alleviate her pain. A yellow Palestinian taxi raced by and she prayed to God and closed her eyes, and she felt soothed and overcome with a sense of absolute tranquility. Menachem Politis from Givat Esther stopped for her. She wasn't sure she remembered, but he insisted. “You delivered my two daughters, you saint. Where do you need to go?”

“Ma'aleh Hermesh C.,” she replied.

“No problem, and best wishes to all,” he said, and then drove her all the way to the home of Nir and Shaulit Rivlin.

“Excellent, you're well dilated. Everything's going like clockwork. Wonderful. I see a head with curls, oh my, oh my, a charming little boy, little girl?”

“A charming little boy,” Nir confirmed. Following two wonderful girls, this was their first son, they knew from the ultrasound.

“So charming, God bless.”

“Hallowed be His name,” an emotional Nir said softly.

“Nir, Nir, some warm water here, please, not boiling, but a nice temperature, okay? Thank you. I was at the big Ma'aleh Hermesh just last week, it's good to be back. A contraction's coming. Yes, push with the contraction, breathe in with it, you're a star, Shaulit, your third birth, a piece of cake, you're in control, you don't need me. Nir, a cloth, my dear. A small sip of water, sweetie?”

Their second daughter, Tchelet, two and a half years old now, was also delivered by Shifra here on the hilltop. Amalia, the eldest, almost five by
now, was born at Hadassah, before they moved here. Oops, a power outage. Shaulit cried out in panic.

“Everything's fine, dear. Never mind. We're almost done anyway. I think he'll be out with the next contraction, here we go, that's it, the head's out, there we go.”

Nir tried to recall who was on guard duty now. He was excited, sweating as he scrolled through the list of names in his cell phone. Who could he message? Who was up? The power was suddenly restored, the guard must have noticed and turned on the generator—and there he was, there he was! Caught up in her own excitement and Shaulit's final cry of pain, Shifra went quiet for a moment and prayed to the Holy One, blessed be He, “So God was kind to the midwives and the people increased,” and then she spoke again, her voice calm, “He's the most beautiful baby I've ever seen, we thank God for his gifts.” Shaulit held her hand, and Shifra embraced her and kissed her forehead, and then she placed the wrinkled, dark pink, bewildered baby on the breathless mother's body, and the dumbstruck Nir thought, Things happen so slowly and yet so quickly, and here I am now, a father of three already. And the sun rose over the mountains of Moab and Edom and a golden light colored the land and a new day dawned on the hilltop.

Shaulit's mother, widowed by an act of terror, stayed home to look after the two girls, and Nir, Shaulit, and the baby left for the city to register the newborn at the hospital. They headed out slowly in the light blue Subaru and were greeted by a gleaming white smile and “Mazel tov!” from Yoni on guard at the gate, and after descending from A. and turning onto the main road, Shaulit said, “Oy, I forgot to tell Mom where I keep the diapers,” and Nir dipped into the pocket of his pants, only to find that his phone wasn't there. And then, ahead of the checkpoint, a traffic jam, which appeared to be rather severe, halted their progress. The tension in the car mounted. Shaulit wanted to speak to her mother, Nir would have liked to learn something about the traffic situation, an eight-hour-old baby was in the car with them, and they were phoneless.

“Never mind,” Shaulit said, and asked Nir to tune in to Radio Kol Chai. The chatter soothed her and eased her ever-present anxiety, heightened now due to the absent phone. They finally crawled by the checkpoint.
Elderly Palestinians peered at the baby. Pregnant Arab women smiled, and Nir and Shaulit flashed sheepish grins in response. The radio cut out and kicked back in, and a sweet odor spread through the car. “Oh God, I forgot that the poop is black to begin with,” Shaulit said with a smile that only a mother could display toward a lump of flesh and bones that had just excreted black feces.

The fact that Shifra had been present for the birth didn't satisfy the authorities. She wasn't registered as a midwife with the Health Ministry, and in the absence of a doctor, Nir and Shaulit had to undergo DNA testing to prove they were the parents, another hassle. They eventually collected the infant and the gift packages the hospital routinely handed out to parents of all newborns, freebies from the diaper and baby formula companies, and got back into the dusty Subaru. Nir readjusted his skullcap, stroked his beard, and, with a smile on his face, reached out to tuck in an errant curl that had slipped out from under his wife's hat. That's it, we have a son, who's been duly registered in the computer system of the hospital and the Interior Ministry, approved as a rank-and-file citizen, soon to be receiving mail from the health maintenance organization and the bank. As soon as Nir arrived home and was reunited with his mobile phone, he began dispatching excited text messages about the birth.

*  *  *

The Sabbath touched down on Ma'aleh Hermesh C. like a space shuttle on the moon—purposeful and precise.

The Rivlin family home abounded with chaos and joy. Shaulit and her widowed mother and mother-in-law—the two grandmothers arrived together from Beit El—were hard at work on pastries in the tiny kitchen, and had also branched out and elicited help from the kitchens of Neta Hirschson and Jenia Freud, who themselves were busy preparing their own Sabbath meals, but happily and generously donated the use of an oven and countertop space (in addition, of course, to contributing toward the outpost's customary gift to every family with a new mouth to feed—a fortnight of meals prepared by the women of the hilltop in rotation). Nir had been running around since morning and had bought wine and disposable tableware and pretzels for the children and, of course, the essential
arbes
—soft, savory cooked chickpeas—to snack on. The hilltop
was a beehive of warmth and activity, all in honor of the little one, who for his part was interested only in the body part that provided him, in private, in the master bedroom, with his food every two hours, and the crib in which he would then drop off into sweet slumber, spread-eagled and happy.

Sabbath eve. A packed synagogue. The prayer service to welcome in the Sabbath. Humming to the tune of “Lecha Dodi” while meticulously reviewing the pages containing the Torah portion of the week. The evening prayer service. Adon Olam. With the service over, Hilik, in the role of the
gabbai
, the synagogue warden, gave word of a Shalom Zachar gathering at the Rivlin family home, as is the custom in Ashkenazi Jewish circles on the first Friday night after a baby boy is born. After dinner at home, the members of the community rained down on the Rivlins. The women sat with the mother in a separate room, passing the infant from one to the other, and the men occupied the living room, snacking on the
arbes
and drinking arak.

The following day in synagogue, Nir was called up to recite the blessings over the Torah and gave a reading, and Hilik the
gabbai
recited the customary Mi Sheberach blessing over him, and then everyone sang and Nir thanked God for watching over him.

And eight days after the birth, when it was time for the Brit Milah, the circumcision ceremony, the newborn screamed and squirmed to mark the event. Nir, more festive in appearance than ever before, his beard trimmed and neat, his hair brushed, cradled the boy, and the air of anticipation in the room was almost unbearable in the minutes leading up to the naming of the baby:

Zevulun—after Shaulit's father, may God avenge his blood, who was murdered by terrorists in northern Samaria.

Yedid'el—a friend of God, for truly the infant is a friend of the Lord, and he will seclude himself in woods and on rocky plains and call to his friend and be at one with Him.

Shir—song, for although the righteous child may not yet speak, he can surely sing and play beautiful songs and melodies, and rising up from his melodies are praises surely to the Lord, blessed be He. For song is a
path intended for each and every individual, and surely for Nir, who sang a song to his son, almost nightly, until he was born into this world, and will continue to sing to him, he promises, until he matures and puts his foot down and says, “Enough, Father!” Until then, however, there's still time, bless the Lord.

And thus, his name in the Land of Israel will be Zevulun Yedid'el Shir Rivlin. Mazel tov!

O
n Saturday night, following the Havdalah ritual to mark the end of the Sabbath and usher in the new week, and after reciting the prayer for long life and then the customary melaveh malkah meal to escort out the Sabbath Queen, the Kupper-Nehushtan brothers walked together from the synagogue to the home that could now be called their home. They walked in silence, broken occasionally by the discordant barks of Beilin and Condi. Gavriel was troubled by Roni's desecration of the Sabbath. He wondered whether or not he should say something, or if he should question the rabbi about the extent of his own responsibility. He decided to send a text message to Rabbi Aviner's cellular Q&A service: “When a secular guest comes to stay, am I responsible for his desecrations of the Sabbath, for example, placing a dairy spoon in a meat sink, or turning on a light?” The rabbi always told him to ask, not to agonize over things, not to ponder, because a newly observant Jew has many rules to learn, and he must then decide which of them he accepts. It doesn't come naturally like it does for someone who was raised in a religious home. He recalled an example the rabbi once gave him: It is permissible on the Sabbath to use a pair of scissors to cut open a bag of milk for consumption purposes, but cutting paper is forbidden—how would a newly observant Jew know that?

Roni yawned. They'd be home shortly, and while Gabi read his books, the compilations and deeds and Shulchan Aruch, he'd lie down and stare
at the ceiling, and then go to sleep, and still be sleeping in the morning when Gabi was already out at work in the fields or hammering away at his cabin.

“That was nice,” Roni remarked.