The Hilltop (3 page)

The road rose sharply. The truck shifted down a gear; its engine screamed and carried the vehicle up the incline, the same slow pace of the herd of goats that ambled indifferently along the side of the road. The cabdriver mumbled something in Arabic, blew his horn, and pulled off a dangerous passing maneuver. Seconds later, one of the cab's tires blew—a dull thud, the sound of rubber being dragged across the tarmac,
the car bouncing along the road, the driver's curses. The cab came to a halt, blocking the road. Out stepped Jeff McKinley, the
Washington Post
's Jerusalem correspondent, on his way to interview a high-ranking Israeli government minister who lived in a settlement some six kilometers from where they had stopped. McKinley looked at his watch and wiped a bead of sweat from his wide brow. The evening before, his father had told him about the snow that was falling in Virginia; here he was in February, already perspiring. He had ten minutes to get to the meeting at the minister's home. He couldn't wait for the flat to be fixed. McKinley handed the cabdriver a fifty-shekel note and walked off in the direction of the hitchhiking station he spotted a few dozen meters away.

But, as if the perspiring, the time crunch, and his heavy breathing—a sign of his lack of fitness and an urgent need to diet—weren't enough, someone had beaten him to the station and was first in line for a ride. Dressed in a finely tailored suit, the man stood there with his arms folded across his chest, a large suitcase at his feet, a broad white smile on his face, uttering words in Hebrew that McKinley didn't understand.

Before McKinley could reach the ride station, the dusty Renault signaled and pulled over.

“Shalom, fellow Jews!” Othniel Assis called out.

“Where are you headed?” the man with the suitcase asked the driver.

“Ma'aleh Hermesh C.,” Othniel Assis replied, glancing at the blue suit, and then into the man's eyes, which appeared weary.

“For real? You're a star, bro,” the man said, picking up his heavy suitcase from the faded tarmac.

“Do me a favor, buddy,” the driver said. “Help the kid—his Bamba fell onto the floor.”

Othniel then turned to the American. “What about you, dude?” he asked in Hebrew.

“Can you get me anywhere near Yeshua, where Minister Kaufman lives?” McKinley responded in English.

“What?” said Othniel.

“Settlement?” McKinley said in an effort to simplify matters, after repeating his first question to no avail.

“Settlement, settlement—yes!” Othniel smiled. “Please, please.”

McKinley's limited knowledge of the area didn't include the fact that its hilltops were home not only to Ma'aleh Hermesh and its two outgrowths, B. and C., but also to Givat Esther and its offshoots, to Sdeh Gavriel, and to Yeshua, where the minister resided. He squeezed into the backseat alongside the child.

The convoy—a trailer home on a truck, a company commander and his crew in a jeep, and a dusty pickup, carrying a settler and his child and two hitchhikers, an American and an Israeli—turned onto a second road. This road was even narrower, and steeper, too, and so, once again, the two smaller vehicles were doomed to crawl along at the snail's pace dictated by the larger truck. Captain Omer's gray-green eyes remained firmly planted on the rear of the trailer, displaying a touch of apprehension at the thought of the vehicle's load detaching and crashing down on the jeep behind it. He glanced at his watch and then turned to gaze into the side mirror.

“Tell me something, don't I know you from somewhere?” Othniel asked his Hebrew-speaking passenger.

The man stared for some time at the driver's large head and at the wide skullcap that covered it.

“I don't know,” he replied. “My brother lives here with you, but we don't look alike at all.”

Othniel cast a quick look over his shoulder at the man with the black hair and then turned to focus on the road again.

His passenger offered some assistance. “Gabi Kupper. Do you know him?”

The driver frowned. “We don't have anyone by that name,” he said. “We have a Gavriel. Gavriel Nehushtan. A great guy. A real prince. He works with me on the farm.”

“Nehushtan?” Roni Kupper replied, his turn to frown.

The American journalist glanced impatiently at his watch.

The slow climb up the hill ended at the entrance into Ma'aleh Hermesh A. The three vehicles drove through the gate, turned right at the traffic circle, and made their way through the well-established settlement with its stone homes, paved streets, and small commercial area comprising
a winery, a horse ranch, and a carpentry workshop. They then headed across a desolate hilltop before reaching the trailers of the sister settlement Ma'aleh Hermesh B., beyond which the tarmac ended and a dirt road plunged steeply down into the wadi, traversed the dry riverbed, and began climbing up the other side.

“All gone, Daddy!” Shuv-el announced, on finishing his Bamba.

A sickly sweet stench filled the car.

“Did you go, sweetie?” the father asked his son.

“Holy crap!” hissed Roni Kupper. “What is this place?”

Jeff McKinley did his utmost to refrain from retching.

A yellow dust rose from the wheels of the vehicles into the crisp sky above and after snaking their way along for a while, they came to a water tower bearing a crudely drawn Star of David, followed immediately by an IDF guard tower, and finally the eleven trailers that made up the outpost, spread out along a circular road. Manning the guard post stood Yoni, the soldier, a rifle at an angle across his chest, his one hand on the butt, welcoming the arrivals in his Ray-Bans with a boyish smile on his face.

An untamed landscape stretched out before them—the Judean Desert in all its splendor and beauty, with its arid hilltops and the Dead Sea tucked away at their feet, and beyond it, rising up on the horizon, the mountains of Moab and Edom. Occasional villages and settlements dotted the expanse of land, while farther in the distance stood the truncated summit of the Herodium and the homes of a large Palestinian town, some of which appeared wrapped in a giant gray concrete wall, like a gift that couldn't be opened.

A large improvised sign stood just beyond the entrance to the outpost, the handwriting almost like a child's, in Hebrew and English, reading: “Welcome to Ma'aleh Hermesh C.”

W
hen Othniel Assis's Renault Express reached its destination, Jeff McKinley asked, in English, to be pointed in the direction of the home of Minister Kaufman. Othniel gestured to him to wait just a moment, called out toward the house, “Rachel! Get all the kids together and come to the ceremony,” and then turned back to McKinley to say, “You come with us—we have American guy.”

Jeff McKinley traipsed along with Othniel and Rachel Assis and their six children to Ma'aleh Hermesh C.'s new playground, abuzz with dignitaries and residents, where the promised American, Josh, explained to the reporter that Minister Kaufman lived in Yeshua, the settlement across the way, on the other side of the wadi. You can see his villa, the one with the tiled roof, Josh pointed out, less than a kilometer away from where they stood as the crow flies, but quite a few winding kilometers by road. McKinley looked at his watch again and then, realizing just how late he already was, pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and called the minister's aide to explain his predicament and ask for a postponement, but his request was rejected, with the aide explaining that the minister was expected in Jerusalem in an hour and intensely disliked to be kept waiting. McKinley apologized profusely, and after hanging up, he cast his eyes over the crowd around him, stopping in surprise at a tall man with an impressive paunch and thick, meticulously groomed eyebrows. “Tell me”—he turned to Josh—“isn't that Sheldon Mamelstein?”

The playground appeared to have been lowered to the ground by a giant Monty Python–like hand of god, transplanted like the organ of a stylish New Yorker into the body of a wretched Bedouin nomad. There was a rectangular patch of grass the size of a basketball court; a pair of wooden swings that swayed with a quiet, well-oiled efficiency; an expansive system of slides; and three spring-mounted rides, one in the form of
a seal, another a rooster, and the third—perhaps most appropriate, given the landscape—a camel.

Laborers had worked for weeks installing the playground in the center of Ma'aleh Hermesh C.—preparing the ground, laying the strips of lawn, assembling the apparatus, and even installing trash bins and erecting signs as befitted the settlement's new hub of social activity—and it had all culminated that day in the official dedication ceremony, in the presence of the donor, Mr. Sheldon Mamelstein of New Jersey, the settlement enterprise's good friend, Member of Knesset Uriel Tsur, and various local dignitaries.

A chilly wind whistled into the microphone, through the pair of large speakers, and out into the crisp air around the playground. Most residents of the settlement and their guests were in attendance, a crowd of forty or so. The kids scampered among the swings and rides before being rounded up by their parents and placed in strollers or on the grass to listen to the speeches.

“Just a few years ago, not even five,” began MK Tsur, “there was nothing here but rocks, foxes, and thorny burnet shrubs.”

On the podium alongside the politician stood the donor, Sheldon Mamelstein, whose head was tilted toward Josh, formerly of Brooklyn, with his red hair and beard to match, who was serving as his simultaneous translator.

“But here we are now, in the Hebrew month of Shevat, 5769, marveling at your accomplishments, your inspiring tenacity, your good and hard work, your settlement pioneering values, and your uncompromising belief in the sanctity of this land. You, dear residents of Ma'aleh Hermesh C., have built a wonderful community . . .”

MK Tsur paused briefly. The wind whistled through the microphone and echoed off the hillside. Sheldon Mamelstein lifted his head and rubbed his neck. Pregnant women and teenagers shifted their weight from one leg to the other. The little kids asked if it was time now to go play on the slides and swings. Soon, said the parents. And Captain Omer thought, What's with the Shevat, 5769? Why not simply say February 2009?

Tsur's address was followed by a few more words of gratitude from a number of other functionaries, with Sheldon Mamelstein the last to take hold of the microphone. Josh translated his words into rudimentary and horribly accented Hebrew. His speech was met with modest applause.

Mamelstein unveiled a plaque engraved with his name and the date. He gracefully disregarded the spelling mistake in his name—an unnecessary
h
after the
s
in his surname, as per usual in Israel—and posed for a photograph with the MK, settlement residents, and a number of children. The ceremony came to a close. The kids reveled in the new playground to the sound of their parents crying, “Careful!” Women spoke to one another about pregnancies, shared recommendations for Sabbath wine, and discussed goings-on at the school in the mother settlement. Fathers chatted about Hilik's doctorate and the Knesset member's Volvo S80, and paying half price to replace a cylinder head at Farid's in Kharmish. They'd be heading off slowly in a few minutes for late-afternoon and evening prayers in the makeshift synagogue farther below, alongside the traffic circle, two trailers that had been joined together and christened with a traffic circle sign. MK Tsur struck up a conversation with Sheldon Mamelstein and tried to set up a meeting with the American. Othniel offered the dignitaries a tour of the outpost. The MK looked at his watch and said, “Oh my God,” before shoving a Bluetooth earpiece into his ear, hastily exchanging handshakes, waving good-bye, and getting into his car. And after everyone was done watching the Volvo S80 drive off into the distance, they all turned their gazes in the opposite direction, toward the slopes of the ridge below them, and were surprised to see a huge truck off-loading a new trailer, accompanied by much noise, loud shouting, and carefully measured maneuvering. How did the truck get there? they wondered. And whose trailer was that? Why had it arrived today? But before they had a chance to ask him, the truck driver turned the vehicle around and headed off.

S
till in his work shirt and shoes from the morning, Othniel Assis, the outpost's longest-serving resident, led the tour, along with a spruced-up Hilik Yisraeli, wearing a checkered button-up shirt, his hair well combed, accompanied by Natan Eliav, the secretary of Ma'aleh Hermesh, the mother settlement. Red-haired Josh translated for the American millionaire and his companions. The section commander, Captain Omer, who had come to speak to Natan and Othniel about “something important,” walked along with them, Othniel assured him he would make time for him immediately after the promised tour for the honored guest from America. The
Washington Post
's Jeff McKinley tagged along too. No one paid him any attention: the residents assumed he was one of Mamelstein's entourage; Mamelstein's people assumed he was a local. A handful of bored children trailed behind.

The delegation made its way on foot through the vineyards, past the prickly pear shrubs and flower beds, the makeshift synagogue, the goat pen, and Othniel Assis's organic fields. Junk lay strewn among the yards and residences—a bicycle missing both of its wheels, a treadmill tipped over onto its side, half of a Peugeot 104 that still boasted stickers reading
BEGIN FOR PRIME MINISTER
and
GOD ALMIGHTY
,
WE LOVE YOU
, sofas and refrigerators and rolled-up carpets. Above all, and omnipresent—the majestic landscape, the exalted landscape, the wild landscape that appeared to be crying out, and sometimes whispering, and also playing a melody: This is the desert. This is the Bible. This is Genesis.

“What wonderful fresh air!” said Sheldon Mamelstein, filling his lungs with a deep breath. The twilight had turned the landscape into a moonscape. Standing there, they could imagine the Creation, as if thus the universe was created, and thus it had remained. “Hats off to you,” Sheldon Mamelstein exhaled emotionally, and his entourage was struck silent by the splendor.