Free The Hilltop by Assaf Gavron

as broad as their self-assured smiles, prayed rhythmically. Roni spotted Gabi at the front, close to the Torah scroll, immersed in his God, swaying fervently. It wasn’t prayer; it was a dialogue, a scream, an intense cry, ecstatic applause. An individual swept away to the point of utter detachment, crying one moment and laughing the next, his face displaying anguish, then pleasure. Roni watched his brother with a mixture of wonder and pride from a bench at the back of the synagogue. Wonder sparked by the fact that the kid was a champion, the outpost’s champion of wild prayer, whose fervid movements threatened to tip over the entire structure; pride sparked by the fact that the kid was whole, a believer. He appeared content, and to have found his place. Or so his elder brother hoped.
    Roni lost interest after a few minutes. He wasn’t able to follow the service. He sneaked out, suppressed the urge to light a cigarette, and stood around watching the children at play. One boy came up to him and asked who he was.
    â€œRoni. And you?”
    â€œHananiya Assis,” the boy responded, looking curiously at Roni’s nonwhite clothes and the stubble on his face. “How old are you?” he asked.
    â€œForty and a half. And you?” Roni said.
    â€œForty and a half ? Whose grandfather are you?”
    Roni laughed.
    When he went inside to the back benches, two bearded men weretalking there in soft voices about Mamelstein and the Civil Administration. Roni flipped through the Sabbath leaflets that lay scattered on the tables. The two bearded men suddenly stood and broke into song along with everyone else. Roni followed their lead, standing when they did and sitting accordingly. It wasn’t long, though, before he gave up trying to keep up with the flock, realizing that no one really cared anyway. He enjoyed the synagogue, browsed the leaflets, watched the worshippers with interest, and was fascinated by the combination of the sheeplike communal spirit (singing together, genuflecting in unison, everyone dressed in white) and the individualism (their skullcaps and prayer movements, the way they covered their eyes during the Shema prayer).
    Some fifty hours had passed since he had fled the United States. He smiled wearily and allowed the noise that had been buzzing in his thoughts in recent months to subside. He’d stay here for a while. He’d take it easy out in nature, and rest. Perhaps he’d look into the possibility of doing something with that Musa guy and his olive oil. Or maybe he’d move into the new trailer that had arrived at the outpost. He closed his eyes, and all around him, the men sang to their God with increasing intensity. Yes, he thought, that’s what he’d do. He’d leave the mess behind him. He wouldn’t hurry to move on elsewhere. He’d get his life back in order.
    A joyous melody started up, a Hasidic song. Initially, Roni didn’t even open his eyes, the song gelled with the prayers, but then he felt it. First, the change in the mood, the stunned stares of the worshippers, and then, the vibration in his pocket. What was the phone doing there? And who calls on the Sabbath eve? He cast a fearful look over the synagogue. Did they know it was him? Did they recognize the acoustic tune as Gabi’s ringtone? Yes, they know for sure. He lowered his head, stood up, and headed hastily for the door. The tune—which he would later discover to be “There’s a Fire in Breslov” by Israel Dagan—played on and grew louder; the glares burned into the back of his neck.
    Outside again, he answered the call. It was Ariel. He had been thinking more about the idea, and it sounded fantastic. When could he come by to see and taste the oil? he asked.

BRAIN SHORT-CIRCUIT

The Beetles
    E very summer, the kibbutz was overrun by the black beetles. Industrious little things, with eight or six spindly legs—he could never remember how many for