by Joan Hess
“Good night,” Hershel mumbled, looking abashed.
Ilana (or so he continued to presume in the absence of an introduction) was less than abashed. “I shall file a report about this,” she said sternly, her English accented but concise. “Your passport is in the safe; the gate is closed for the night. Better you should not plan to cut short your stay at the Kibbutz Mishkan guest house, Mr. Bloomer.”
Gideon opened his mouth as if to emphasize the warning, but settled for a scowl. The three exchanged nods, then faded into the darkness near the path.
“Interesting,” Theo said in an underbreath, once more using his handkerchief to wipe his hands. He repeated the word several times on the return trip to his room, where he carefully bolted the door before tumbling into bed.
6
The next morning, after a restive but satisfactory bout of sleep, Theo went to the restaurant. Without an editorial about the menu to daunt his appetite, he ate a substantial breakfast at a corner table. When he was finished, he asked the waitress where he might find Mrs. Adler. He was told that she often worked in the office behind the reception desk. It proved to be true.
“Did you manage any sleep?” she asked with a solicitous frown. “You look in need of a nap in the sun and a swim rather than a guided tour.”
“Perhaps later, although I have reservations about the therapeutic value of the waters of the Dead Sea. It has a peculiar odor, and it tastes quite unpleasant.” He did not add that he had not made a public appearance in bathing trunks in more than three decades.
“It’s famed for its effect on arthritis and such ailments, but I won’t play the Jewish mother. Come along, then,” Miriam said, as she sailed past him and through the lobby. She stopped in the doorway and glanced back at him with a critical eye. “Wait a moment, Theo. You’re likely to burn your head if you stay outside without protection. The sun is intense here.”
As he formulated a protest, she leaned over the counter and found a white cloth hat with a narrow brim. She saw his expression and burst into laughter. “It’s a typical Israeli hat,” she managed to sputter, unable to halt the lilting laughter. “You’ll look like a sabra, Theo. I—I promise.”
“A sabra?” he said. He gingerly took the hat between his thumb and index finger, wondering if a sabra were a species of bald marine animal.
“A native-born Israeli. It comes from the name of a certain kind of cactus fruit. Tough and prickly on the outside, but rumored to be sweet on the inside. Try on the hat, Theo.”
“If you feel that it is necessary.” He was painfully aware that he was going to look peculiar in the thing. It was—well, it was jaunty, a word rarely used in conjunction with a retired florist. Then again, his head was likely to resemble a tomato if left unprotected. He put on the little hat and adjusted it until it seemed secure, if not rakish. “How do I look?”
Miriam tilted her head to study him. “Very proper, considering. Are you ready for an hour or so in the sun?”
Theo nodded. The hat inched forward, but he staunchly ignored it, despite the intrusive and unsettling image of a myopic turtle that flashed across his mind.
“The kibbutz movement originated in nineteen oh-nine,” she told him as they wandered down the sidewalk, “with the establishment of a group near Lake Kinneret. The precedent, however, was set about one hundred BCE, Before the Common Era, when a sect of Jews left Jerusalem to create a new community in the desert. The Essenes survived until the Roman legions destroyed them in sixty-six CE, but we’ve learned much about them from the Dead Sea Scrolls. They seem to have had the same problems we have today: equality of work, participation in a direct democratic process, balancing the requirements of the group with the needs of the individual.”
Theo stopped to admire a striking scarlet vine growing on what was, without a doubt, a bomb shelter. Which, unless it were strictly for decoration, implied the necessity of taking shelter from bombs. After a brief glance at an innocent blue sky, he said, “You mentioned earlier that your second generation of kibbutzniks has experienced some difficulty …?”
Miriam pulled off a flower and crumpled it in her hand. The petals drifted to the sidewalk like droplets of blood, then skidded away in the breeze. “For the most part, those of us who founded Kibbutz Mishkan came from the worst slums of New York City. Our immigrant parents had learned that the streets weren’t paved with gold; they were barely paved at all. Nazi Germany taught us that we needed a homeland, a place to establish ourselves as Jews and as citizens of the world. We came to Israel not with stars in our eyes—but with fire and fury. We never paused to wonder if we should plant date palms here or squash there; we arrogantly said, ‘There shall be date palms and there shall be squash.’ When the time came to add an industry, we did. Like all naïve young parents, we conceived, delivered, and instinctively protected our hostile offspring.”
She paused to point out the scattered concrete-block duplexes and two-story apartment buildings that housed the adults, mentioning that hers was one of the first built. It was, Theo noted, fronted by a row of annuals that were bleached by the sun, yet still cheerful. Petunias had always been a favorite of his.
“Our children,” she added as they resumed their walk, “have a difficult time feeling the passions we felt. Having spent their lives here, they can’t understand the struggle we had to establish our structure, define our goals—and then force it to happen. They contend that they’ve been asked to continue in the shadow of a past ideal. Some leave the kibbutz; others, such as my son, struggle with themselves to discover a new passion. I was a dreamer; Gideon is a pragmatist who—” She stopped herself with an unhappy shrug. “That was a digression from my standard talk, and I apologize. You mustn’t think the second generation is unemotional. Although kibbutzniks represent less than four percent of the population, they accounted for more than twenty-five percent of the casualties in the last war. These kids care deeply about Israel.”
She stopped to wave at two young women who came out of a building that clanked and steamed as if it housed a locomotive. Miriam introduced them as Hadassah and Naomi, adding that they worked in the laundry facility. They giggled at Theo’s grave bow, then excused themselves and scurried down the sidewalk like oblivious young housewives headed for lunch at a shopping mall.
Theo watched them as they turned a corner and disappeared. “I would think,” he said hesitantly, “that those girls would resent having to do the work they do. It must be terribly hot and tedious.”
“They know that their work is as important to the kibbutz as meal preparation, factory production, or agricultural duties, and they receive equal shares of the goods and services. When the kibbutz was first begun, we all demanded the most arduous assignments and argued for the privilege of being the most exhausted, sore, sunburned kibbutznik to collapse on a cot every night.” Miriam bent over to scoop up a handful of dirt from a flower bed. “This is what matters,” she said softly, lifting her gaze to include the buildings, clumps of trees, and distant fields. “This.”
Theo was rescued from the necessity of a response by a horde of school-aged children. They swept by in a dusty cloud of knees, elbows, and loud explosions of laughter elicited by incomprehensible comments aimed, he suspected, at his appearance in the peculiar hat. Three teachers trailed after them, chatting among themselves.
“A field trip,” Miriam explained with a smile that did much to ease his discomfort. “Let’s visit the factory. I think you’ll find it quite impressive, or at least very noisy and bustling. We have contracts with several manufacturing firms to design and produce their cartons. Personally, I’m fond of the ice-cream boxes.”
The factory was more than very noisy. Theo resisted an urge to pull his hat down over his ears as they walked between enormous machines that inked, chopped, cut, slammed, and spewed forth a bright river of flattened cardboard corpses.
“Tuna today,” Miriam yelled over the din. “Let me introduce you to the line supervisor. He’ll be delighted to explain the
intricacies of tunafish cartons, if you’re interested.”
Theo felt obliged to feel fascinated by the workings of the cacophonous cavern. The supervisor, a sturdy young man with black hair and a broad smile, enthusiastically shook Theo’s hand and shouted a highly technical explanation that would have been enlightening had Theo been able to understand any of it. The workers glanced up briefly, but most seemed to find their work of greater interest.
When the supervisor at last finished, Theo mouthed a word of thanks and gratefully followed Miriam out the door. “A nice young man,” he said, shaking his head to stop a shrill whistle that originated from the inside of his bruised eardrums. “How long has he been in charge of the factory?”
“A few weeks, and he isn’t really in charge. The workers make group decisions about production goals, machine assignments, and so forth. No one relishes the role of supervisor, however, and Daniel seems to be stuck for the moment. Most of us have to force ourselves to accept positions of authority; it somehow goes against the spirit of the kibbutz. A leadership hierarchy is inevitable, but not socially desirable.”
“So everyone is willing to take whatever job is assigned?” Theo asked. “No one refuses to take a dirty or boring job?”
“There are no insignificant jobs. Each is vital, and each is filled on a voluntary basis. Many of our neophytes end up with a mild case of sunstroke—after they insist on working twelve hours a day in the fields. Personal sacrifice is the rule, not the exception.”
They sat down on a bench under a tree. Theo fanned himself with his hat as he tried to assimilate the information his attractive—yes, attractive; there was no way of ignoring it—guide had given him. It would not play in Connecticut, he decided, trying to picture Dorrie pleading for a job that might chip her fingernail polish or cause her to miss a tennis tournament. Or sweat. The image of Dorrie’s expression faded, to be replaced by an older and wiser face, with fine lines around the eyes and a mist of soft freckles.
“Hard to understand, isn’t it?” Miriam said softly. He caught a glimpse of impish amusement before she looked away.
He opted for a safe subject and told her what he had learned from Dorrie about her avowal to remain on the kibbutz. “So Judith is at the root of Dorrie’s nonsense,” he concluded. “I am supposed to meet with Judith, convince her of her folly, and persuade her to return to the United States in time for the fall semester. Dorrie is not opposed to a brief stopover in Paris, but is willing to forego it if absolutely necessary.”
“Judith is an intense young woman. She’s been very enthusiastic about the kibbutz since she arrived, and has thrown herself into the work of the community. I realized that she and Hershel were seeing each other in their free time, but I didn’t know it was quite so serious. It won’t be easy to persuade her to leave with you.”
“I can only do my best,” Theo said. “What about Hershel? Does he seem to be the sort to make a commitment to Judith, to encourage her to stay and marry?”
“Hershel’s hard to second-guess. Sy and I placed our son in the children’s house by choice; Hershel’s parents were killed in a terrorist raid during the Six-Day War, when he was not quite seven years old. All of us tried to make him feel a part of our families, and to support and nurture him as if he were our own. I’m afraid he never quite recovered from his loss, and has always been a sad, shy boy. His friendship with Gideon is the only thing that’s kept him out of a permanent depression.”
“Perhaps I ought not to disturb his relationship with Judith,” he said. “If they can be happy together …?”
“You’d better talk to her,” Miriam said, still frowning. “In fact, we’ll go by the children’s house now so that you can meet her. It’s an obligatory stop on the tour, between the carton factory and the turkey houses.”
They resumed their walk until they reached a fence that enclosed a divided playground. In the distance, elementary school children played sedately underneath a tree. On the near side, several toddlers were struggling with a wagon, while a dark-haired young woman watched from the shade.
Miriam waved from the gate. “Judith, come meet Dorrie’s uncle, Theo Bloomer. He’s visiting Kibbutz Mishkan this week.”
As she approached, Theo could see that Dorrie had faced a chore worthy of Hercules. Judith’s round face was attractive, although devoid of makeup and as shiny as a holly leaf. Mr. Robert had not been notably successful; his artistic endeavor had been replaced by a pendulous braid, tied with a broken shoelace. Tortoise-shell glasses contributed to her aura of unsmiling earnestness. The blue work shirt was frayed at the collar, and a button dangled by a thread like a round white spider. A tarnished silver Star of David hung from a second shoelace around her neck. Theo found himself comparing her to the blossom of a meadow milkweed, which was not without unruly charm. It would look incongruous, however, in the centerpiece arrangement on a formal dining table.
“So Dorrie called in the cavalry,” she said in response to Miriam’s introduction. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Bloomer, and I hope you have a lovely visit with us.”
“Thank you, Judith. I am charmed to meet you. I understand that you and Dorrie were roommates at school last year.”
“Poor Dorrie,” Judith sighed, “was—stop that!” She ran across the playground to remove a rock from a small mouth, then returned with an apologetic look. “As I was saying, Dorrie was startled to find me in her room. I had not one shirt with an alligator, much less a bona fide polo player. No one’s name stitched on my denim derriere or on my genuine leather purse—which was genuine plastic. Dorrie had to lie down for several hours, with a cold compress on her forehead.”
Theo acknowledged her acumen with a brief smile. “She seems to have recovered nicely from the culture shock. I gather the two of you are close friends now.”
Judith again dashed across the playground to rescue the rock. While he and Miriam waited, Theo murmured, “She’s not at all what I was led to anticipate. Dorrie made her sound—well, compliant and capable of responding to persuasion. I believe I shall have no success with Judith.”
“You need to talk to her,” Miriam insisted in a low voice. As Judith returned, she said, “Why don’t you and Mr. Bloomer have a soda in the lounge, Judith?”
“I’m on duty until nine o’clock. One of the other teachers has a cold, and Sarah asked me to cover the second shift. Sorry, Mr. Bloomer.” Behind her a toddler war erupted amidst squeals and cries. Judith shrugged and turned away to separate combatants and soothe imaginary wounds.
Miriam raised her voice to compete with the uproar. “I’ll speak to Sarah, Judith. I’m sure we can work out something so that you can have a break.”
Judith waved over a screaming child that seemed determined to make chowder of his playmates. Theo and Miriam hurried away from the playground to the relative peacefulness of the sidewalk.
“Then Judith is doing work in the kibbutz?” Theo asked. “Is she already a member?”
“No, would-be members must do a three-month apprenticeship, and then, if they seem like potentials, a one-year trial stay. We have more applicants than we can begin to absorb, despite the proximity of the Administered Territories and Jordan eleven miles away. We can only take about twenty-five a year, unless they’re spouses or relatives. As a rule, we won’t consider singles unless they’re under thirty and feverishly committed, but there’s always room for volunteers. Judith volunteered ten minutes after she arrived.”
“Dorrie didn’t request an assignment to keep her busy?”
Miriam tried to hide a smile. “She was offered a position in the turkey house, and also in the date grove. She declined.”
“Then what has she been doing for the last few weeks?”
The smile finally won. “You’ll have to ask her, Theo. It’s one of our local mysteries, and I haven’t time to play detective. Let’s go to the community dining hall so that I can speak to Sarah about Judith’s break. Surely someone else can tend the battlefront for an hour or so, as long
as it’s not I. I prefer tourists to teething infants and dirty diapers.”
Pleased that he interested her more than a squabble of children, Theo followed.
The community dining hall was filled with long tables that stretched toward the back wall like narrow formica runways. The clatter from an invisible kitchen indicated the presence of massive, modern appliances and a great deal of industrious work. Most of the tables were uninhabited, but a few people looked up incuriously as Miriam scanned the room.
Slipping into her tour-guide role, she told him how the dining hall served as the center of kibbutz life. Although meals were provided three times a day, many of the older kibbutzniks often ate in their homes, she explained, adding that general assemblies were held several times a month, as well as chess tournaments and crafts classes. Theo learned there was a library on the second floor, along with meeting rooms and offices.
They went up a flight of stairs and through a carpeted lounge. They entered an office that would have been spacious had it not been filled with filing cabinets, a battered sofa, a coffee table, and an oversized desk covered with stacks of ledgers and officious forms. A silver-haired man, dressed in tight denim jeans and a loose shirt embroidered with vining flowers, closed a ledger and looked up with a scowl. It disappeared when he saw Miriam.
“Yussef,” Miriam said, “this is Theo Bloomer. Theo, Yussef Nava.” After the two men shook hands, she continued, “I’m sorry to interrupt you, but I’m looking for Sarah. Has she already gone to Jericho for the meeting?”
Yussef snorted like a certain Connecticut racehorse. “I have no idea, Miriam. Sarah rarely mentions her plans to me these days; for all I know, she may have run away to Baltimore with a PLO gunman. Which,” he added with a second derisive snort, “would not overly distress me. It would, in fact, provide an opportunity to break out a bottle of that absolutely marvelous claret I picked up last spring in the south of France. Could I interest you in joining me in the privacy of my living room later?”
