There was that ache again, that pressure against the back of his breastbone, so familiar, but more painful than ever before. He cupped his hands around the brooch and curled into a shivering ball.
He had no illusion that his zayde was up in heaven right now, watching him. The old man would never know that his grandson had come halfway around the world to set things right with his brooch.
But he had. He was here.
Adam shifted in his chair while Eyal, the kibbutz secretary, struggled to read his chicken-scratched application. He’d still had the shakes, couldn’t steady his hand, while rushing to fill in all those upsetting questions: What year did you graduate from college? Somehow he had to make it through this interview. It was almost midnight in New York, and he barely slept last night. He was eye-burning tired and, though he had no appetite, his body was revolting against not being fed in three days. His gut seethed, threatening to send him bolting for the toilet. He ran a hand along his bristly jawline, wishing he’d at least been able to shave. Being interviewed was easier when you were good-looking, but he only ever seemed to be in front of someone’s desk—social worker, principal, cop—when he was low.
The balding secretary rubbed his bloodshot eyes with his thick fingers and flipped the page. Weren’t kibbutzim supposed to be tranquil oases? The secretary’s desk, covered with coffee-stained spreadsheets, invoices, and unopened mail, appeared as overwhelmed as its middle-aged owner. Adam glanced over at the other applicant seated beside him. The rosary woman. She sat straight-backed, legs pressed together, staring into space, as if she were riding the subway and Adam and the secretary were merely other passengers in the car. Stranger still was the way she held her hands above her lap and tapped her spread fingers together, like a cymbal-banging-monkey toy. Thankfully she either didn’t know or care about him being at her window last night.
“You’re on the kibbutz at a very tense time.” Eyal laid their applications in front of him. “This is why, Claudette, I apologize, I didn’t get to you for a couple of days. Let me start by telling you both what we expect from our volunteers and what you can expect from us.”
Between chugs of coffee the secretary explained that over the years the kibbutz had hosted over three hundred young people from over thirty countries who wanted to experience living on a commune. Volunteers were treated like members, meaning they were expected to live by the kibbutz motto, to give according to their ability and take according to their need. The volunteers worked like members, and in return they ate in the dining hall, received a room with a bed, and were welcome to use all the facilities—the pool, laundry services, medical center. In the sixties and seventies, they had more North American volunteers, but now most of the foreigners on the kibbutz were from the former Soviet Union.
“You have to take your job seriously, show up on time, work hard. Some volunteers come here to party.” The secretary’s eyes rested on Adam. “We like young people to have fun. But why should you be allowed to come here and live for free? We have Americans and Europeans who get angry when we insist that they do their jobs, as if they would let me, a stranger from Israel, come and do nothing but party in their house for the summer.”
Adam gritted his teeth, nodded. He had to play nice, get the green light to stay here. The application required a two-month commitment, but really he’d be gone in two or three days. It was one of a slew of lies he’d put down. If he’d had more than two hundred dollars to his name, he’d have checked into a nearby hotel.
Eyal promised to do his best to find them both satisfying jobs and turned his attention to Claudette. After gulping down the last of his coffee, he asked her if she knew anything about computers. Claudette stopped tapping her fingers and shook her head.
“That’s too bad. We got two new IBM compatibles and I can’t figure them out. Would you like to work with children? In the school?”
She shook her head again. “No.”
“Why not? That’s the most coveted job among the volunteers.”
“I don’t . . . read or write very well.”
Her candid admission surprised Adam. He couldn’t place her accent. Where was she from? Her round freckled face was makeup-free, eyes the same burnt umber as her wavy mop, which looked as if someone had taken scissors to it with the sole aim of making every strand three inches long. Against her creased white button-down rested a cheap-looking saint pendant that reminded him of a military dog tag.
Eyal turned a pen over his hands. “I meant English, Claudette, not Hebrew.”
“I don’t read English.” She bowed her head. “In French I read a little.”
Frowning, Eyal revisited her papers. “But you’re from Canada . . .”
“I didn’t go to school,” she said, quietly. “I grew up in an orphanage.”
That’s it: she had the accent of the French Canadian fir tree sellers who set up on street corners in the weeks before Christmas. For some reason his grandfather couldn’t stand the piney smell of the trees and used to cross the street to avoid them.
“The orphanage didn’t school you? What did you do all day?”
Her eyes seemed to be focused not on Eyal’s face, but a few inches above. “Kept care of the younger or sicker orphans. Cleaned. For the last fifteen years, I did laundry. I was told I could do laundry here.”
“You were born July 30th, 1962, so that makes you, let me see, almost thirty-two, correct? That’s quite a few years older than most volunteers. We could benefit from your experience. So why don’t you tell me what you’ve been up to since the orphanage and I can try to make use of your skills. Does that sound good?”
“I only left the orphanage seven months ago.”
Adam widened his eyes while Eyal, visibly flummoxed by this information, ran a hand over his balding pate. How could a thirty-year-old still be in an orphanage? Was she also lying on her application? Why would anyone make up such an absurd lie? And she didn’t strike him as a liar. She had to have the wrong word. She meant some other kind of home.
Eyal set her application to the side as if it were no use. “Claudette, if you don’t mind me asking, what brings you to the kibbutz?”
Claudette described how she ended up on the kibbutz in a hushed voice, free from emotion, except perhaps discomfort. For the last seven months she had lived with her half sister Louise while continuing to work in the orphanage’s laundry. When Louise got married last week, her brother-in-law, who had once volunteered on a kibbutz, insisted she should do it. He promised she could do laundry here in exchange for room and board. Just like in the orphanage. Adam imagined the starry-eyed newlyweds who didn’t want this weirdo hanging around their honeymoon nest. They must have been giddy with relief when they realized they could pawn her off on the kibbutz for a while. Claudette finished: “And I supposed it couldn’t hurt to be where Jesus had His ministry.”
Eyal said he was very sorry, but they didn’t need anyone full-time in the laundry,