Read Online Pat Boone Fan Club by Sue William Silverman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sue William Silverman
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college reading descriptions of Wolfsheim in The Great Gatsby . I worried that my own nose, though small, might suddenly grow hooked as his. In The Sun Also Rises , Jake says of Cohn, “He had a hard, Jewish, stubborn streak.”
But now, after only six short days, we are no longer defined as victims, mere survivors, or shylocks.
But do I belong here?
Am I of this new sun-drenched nation? Or just in it?
Now my fellow kibbutzniks watch the moon landing on the television in the communal dining hall. Earlier, in broken English, they invited me to join them. I shook my head no, though I longfor company. But I’m boycotting everything American because of the Vietnam War.
From this morning’s work in the orchards, my insteps still feel the press of ladder rungs. I stand, turn from the moon, and walk between a row of trees. My leather sandals, straps crisscrossing my calves, etch the fragile soil. I brush dirt from my arms and legs, from my brown shorts and yellow tank top. My filigreed earrings, bought in the Old City in Jerusalem, dangle like silver globes. Through the leaves, I see specks of light from the dining hall, a flicker of a black-and-white television—Neil Armstrong, perhaps at this moment, delivering his now-famous line. Light and sound dim and surge, surge and dim as the unreliable generator drones. Just past the orchard a barbed-wire fence surrounds the kibbutz, protecting us from our enemies.
A callused hand grips my forearm. A glint of an Uzi . . . Ari, the Israeli soldier who patrols the perimeter, guarding us all night. He expects me. Gently but firmly he pushes me back into the orchard, down on the moist soil between the trees. His mouth tastes of Sabra, chocolate, and nectarines. His nose is thin, his eyes green, his hair so blond he could pass as one of my Christian boyfriends.
We don’t speak. I don’t close my eyes. Night spills stars across the Mediterranean sky. The moon presses me to the earth—this Israeli moon, this soil, this man cradling me, our bodies crushing fallen fruit.
When dawn laces the sky I, along with the other kibbutzniks, rest for fifteen minutes. We sit on the ground beside the mishmish trees drinking water from a tin cup. We are each given a hard-boiled egg and a slice of bread smeared with apricot jam. I rarely speak. I don’t know Hebrew. Few here on the kibbutz speak English. Surrounded by Israelis, I am virtually silent all day. I am taught the word aliyah , however, to make aliyah , to return to Israel, to the homeland, to live.
“ Aliyah , aliyah ?” they ask, they ask.
I shake my head, shrug. When I don’t provide a firm commitment to renounce the United States, I am more American than Jew.
At eleven, we pile in the backs of trucks, returning to our bungalows. I grab a bar of soap, shampoo, a towel and head toward the corrugated-tin bathhouse, a short walk from my room. I undress in one of the stalls. I unbraid my long hair that falls halfway down my back, slip the rubber band on a peg, and shake out the strands. There is no hot-water faucet. But by noon, from sun scorching metal pipes, a tepid stream soothes my muscles. I scrub off Israeli dirt, sap, and apricot fuzz from fingertips to shoulders, returning to my more-American skin. I wait until the water chills me, as if I can hoard coolness for the rest of the day.
A scorpion hovers in the corner of the shower greeting me daily, perhaps also seeking water, a respite from heat. The Israelis, with their tough skin, don’t bother to kill it. Its hooked tail, even when sodden, looks lethal, anxious, longing to sting. I admire the simplicity of scorpion , assured of its identity, its function.
Back in my room, I sit on a stool before a rickety wood table beneath the one window. I leave the door open, hoping for a stray breeze to wrinkle the afternoon. I place a blank green aerogramme on the table, a letter—a love letter—I’m supposed to be writing to my Presbyterian boyfriend who also works on Capitol
But now, after only six short days, we are no longer defined as victims, mere survivors, or shylocks.
But do I belong here?
Am I of this new sun-drenched nation? Or just in it?
Now my fellow kibbutzniks watch the moon landing on the television in the communal dining hall. Earlier, in broken English, they invited me to join them. I shook my head no, though I longfor company. But I’m boycotting everything American because of the Vietnam War.
From this morning’s work in the orchards, my insteps still feel the press of ladder rungs. I stand, turn from the moon, and walk between a row of trees. My leather sandals, straps crisscrossing my calves, etch the fragile soil. I brush dirt from my arms and legs, from my brown shorts and yellow tank top. My filigreed earrings, bought in the Old City in Jerusalem, dangle like silver globes. Through the leaves, I see specks of light from the dining hall, a flicker of a black-and-white television—Neil Armstrong, perhaps at this moment, delivering his now-famous line. Light and sound dim and surge, surge and dim as the unreliable generator drones. Just past the orchard a barbed-wire fence surrounds the kibbutz, protecting us from our enemies.
A callused hand grips my forearm. A glint of an Uzi . . . Ari, the Israeli soldier who patrols the perimeter, guarding us all night. He expects me. Gently but firmly he pushes me back into the orchard, down on the moist soil between the trees. His mouth tastes of Sabra, chocolate, and nectarines. His nose is thin, his eyes green, his hair so blond he could pass as one of my Christian boyfriends.
We don’t speak. I don’t close my eyes. Night spills stars across the Mediterranean sky. The moon presses me to the earth—this Israeli moon, this soil, this man cradling me, our bodies crushing fallen fruit.
When dawn laces the sky I, along with the other kibbutzniks, rest for fifteen minutes. We sit on the ground beside the mishmish trees drinking water from a tin cup. We are each given a hard-boiled egg and a slice of bread smeared with apricot jam. I rarely speak. I don’t know Hebrew. Few here on the kibbutz speak English. Surrounded by Israelis, I am virtually silent all day. I am taught the word aliyah , however, to make aliyah , to return to Israel, to the homeland, to live.
“ Aliyah , aliyah ?” they ask, they ask.
I shake my head, shrug. When I don’t provide a firm commitment to renounce the United States, I am more American than Jew.
At eleven, we pile in the backs of trucks, returning to our bungalows. I grab a bar of soap, shampoo, a towel and head toward the corrugated-tin bathhouse, a short walk from my room. I undress in one of the stalls. I unbraid my long hair that falls halfway down my back, slip the rubber band on a peg, and shake out the strands. There is no hot-water faucet. But by noon, from sun scorching metal pipes, a tepid stream soothes my muscles. I scrub off Israeli dirt, sap, and apricot fuzz from fingertips to shoulders, returning to my more-American skin. I wait until the water chills me, as if I can hoard coolness for the rest of the day.
A scorpion hovers in the corner of the shower greeting me daily, perhaps also seeking water, a respite from heat. The Israelis, with their tough skin, don’t bother to kill it. Its hooked tail, even when sodden, looks lethal, anxious, longing to sting. I admire the simplicity of scorpion , assured of its identity, its function.
Back in my room, I sit on a stool before a rickety wood table beneath the one window. I leave the door open, hoping for a stray breeze to wrinkle the afternoon. I place a blank green aerogramme on the table, a letter—a love letter—I’m supposed to be writing to my Presbyterian boyfriend who also works on Capitol
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