Adam was now, have slept in this very room? No, this building wasn’t old enough. And hadn’t he mentioned a tent?
Adam turned on his side, reached into his jean pocket, and pulled out the brooch. He’d had a glimpse at it in the airplane bathroom, but this was his first chance to take a good look since stealing it back. He tried to blur out his hands—the fingertips blackened on crack pipes, the nails packed with grime—and see only what they were holding, that one-and-a-half-inch square. Just a one-and-a-half-inch square. And yet.
The first time Adam saw the brooch he was eight years old. He’d awoken from a nightmare and was on his way to sleep with his grandfather, as he often did that first year he lived with him, when he was stopped in the doorway. He had expected to find the old man sleeping, but he lay awake in his green pajama set, canted on his side, as Adam was right now, studying something small in his hands, his eyes glistening in the lamplight. Adam tiptoed into the tidy bedroom, so different than his mother’s, where he’d had to navigate around dirty clothes and empty wine bottles to reach her passed-out body, half covered by a stained T-shirt.
His grandfather only noticed him when he climbed onto the foot of the mattress. “Another nightmare, Adam?”
Adam nestled behind his grandfather’s back and peered over him at the radiant square, like something from a fairy tale. “What’s that?”
“This?” His grandfather returned his gaze to the brooch. “This is . . . a very special thing.”
“What’s so special about it?”
His grandfather sat up, slipped on his plaid slippers.
“I’m afraid it’s not a story for little boys. But I promise to tell you one day.” He looked back at Adam, laid a hand on his shin. “Maybe when it becomes your brooch.”
In the dark dorm room, the brooch seemed to stare at Adam as much as he stared at it. An uncut sapphire, the size and shape of a Milk Dud, glowed in its center, so blue. Pearls and smaller gems, also in their natural shapes, hemmed the edges of the brooch—red rubies in the corners, and, halfway between, either a purple amethyst or green garnet. It was the rich gold filigree that stirred Adam, though, far more than the precious stones; in it, he sensed the long-dead goldsmith who had painstakingly fashioned the tangle of thin vines and little flowers that covered two of the brooch’s quarters, as well as the small pomegranates and leaves in the other two. Adam, having never seen a pomegranate and not entirely sure what they were, thought they looked like small round heads wearing those funny three-pronged jester hats, but the jeweler, Mr. Weisberg, had explained they were stylized pomegranates. He couldn’t bear to think of the jeweler, but didn’t he say one of the flowers was missing a petal? Adam brought the brooch closer to his eyes and searched for the one with only five. It took a moment, but there it was, in the bottom left. A little malformed flower. It was such a heartbreaking mistake. So tiny most people would never notice. But Mr. Weisberg had.
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,
