Safekeeping Read Online Free

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.
    â€œYou 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.
    â€œThat’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.”
    â€œWhy not? That’s the most coveted job among the volunteers.”
    â€œI 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 thesame 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.”
    â€œI don’t read English.” She bowed her head. “In French I read a little.”
    Frowning, Eyal revisited her papers. “But you’re from Canada . . .”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œThe 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.”
    â€œYou 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?”
    â€œI 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