Drunken Angel (9781936740062) by Alan Kaufman Read Free Book Online Page A

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that clarified the sky into a pale-blue watercolor wash. And the hills sparkled with new green life. Everywhere people in sleeveless shirts and shorts sauntered along happily. Lining the roads were hitchhiking soldiers, and one could see in their faces that there was no meanness in them, that they were good men and women, serving the Jewish state with a sense of belief, of purpose. I was the stranger passing through, my cheek resting on my fist, leaning against a vibrating bus window, given up to an almost pleasant sense of unreality: In this realest of real places, I felt unreal.
    The kibbutz was a kind of paradise, with little white red-roofed cottages, winding rose-lined paths, a swimming pool, horses, and long-legged bikini-clad volunteers from the Scandinavian countries. Swedes, Danes, Finns strolled around in flip-flops, laughing languidly, making eyes at me.
    I was young, tall, broad-shouldered, Jewish, unfettered, single. Could hardly believe my luck.
    The kibbutzniks, tough, browned, good-natured men and women in blue work clothes, took an immediate liking to me; hoped perhaps that I might someday marry one of the kibbutz daughters—mainly homely old maids in their late thirties.
    The kibbutzniks’ instantaneous and positive assessment of my attributes cheered me. In New York, no one had said anything nice about me in many years. It was interesting that the same person could seem so unpromising in one place yet appear so worthwhile in another. Perhaps a change of scene was all it took. But on the other hand, I harbored a gnawing unease that the kibbutzniks didn’t really know me.
    The most promising kibbutz daughters had moved to the major cities or left the country altogether to study at university or practice their trade or marry an urban professional, while the sons, on the whole, were less socially mobile, more apathetic, stayed behind.
Their chief goal was to serve in crack frontline commando units in the army, and when at home, on kibbutz, to man their tractors, perform the duties assigned them, and sleep with the bombshell Scandinavian volunteers.
    The volunteers lay at poolside after the day’s work, sunning themselves in skimpy outfits, slender, busty secretaries and stenographers with frost-blonde hair and ice-blue eyes. For them, kibbutz was the next best thing to Club Med.
    Some liked it so much they stayed on year round, worked in exchange for free room, board, medical care, the frequent fun tours sponsored by the kibbutz. On these jaunts everyone piled into buses along with tents, oil drums, big gas burners, musical instruments, sacks of potatoes, vats of homemade salads, boxes of plastic-sealed chocolate pudding desserts, plus fresh baked breads, coffee, tea, sugar, blankets, flashlights, handguns, and assault rifles.
    In a big caravan of buses, jeeps, and vans, we traveled to some remote spot of natural or historical interest—Masada, say, where in Roman times a handful of Jewish fighters made a valiant suicidal last stand against the Roman Empire. Piling out, we would set up camp for a big kumsitz or “come sit” gathering.
    Everyone around a bonfire for days, singing songs, cuddling, necking, playing accordions and guitars, dancing, and gorging on huge plates of fresh-made French fries and other foodstuffs.
    Later, newly paired hand-holding lovers disappeared into the harsh landscape for a few hours of naked coupling under the desert moon. At some ungodly hour, the kibbutz men shrugged off blankets, kissed their lovers’ sleepy foreheads, roused everyone, and shouldering weapons prodded us forward for a quick march to the summit of Masada.
    It was on such a trip that I met Helka, a Finnish girl with a
pretty affect of bookishness belied by shockingly blue eyes, blonde hair, a tan, slender, long-legged body, and small perfect breasts. She had no bikini lines—she sunbathed nude at every possible chance: a real uninhibited free-swinger. Our bodies contrasted