It is 1956 and our first week on the kibbutz. The Sinai war which began within days of our arrival—has just ended. We are in the pomegranate orchard being taught how to prune the trees. It is fall but there are robust fruit hanging expectantly and fallen to the ground—the leathery skin split open to reveal rows of swollen crimson teeth waiting for the army of ants who will each carry a kernel away on its back . Our mouths and hands are stained like the cohanim with the purple-red juices. Our mentor is a tall spare Englishman in faded army khaki. His fair complexion is burnt brown and prematurely aged by the sun. His hands gnarled and scarred like the tree he is deftly cutting. He surrounds my right hand in which I grasp the shears, with his right hand and selects a branch leaning against me—showing me. When he is satisfied I will not mutilate his sacred trees—he leaves. Lost in paradise—I fail to notice the hush that surrounds me. A tap on my shoulder—a whisper in my ear—brings me back, “Don’t move and be very quiet” At my left elbow curling around a knobby branch, its triangular head facing towards me is a diamond patterned green and brown snake. I have only a moment to connect to its red eyed stare before I see its head fly off its body. I am tackled and flung to the ground bruised and covered with dirt. I turn to Natan from whose open mouth words fly out without sound like a cartoon He picks me up and dusts me off ?” I try to explain my errant five senses. roughly “Why didn’t you get out of the tree when I told you” He picks up his machete and begins to wipe it off My throat is parched. My ears are ringing. “I didn’t see the snake until it was at my elbow” Later in the week Natan invites me with him on his evening rounds in the fields. I hear his tractor outside the dirt floored cabin, climb up and sit next to him on the worn seat that has been padded with bits of old kilims. The little tractor hums away through the orderly fields with an occasional cough and sputter. Natan jumps off the tractor several times and slides into the black night and disappears. I strain into the darkness starting with each small noise. The moon is rising leaving a trail of stars and celestial detritus in its wake. The tractor bounces along at a pretty fast clip when without warning we stop again. There are a number of dark shapes moving towards us—speaking Arabic. “They want us to drink coffee with them.” Now the moon is high in the sky and nearly full. The smell of coffee mixes not unpleasantly with the smell of animal dung and burning wood. Smoke rises curling around the cutouts of several camels behind the main tent. Behind them the fields stretch rhythmically out to the edge of the softened Nazareth dunes. We sit on a red and black striped rug in the smaller tent, drinking strong dark coffee that singes your tongue and coats your teeth— very sweet out of little white cups, while an old man in a white kafiah and his handsome son offer many many camels and sheep for my purchase. Natan informs our hosts that I am taken. “You are a lucky man.” the old Bedouin says, “May you be blessed with many children with hair of flames like their beautiful mother.” The now gracious moon appears to be following our return. “A sign of good fortune,” Natan offers. I must find a way of thanking him for beheading the viper and saving my life. He nods and smiles and kisses me briefly on the lips. Not long after my moonlit tractor ride our group moved to Jerusalem. We are there less than a week—when we are ordered back to the kibbutz. Meeting the tender at the gate—we are brought immediately to the infirmary and asked if we had had our polio shots. Only those who have already had two shots will be given a third. If you have had all three shots you will be given a booster. The medic takes me aside and asks me if I want a shot. He does not tell me why he has singled me out. Someone on the kibbutz, they finally tell us—has contracted Bulbar Polio. Natan—He is in isolation and cannot be visited. He passed away within the week. There is a marker on the grassy knoll above the kibbutz that I looked for in 2000. Israel, 2000 Provincetown, 2019/2025
Hiding Out