Safekeeping Read Free Page B

his gaze to the brooch. “This is . . . a very special thing.”
    â€œWhat’s so special about it?”
    His grandfather sat up, slipped on his plaid slippers.
    â€œI’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.

A dam 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.
    â€œYou’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