He is indeed a great boss, like B. said he would be. But I am insanely curious about his background. He speaks perfect American-accented English, perfect (as far as I can tell) Hebrew, walks and dresses and acts like an American man, has a small tattoo between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand (revealing he has a past, haha), has sort of Jewish-looking dark eyes and hair and skin, is married to Liat (who sounds . . . Jewish? I'm so bad at discerning accents), and has boys with rather Jewish-sounding names that I can't pronounce.
Funny how much I got right in that first impression.
I was terrified of Natan for the first few weeks I worked for him. He had a temper, and tended to be contentious, which intimidated me. I also was certain he didn't like me, as he never ever smiled or praised or actually really looked me in the eyes. Then, one day, he randomly picked me to be the first double-checker, to be sure the rooms were really clean. In the face of more-experienced volunteers' protests ("But . . . she's new!") he said, infuriatingly calmly, "I know. But I rely on Katie. She has perfectionist tendencies."
It was a little bit of an oh moment for me; I think I walked a little straighter afterward.
In the few months I was in Israel, there were many people who surprised me, beat through my reserved-ness, and attached themselves to my heart, but I think that none was so surprising to me as Natan. I don't even know how to explain it to someone who hasn't met him.
He was this strange strange mix of American cockiness and Jewish stubbornness (and that without any Jewish lineage--the dark eyes were Armenian, from his mother). He was raised, right outside Jerusalem, by two resident aliens, Americans who emigrated to Israel "before it was in style"; he grew up speaking Hebrew and English and spending summers and especially the Fourths of July in Kentucky. ("Fireworks are the only good thing about summers in the States.") He ran in some ridiculously-named street gang in junior and senior high school. ("Were you ever in any gang fights?" I asked him one day. "Yes, Katie," he smirked, "we had our 'rumbles' in the parks."). He served in the Israeli and U.S. armies ("The American army was harder, actually, because they expected everything to be so clean, but their breakfasts were great.") He was a rebel, a hippie, a drunk, a runaway, a shame. And then, suddenly, he came back to the faith of his parents, got things together, and met his wife. ("When she was single, she used to tell people, 'My husband is in a bar somewhere, drunk,' and she was right.") He went from being a disappointment to being a husband who loves his wife, and a father who wants to raise his boys in the best way he knows how. ("Well . . . I don't want to make them celebrate Christmas, because that's really counter-cultural here and I don't want them growing up confused and feeling like outsiders.") Mostly, he hated being put in a box, any box. ("I am not a third-culture child! Do you even know what that is?!?" "Yes, I do," I told him, "and you most definitely are one." "No," he insisted, "I'm distinctly my own culture.")
And even though, maybe, he didn't realize it, he sort of became a father to "his" volunteers. On one of my days off, I had a fight with one of the other girls, and when it was over I slipped off to Natan's office. "Can I stay here for awhile?" I asked him, barely holding back the shaking in my voice, and he just nodded. I sat on my stool, far away from him, and breathed. He stayed at his desk, making up the schedule and ignoring me, but I knew, somehow, that he was sliding his eyes over to survey me when I wasn't looking. I grew to understand the veiled affection, just nod and ignore his doomsday words about all things dear to him--like the housekeeping cat, which he secretly smuggled food every day. ("Do you know that cats usually die of kidney failure because they refuse to drink?" he grumbled one day as he put a huge bowl of water outside.) Housekeeping wasn't an easy job, but Natan stood as an advocate, a protector between us volunteers and the rest of the moshav. When he'd leave following a tense or angry or stressful conversation, I learned to expect and even be relieved by the faint scent of nicotine that clung to him when he returned. If Natan disappeared and came back smelling of cigarette smoke, I knew things would pan out okay.
As my close volunteer friends left, as my time in Israel drew to an end, as my heart became more and more afraid of leaving all I loved there, I found myself drawn again and again to the housekeeping "office" and Natan's presence. On my days off, or my night-shift days, I'd come in and help him fold laundry and ask him dozens of questions about his life. There was strange comfort in his stories of recklessness and bad decisions, even in his sarcasm and cynicism. He answered my questions, understanding both my culture and the Israeli culture as his own. He debated my theology, my practices, my politics. ("I'll get you an article about that subject," he told me. "Natan . . . your father wrote this! I can't argue against it!" "Well--I just wanted to get you the best information out there.") He infuriated and frustrated and challenged me . . . and I loved him for it.
In my last days in Israel, I was more drawn to the quiet reasonably-predictable moments and places and people than to new experiences or places. So it was that, nine days before I left Israel, I lingered in supply room with Natan, after all the other volunteers went back to their rooms to take showers and rest or go out or whatnot. I was sitting crazily yet firmly balanced on a narrow strip of desk, one foot on Natan's desk, the other on the arm of a broken plastic chair. As was usual after the volunteers' workday, Natan crouched near the doorway, scrubbing out the cups and mugs before putting them in the dishwasher. It was an unseasonably hot day, and we'd worked hard, so I was tired and smelled so bad I could nearly see my scent rising from under my arms. I don't remember exactly what I said to him, but suddenly he looked up from his work.
"What was Jesus' message, in one word--if you had to sum up?"
"Natan . . . I feel like you already have an answer."
"Oh, I do." (He probably smirked, and I probably rolled my eyes.)
"Well, just tell me then."
"Okay. Jesus' main message to people was--'Relax.' And most people don't. I didn't."
And then he looked straight into my eyes with his dark Armenian gaze.
"Most of the questions you have now, you won't have in ten years. The things that matter to you now . . . won't. The questions will mostly answer themselves."
I leaned back and tried to breathe without crying. Natan went back to his dishes, as if he hadn't just solved my entire life's problems in one sentence.
Saying goodbye to Natan was nearly harder than anything else I had to do when I left Israel. Different volunteers had come and gone, even roommates and best friends, but Natan--he'd been there to watch me from day one, and he knew and remembered all the ridiculous and horrible and lovely things I'd done. Surprisingly, he came to my goodbye evening at the volunteers' clubhouse (he hated that place) and even more surprisingly, insisted on doing a "confirmation circle" for me. When it was his turn, he looked at me, seriously, and said, "Katie, you were a cheerful worker . . . usually--" A tiny smirk quirked the corners of his mouth, but his eyes stayed roundly innocent. "--and a lot of fun to work with . . . most of the time." (I could immediately recall some days I'd not been fun.) He looked at me, eyes and mouth and voice all serious and gentle, and he said, simply, "You're a good girl."
When I said my final goodbye to Natan, hours before I left the moshav, he mocked my handwriting ("Why didn't you print my letter like you printed Liat's?!?") and hugged me (twice). As I turned to go, he said, "Don't worry--you'll be back. And in the meantime, I'll be showing your photo to qualified guys and finding you a husband."
I think I laughed at him.
Ohhhh, Natan. Of all the things you are, "matchmaker" would not be on the list, I'm sorry to say. But I am so grateful for your kindness, your trustworthiness, your honesty, and your strangely-expressed affection. Mostly, I am grateful for your respect, for I know it is not given easily. Though you hate expressing yourself, I understood what you meant when you said goodbye. It was all summed up in that one phrase that meant so much. You're a good girl.
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