For those readers who have not been following my time on Metzer Kibbutz in 1977 (I was very, very young you understand.), I am now relaying the events of yet another attempt at securing suitable work, necessary to secure my board and lodgings.
So here I am, early morning, sun shining, boarding a bus to take us to the Mosad, the high school for older children shared with 3 other Kibbutzim. The passengers were a motley crew of teachers – the stoney faced variety, pupils – the very lively and loud variety, and four bleary-eyed volunteers with accompanying yawns. The bus was not of the plush variety we are more used to today but more akin to the old berry buses, and the road being more of a track in places meant a little cat-nap was impossible as it bumped, scraped, and jiggled along to our destination, taking about 30 minutes but which seemed much, much longer.
On arrival, I saw a long two-storey building in an L shape and to the side a football pitch and one for netball with already pupils from other kibbutzim gathered in little groups. First, the teachers descended and disappeared into the building. Eric, the ‘old-timer’ of our group of four, advised us to wait, as the pupils descended loudly from the bus and scattered into the playground. I am sure the advice was given according to whatever health and safety rules were around to protect us from being trampled underfoot in the stampede.
After a safe exit from the bus, he led us to a side door into the school kitchen. Eric stayed behind in the kitchen and we three remaining were asked to stand by the door to the dining room to help serve breakfast along with some other volunteers. As events unfolded, I use the word ‘volunteer’ with some reluctance. A bell rang and two doors leading into the playground were pushed open and the hordes descended, throwing themselves onto the benches that ran along each side of the long wooden tables. The room was soon filled with noise and bodies all vying for attention. They clicked their fingers in the direction of the server nearest for more water, bread and, to my amazement, bacon. It seemed that although bacon was not eaten by adults it was given to children. I had some later as a wee treat as I lived on a kibbutz of vegetarians. It looked a bit different from ours but was really tasty.
Back to the dining room. I was, at this time, not much older than some of the pupils, and being brought up in the tradition of children being seen and not heard, I baulked at this clicking and shouting for attention. Now, whether it was that having spent my childhood in deference to adults I didn’t see why these pupils should not also have this experience or maybe it was because I found their behaviour just rude but, after serving two pupils, I returned to the kitchen to announce that I was better suited to working in the kitchen. I can’t remember the exact words I used but maybe that is just as well.
But there was to be retribution at my rebelling. I was put on peeling onions and garlic duty and some of the health-giving bulbs were none too healthy themselves. I wasn’t the only one to rebel, albeit after a very short time. The other two volunteers with me threw in the towel soon after and those from the other kibbutz were not far behind. It seemed this particular job always had a steady stream of new volunteers and Eric, the stalwart, had endeared himself to the chefs and so was given light duties in the kitchen. He too had given up on the dining room.
I’ve run out of room but, dear readers, you’ll be pleased to know the next chapter has some good news and some history and facts about the Metzer Kibbutz.
Marguerite
