In Search of Tamar

I left Sarah Liebowitz at the gate of Eilat's small airport. Sarah was a big woman and her emotions were Supersized as well. She kissed me with passion and didn't want to let me go. To tell you the truth, I kissed her back with equal passion, wishing I could have gotten my arms all around her. I wished I could spend more time with this remarkable, independent woman but it was becoming quite clear that I really had to find Tamar before Mossi got to her. In fact, I had to find Tamar before Mossi found me.

The airport security guard's standard questions didn't faze me at all until she got to "Did anyone give you something before the flight." The security guard noticed my hesitation and looked like she was going to call for the scowling soldier with the Uzi to do a rectal on me. I've had this aversion to airline security ever since I encountered the team of Argov and Livshitz. I regained my composure and assured the security guard:

"I didn't get any object to carry on the flight. A wonderful woman who lives here in Eilat gave me a goodbye kiss. I couldn't get her off my mind. That's what I got before the flight."

I got on the flight to Kiryat Shmoneh and suddenly found that I had found a little bit of Canada. I was flying on a Canadian-made Dash 8. It takes something like a commuter aircraft to get in and out of Eilat airport as the airport is almost on the beach. As I relaxed in my seat after takeoff, I had some time to think about Sarah Liebowitz. I didn't feel the least bit guilty about fucking Tamar's best friend last night. Our night together had been a night of remarkable sex. Sarah had opened my eyes to fat women. If I didn't find Tamar, now I was going to look up some plump women who were still single, in addition to the older women that I now had a taste for, courtesy of Colonel Krotchnik. Sarah wouldn't have any problems getting guys if she performed the way she did for me. I'm sure the word gets around Eilat like in any small place.

It wasn't as easy to get to Kibbutz Hagafen as Sarah had thought. From Kiryat Shmoneh, I caught the bus to Katzrin, a new settlement on the Golan. Katzrin has nothing to commend itself except that it's new. I waited until the next day to catch a local bus that meandered along dusty roads alternating between Druze villages and various farms and

moshavim

(collective farms). The local had no air conditioning, allowing the dust to billow in through the open windows. Finally, the bus returned to the main highway. Kibbutz Hagafen was located just off the main highway as the bus made its return to Katzrin.

I was the only person who got off the bus in what appeared to me to be a god-forsaken wilderness. The guard at the gate suggested that I see Yitzhak, the secretary of the kibbutz, if I was looking for information about an ex-member. Then, he did something strange. After searching my luggage, he handed me my

kippah

(skullcap) and told me to wear it inside the gate. When I tour Israel, I always hake a

kippah

in my luggage, in case I encounter an interesting holy site.

Things became even stranger as I walked towards the office. Every man was wearing a

kippah

(skullcap) while he was working. I had seen the odd

kippah

around Israel on the more religious types but, since most Israelis aren't that all that religious, a

kippah

is a rare sight on a working day. I had never seen wall-to-wall

kippot

like this other than at the Wailing Wall. The other strange thing was that everyone I met was pleasant and seemed happy. Most Israelis are fairly rude publicly and always seem to be worried. Well, I suppose if the guy standing next to you on the bus can blow himself up any time, you'd be a little worried and uncivil too.

Yitzhak, the secretary, was a jolly-looking guy in black pants, cotton shirt and tassle-like fringes hanging from his belt. He had a large black

kippah

on his bald head. His white beard reminded me of Santa Claus, if Santa was into studying the Talmud. Yitzhak greeted me with a hearty handshake and many effusive

shaloms

. I decided not to piss off the man by telling him that he did a good Santa impression.

"Welcome to Kibbutz Hagafen. The guard told me your name is Chris. How can I be of service to you? This is the first time that someone from Canada has taken an interest in our humble kibbutz."

"Thank you Yitzhak. I'm an old friend of Tamar Ya'akov. I met her five years ago when I visited this country. I believe she may be in trouble. I may be the only person who can help her."

"Tamar Ya'akov left our kibbutz under mysterious circumstances. She came one day with a letter from her family that a former Israeli boyfriend was out of jail and looking for her. Tamar said she had to leave immediately and that I would understand that she couldn't tell me where she was going. She looked so terrified that I didn't press the matter. I hope this doesn't mean that your search has ended here on the Golan."

"Is there anyone in this kibbutz that Tamar was so close to that she might have confided in her?"

"You know, Miss Ya'akov worked closely in the Ulpan with one of our teachers, Rimona Katz. Yes, she might have confided in Rimona. Unfortunately, she's still teaching and won't be able to talk to you until 4:00. Why don't you spend that time on a tour of our winery with the next busload of tourists that arrive?"

I thanked Yitzhak for his advice and headed back to the gate. Tourists were piling off the bus as I arrived, so I joined the tour. The guide explained that the kibbutz' location was no accident. The basaltic soil of the Golan was perfect for growing grapes. The vineyard, the presses, the fermenters and the bottling line were pretty standard stuff but one thing perplexed me about this particular operation. I asked the guide:

"Why are all the men were wearing

kippot

(skull caps) to work? It isn't

Shabat

(the Sabbath) yet."

"In order for the wine to get a

hechser

, (kosher designation), every worker on the kibbutz must be certified as Jewish, and the more orthodox the better."

"Does that extend to the teachers in the kibbutz school as well?"

"Of course. Everything inside the gates of the kibbutz is like one huge

beit knesset

(synagogue)."

That answered one question as to what to expect when I finally got to meet Rimona Katz. At the end of the tour, I bought a couple of bottles of Chardonnay to celebrate with when I finally found Tamar. I waited on a bench outside the school for Rimona. To pass the time, I tried to imagine what kind of a woman Rimona might be. This was a kibbutz populated 100% by orthodox Jews. As a woman, Rimona would be expected to cover up her arms and legs from view and wear sensible shoes out of the 18

th

century. Rimona was probably single so she wouldn't wear a wig or a scarf to keep her hair out of sight.

To you, this might sound like big-time boredom waiting to happen. To me, this was an opportunity to possibly fulfill one of my many sexual fantasies. On my first trip to Israel, I had noticed that there were actually two types of orthodox women. About half would obey the rule to not look at a man. These obedient types were, 90% of the time, ugly, so I was quite supportive of their decision to look in the other direction. The other kind of orthodox woman usually were quite pretty. This kind of orthodox woman broke the rules, at a minimum stealing a quick glance but often making full eye contact. I wondered if the disobedient women were merely curious about Gentile guys through a lack of familiarity or were they really hot-blooded sex fiends ready to ball a

shaigetz

(Gentile boy). It occurred that I might have a 50/50 chance of finding out today.

The other thing that intrigued me about orthodox women was the way they dressed to cover up their femininity. For example Israeli women are 99% big-busted. There must be a big pair lurking under all those clothes but even my trained eyes couldn't tell for sure. The mystery surrounding what they had underneath all those clothes actually made them sexier to me than the young Israeli tarts who paraded around in miniskirts. Just maybe this was my opportunity to discover what went on under all that cloth.

I didn't have to wait long. Rimona Katz came out after all the kids piled out of school and ran to join their parents returning from the fields and the winery. I knew right away it was Rimona. Her hair was done up in a tight bun and she wore unstylish dark framed glasses. Her thin mouth was devoid of lipstick. She did absolutely nothing to make herself attractive to men. Rimona somehow reminded me of the Grade 1 teacher who had terrorized me.

Well, even if she was formidable, I tried to be friendly and stuck my hand out for a shake, saying, "Hi, I'm Chris. I'm an old friend of Tamar Ya'akov. I'm told you may be able to help me find her. I hope that she told you about me so you don't think I'm with the police or the Bar Lévi family."

Rimona just stood there with her arms at her sides, staring icily at me. "Orthodox women aren't allowed to touch men and we certainly wouldn't touch a

goy

. Yes, I knew Tamar and she did mention you. I don't know why she would play the

zonah

with you when there are so many nice Jewish boys she could marry."

Obviously, this wasn't going in the direction I wanted. I was going to have a difficult time hitting it off with Rimona. Well, women loved compliments no matter what their religious affiliation might be. I decided to take that approach with Rimona Katz:

"Say, where did you learn such great English. You don't have the slightest trace of an accent."

"In Toronto where I was born and grew up. I made

aliyah

(emigrated) after high school because I was trying to find myself. Orthodox Judaism gave my life the direction I needed. So, you're from Canada as well, eh?"

This was getting worse. Not only was Rimona a religious fanatic but she was from Toronto, a place filled from Mississauga to Pickering with smug, superior people of all religious persuasions. A religious fanatic from Toronto must have a black belt in arrogance. I really don't have anything against religious people in general. Most religious people are as happy as larks, just like the Santa Claus secretary I just met. However, occasionally you run across a religious social moron like Rimona Katz. I decided to try again and work on Rimona, using a combination of my charm and her humanity, if she had any left.

"Forget about the relationship between Tamar and me. She may be in trouble and I may be able to help her. Don't you want to help a Jewish woman who may be in trouble?"

Rimona softened up a bit. She motioned to sit down on the bench and made sure she sat as far away from me as possible.

"I liked Tamar Ya'akov very much. She became one of the few friends I ever had. I'm not an easy person to know yet Tamar had a way about her that made me want to break out of my isolation. The only fault that I found in Tamar was that she paid no heed to her Jewish roots. Yes, she was knowledgeable and could quote any number of the Jewish sages in a religious argument. But, she was so secular in her daily life and she saw no need to marry a Jewish man. She often used her affair with you as the perfect example of pure love between Jew and non-Jew. I, of course, showed her from the Talmud that she was wrong….."

"Rimona, this is all interesting, but do you know where Tamar is at this very moment?"

"No, I can't tell you that. Tamar deliberately told none of us where she was going. She had a genuine fear when this former boyfriend of hers, Mossi, left prison."

"Are you absolutely sure that there's nobody in all Israel who might know Tamar's whereabouts?"

Rimona looked down at her sensible shoes peeking out past her voluminous, long dress. She appeared to be deep in thought.

"Yes, there is someone. When we worked in the Ulpan together, Tamar became very interested in one of our more difficult students, Miriam Kessim. Tamar spent extra hours trying to get Miriam to speak Hebrew and teaching Miriam some social skills. They became very close and Miriam often wrote letters to Tamar after her Ulpan was finished to show us both that she had learned her Hebrew. Tamar may still write to Miriam. I still have one of Miriam's letters. Why don't I get her address for you."

"That would be wonderful, Rimona. If you can do that, I'll be on my way and won't bother you anymore. When is the next bus to Katzrin?"

"Probably on

Yom Rishon

(Sunday). Don't you know that the buses stop running at 3:00 in the afternoon before

Shabat

? Oh, I forgot. You're not a Jew. You're stuck here for two days. Why don't you arrange for one of the

zimmerim

(guest rooms). Our

cheder ochel

(dining room) is the only place to eat for miles. I'll put your dinner on my account. We'll meet there for supper and I'll bring the address to you then. I hope you don't mind eating

kasher

."

Rimona's superiority was starting to get to me. "No I don't mind at all. Do you know that there are no recorded deaths from eating kosher food? Actually, I'm really fond of bagels, lox, potato latkes and a Montreal smoked meat sandwich with a nice garlic dill on the side."

I had to get that little dig in because I could see that would be the only fun I was going to have that evening. I wasn't looking forward to spending the whole weekend with a female religious fanatic who obviously disliked me.

After I stowed my gear in one of the rooms the kibbutz rented, I met Rimona and she led me into the

cheder ochel

. Just as we got to a table, the rabbi intoned the blessing

"Baruch atah Adonai…."

He raised a cup of wine and then chugged it before blessing the

"challah"

(braided egg bread). Chugging the wine sounded like a good idea to me so, I said:

"Look, Rimona, if you're treating me to supper, why don't you let me treat you to the wine? I picked up a couple of bottles on the winery tour."

"Actually that would be quite nice. Can you believe that I've never tasted our kibbutz' wine? After all, drunkeness is a characteristic of you

goyim

and not we Jews. I'd love some white wine. White wine would go great with the Jerusalem Mix we're having tonight."

The kibbutz served food cafeteria style with the food ready in steam tables. I grabbed a plate and was ready to dig into the Jerusalem Mix until I took a good look at it. Shit – Jerusalem Mix was just a pile of assorted chopped turkey parts fried up with onion. I hadn't seen anything worse in my high school cafeteria. Immediately, I converted to vegetarianism and got myself some salads.

Well, I can't agree with Rimona that it was just us Gentiles who like a wee drop. At least, not based on Rimona's behaviour that night. I was beginning to go into my wine snob routine, describing the "delicate nose" of the kibbutz' latest vintage but Rimona just said "

L'Chayim

, Chris" and poured her first glass of wine down her throat. I hadn't even had a sip out of my glass when Rimona thrust her glass at me.

"

Od ayin, b'vakeshah.

(More wine, please)"

I can be an obliging bastard when the situation suits me and this looked like one of those times when I should be nice to my fellow man. Rimona took her time with her second glass of wine but she was waving her glass at me again when my first glass was half-full. That's how it went as we ate supper. Rimona's face began to look flushed, quickly followed by a silly smile that formed on her lips. It was the first time that Rimona had smiled since I met her and she wore it well. Nobody would ever elect Rimona Katz to the post of Miss Israel but she was rising just above my minimum standards for a fuck.

Rimona became less the tight-assed schoolmarm and more the good drinking buddy as the evening wore on. She wasn't exactly a perfect drinking buddy because she started talking a touch too loudly, using Hebrew words that never made it on to

Kol Yisrael

(Voice of Israel). Her English deteriorated into something she must have picked up in Cabbagetown when she lived in Toronto. Her eyes became obviously glassy and disoriented despite her thick glasses. Rimona's speech became more and more slurred in either language.

A man in a black hat came to the door and announced to the kibbutzniks that the evening prayers were beginning in ten minutes. The noise of chairs and the clatter of dishes was deafening as the faithful carried their dirty dishes to the conveyor. Since I was still in my obliging mood, I got up and took Rimona's and added my dishes to the rest. As I came back, Rimona was trying to stand up and join the others. She looked so shaky that I extended her a hand. Two women ran up and grabbed Rimona and pulled her arms away.

"Stop! An orthodox woman never touches a man except with the intention of having sexual intercourse. We'll take care of her. There's no way that she can go to shul like this."

I didn't have any lustful designs on Rimona so I let the two husky farm women drag the increasingly woozy Rimona to the door. Once outside, the night air seemed to revive her enough so she could walk by herself. Rimona steadied herself on her feet. The two women looked at each other, searching for a face-saving exit from this embarrassing situation.

"Would you mind accompanying Miss Katz to her room? We would both like to go to the prayers. None of the doors are locked on this kibbutz. And, please let her in her room without touching her"

The women disappeared quickly and I pointed to Rimona the direction to go. The

zimmerim

were just beyond the

cheder ochel

in the same direction as the singles rooms. Rimona announced that she had to pee NOW and, still of an obliging mind, I let her into my room. She stumbled on the threshold of my room but I caught her before she fell. What the hey, the members were all at the evening prayers and couldn't see me preventing Rimona from cracking her skull. I know I wasn't supposed to touch an orthodox woman but she was going to hurt herself if I didn't grab her. Well, even Jesus knew that it's OK to suspend one of the Jewish laws to save a life.

I pointed Rimona in the direction of the toilet and she staggered in without closing the door. I watched as she tried unsuccessfully to find her panties and pull them down. I figured that the only gentlemanly thing was to lend a hand, so I went to the bathroom and reached under her dress and pulled down a very sensible pair of old-fashioned panties. Rimona was about to sit down on the pot, dress and all. I just managed in time to pull clear enough cloth to make curtains for a small house. She just plopped her ass on the seat and sat there staring at the pile of underwear tying her ankles together.

"Chris, I can't tinkle with my legs together. Help me please?"

Still in an obliging mood, I took her panties and threw them on the bedroom floor. Then, I opened her legs, revealing a lush bush of dark, curly hair. Not wanting her to mess such a lovely growth of pubic hair, I reached into her crotch and parted her pussy lips. Finally, a yellow stream erupted between my fingers. When Rimona had completely voided herself, I wiped her dry. As the paper passed over her clitoris, Rimona, despite her drunken stupor, seemed to sense that this wasn't quite a normal piss. She jumped up, pulling her dress down and dislodging my hand from her crotch.

Rimona walked right by her panties on the floor but she didn't walk by the second bottle of wine beside my luggage. We continued on through the kibbutz. The night was quiet, the silence broken by the occasional car passing along the highway and the sounds of the prayers coming from the kibbutz' synagogue. Rimona managed to walk without my help, drinking the second bottle of wine without asking me if I wanted any.