Milo had run out of Hungary. He was a dark broad guy with not a hint of the pain he must have felt leaving everyone behind. I imagined the secret police grabbing at his heels, the pricks of their bullets wounding just enough to make him run faster.
Since no one on the kibbutz knew Hungarian and he spoke no other language, he had to mime his escape. The Israelis believed him because the communists would never have let him out, would they? I was happy to have someone who could not converse. There were too many words around me, and what I didn’t hear, I had begun to guess.
Milo joined us in our half of a whitewashed concrete cabin above the tarry beach. For weeks it had been just the Dane and myself. He was always ‘the Dane’ to me even though his name was Jon because he was blonde and upright with blue eyes which never wavered. We had been calm with each other, each keeping to his side of the room, grateful we were not sharing with the Americans next door.
We heard them talking and banging their feet against the wall. They were both draft dodgers waiting for the war in Vietnam to end. Jim was a big hulking guy who filled any space he encountered. Gloomy, too. I kept away from him and his roommate Barry, a small already balding boy whose voice was like the sting of a particularly noxious mosquito. I didn’t want to be tainted because...
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