At first glance the camp, the forest clearing framed by barracklike structures facing a flagpole at its center, reminds me of a military compound. The forest, like a verdant blanket, wraps itself around the clearing and the barracks as if to insulate them from the lure of the mountains, the fabulous Poconos beckoning far ahead, towering and expectant.
At the bottom of the hill a lake shimmers, an icy blue, forbidding threshold to another foothill on its far side that accommodates another circle of barracklike structures around a flagpole—the boys’ camp. This is Camp Massad Aleph in the Pocono Mountains.
The children in both camps are assembled in five age groups, each division identified with a metaphorical tree section, beginning with Root, or Shoresh in Hebrew, the youngest, and rising in age ever higher to Trunk (Geza), to Branch (Anaj) and Blossom (Nitzan), culminating in the top, called Crown (Tzameret).
I am assigned to a bunk in Shoresh, the division comprising about fifty children ranging from six to eight years old. Seven beds are in my bunk, one of regular size and six small ones for my little five-to six-year-old campers whose round-the-clock care is my charge. I am responsible for their daily activities—getting up in the morning, getting ready for roll call, getting to the dining room for breakfast, to the sport field for morning activity, to the dining room for lunch, back to the bunk for rest period, to the recreation room for study period, to the field for afternoon activity, to the dining room for dinner, to the lawn for evening activity, to the showers an hour before curfew, and to bed before lights-out—on the dot. During meals I’m responsible for their proper conduct; during rest period for quiet; during activities for their proper attire depending on the time of day; at curfew, their orderly preparations for bedtime; and after lights-out for total silence in the bunk.
On the first day I meet my tender little Shorashim, six little girls intimidated by their strange new surroundings and terrified by their distance from home. I embrace them and hold them close, ask about their pets, their favorite hobbies, encourage them to divulge their favorite nicknames, and finally tell them bedtime stories until they fall asleep.
The next morning the harsh reality of the tight daily schedule hits me like an ice-cold shower. I must assume the role of drill sergeant to get my charges to meet the schedule’s demands. When my bunk appears several minutes late for roll call, all eyes are on the six little sleepyheads and their red-faced counselor, and when we bring up the rear on line for breakfast, we incur the dismayed looks of the kitchen staff. I learn my lesson: No matter how impossible it seems, it must be done; it is up to me to have my little charges move from activity to activity with clocklike precision!
How do you combine a drill sergeant’s discipline with maternal indulgence?
Most of the other counselors, girls and boys my age, seem to know the secret; they have done this before. Even before working as counselors, most were campers in Massad, then CITs (counselors in training) and assistant counselors. They know each other from previous summers, and their circle of familiarity seems impenetrable.
Summer camps, I come to recognize, are closed societies. Members follow older siblings as campers, then staff, and the exclusive circle is perpetuated ad infinitum. How can I, an outsider, make inroads into the circle?
Once I know the reason, I find my exclusion from the circle easier to bear. The crushing sense of loneliness, the almost devastating sense of being “the other” brings back painful memories. Never since my arrival in America have I had such a palpable sensation of not belonging.
Only on nights when we sit around the campfire and sing Hebrew songs to the accompaniment of a single guitar, swaying to the melody with arms locked, does my loneliness subside. Instead a powerful yearning takes hold of my soul. As if a primal memory, an uncanny recollection, stirred, my soul rises above the leaping flames of the campfire and, spanning the expanse of time and space, reunites with the soul of my biblical namesake, Leah, to roam the landscape of my ancient-new homeland—biblical-modern Israel.
“I’ve noticed,” Oded the guitar player addresses me one night as the singing breaks up and we begin our trek through the woods toward the camp, “whenever we sing around the camp fire, your face has a special glow. Are you from Israel?”
“No. But I wish I were.”
“Why?”
“I love Israel.”
“Have you ever been to Israel?”
“No. Never. But I so wished to go there after liberation from the camps … with the first transports. Have you? Ever been to Israel?”
“I am from Israel. I was born there. I just came here for the summer.”
“Really? I’ve never met anyone from Israel. I’ve never even met anyone who visited Israel. Where in Israel where you born?”
“In Tel Aviv.”
I want to know everything about Tel Aviv, about Israel, the cities, the mountains, the desert… . I don’t know where to begin. But Oded does not wait for my questions; he begins to talk about Tel Aviv and its beautiful beach on the Mediterranean, about the hills and the Sea of Galilee, about Jerusalem. In the meantime we emerge into the clearing and reach my bunk. Oded waits outside while I tiptoe into my room to check on the sleeping children, and then the two of us sit on the stoop of the bungalow and talk late into the night.
“Oh, God, it’s past midnight!” Oded exclaims. “I must be in my bunk. Layla Tov, Leah. See you in the morning!”
In Camp Massad we call each other by our Hebrew names. Leah is my Hebrew name, the name of one of our biblical matriarchs.
“Layla Tov, Oded.” I watch his slim, medium frame, his guitar slung on one shoulder, disappear into the shadows, and I make my way quietly into my bunk. Lying in bed I recall every one of Oded’s tales about Israel, and slowly, imperceptibly, a dream takes shape, a newborn hope fills the nagging emptiness and lulls me to sleep.
Oded becomes a special friend. At the campfire he insists the haverim reserve a seat near me, and when he begins to play the guitar he turns in my direction as if dedicating the melody to our common love of Israel.
I learn to dance the hora, the spirited dance of the pioneers in Israel. We dance with arms locked around the campfire, as if the songs Oded plays on his guitar take wing. The circle of dancers soars ever faster around and around, molding into a solid swirling ring. And I too soar; I too become one with the circle.
I love to dance. And the hora is not merely a dance; it is a confession of age-old yearnings, a declaration of love.
I suppose because of his guitar playing, Oded is one of the most popular boys in camp, and his attentions to me do not pass unnoticed. Some of the girls drop wide hints about Oded and me being a couple, and make no secret of their curiosity.
“What is there to tell?” I respond with a question to a list of probing questions. I can understand the girls’ curiosity. There is fierce competition for the cute guys and Oded is one of them, but I resent the prying. “We are friends. He plays the guitar, and we sing together. Oded loves to talk about his homeland, and I love to listen.”
At first I’m offended by my fellow counselors’ intrusive questions, their giggling. Oded’s friendship is too precious to be tarnished by snickering and gossip. Eventually the questions stop, my relationship with Oded slips into the comfortable realm of the routine, and I am relieved.
It’s a scorching Thursday afternoon. The second week of camp is drawing to an end. My tired campers, Yael, Michal, Adina, Laura, Daniela, and Shulamit, are dragging their feet as we climb the hill from the dining room to the bunk for our rest period.
In the distance I spot two people, a young woman of medium height in a blue blouse and white shorts and a tall young man wearing long slacks, a wide-rimmed hat, waiting under the acacia tree near our bunk. As we come nearer I recognize them: It’s my brother and his girlfriend, Evelyn!
“What a surprise!” I shriek, and, forgetting to act like a grown-up in front of my charges, rush to hug them. “What a surprise! I didn’t know you were coming! Why didn�
�t you write?”
“If we did, it wouldn’t be a surprise,” my brother says with typical Bubiesque logic.
My joy knows no bounds. Seeing my brother makes me realize how much I have missed him, how homesick I have been. How good it is to see them both looking so well, so happy.
My little campers are excited with the unexpected visit of my brother and his girlfriend, and want to know everything about them—their names, their ages, and when they will get married.
Evelyn, Bubi, and I burst into spontaneous laughter.
“No more questions,” I announce in order to extricate the three of us from the awkward moment. “We are late for rest period.” I usher my little herd of smart alecks into the bunk and ask them to cooperate by hopping into bed in record time so I can join my guests.
I spread a blanket under the shady tree, and from a large paper bag Evelyn produces a bunch of grapes and a box of cookies.
“My grandmother baked these for you,” she says with a smile. “They are good.”
“Oh, thank you.”
“Wait, this is not all.” Bubi rummages in the bag. “Mom sends you—guess what! Makos pogacsa.” The chewy Hungarian pastry with poppy seeds has been my all-time favorite.
“Thank you both so much for this happy surprise … for bringing me a bit of home.”
As we begin to nibble on the home-baked goodies, I tell them about my camp experiences and impressions, and they tell me about home, about the terrific heat wave in New York, and how Mom, Aunt Celia, and Uncle Martin cope. Then Evelyn casts a meaningful glance at my brother.
“I was tempted to answer that little kid’s question about getting married,” she says, blushing. “Do you want to know the answer?”
“Of course!” I yell, once again losing my composure. “Of course!”
“I guess sometime at the end of the year … in December. We’ll wait with the engagement party until you come home.”
“Mazel tov! Congratulations!” I scream, and lose control of my emotions altogether, sobbing and laughing simultaneously.
Evelyn and Bubi rise; they must leave now in order to make the three o’clock bus, the last one back to New York. I walk with them to the gate of the camp, and my heart dances along.
Chapter Twenty-Four
YISHAI
There is a cold wind tonight, and Oded offers his jacket as we make our way back to camp. Bubi and Evelyn’s news has put me in a giddy mood, and I accept Oded’s jacket with a playful flourish. “Thank you, Sir Galahad,” I say expansively. “I’m honored to wear the garment that has touched your gallant shoulders.”
Oded is infected by my happy mood, and when I shiver visibly despite his heavy jacket, in imitation of my playful tone he asks, “Tonight is going to be a very cold night, Leah. Do you want me to come and keep you warm in your bed?”
“Of course. What a splendid idea,” I say, laughing.
Oded gives my hand a light squeeze: “At twelve thirty, then!” He is now laughing, as well. “Shalom. Lehitraot. So long.”
“Brilliant sense of humor, Oded! Shalom. Layla Tov. Good night!” I call after him, pleased with the little flirtation between us.
I am awakened by the light touch of fingers fondling my hair, caressing my face. Oded is leaning over me, and in the next instant his lips reach my lips. I sit up in alarm.
“What are you doing here?”
“Shh, don’t raise your voice, for God’s sake. You’ll wake the children,” he whispers.
“Oded, what are you doing here?”
“You forgot? You told me to come. You invited me to keep you warm in bed. It’s twelve thirty.”
“But that was a joke. We were joking … ,” I say, and begin to shiver.
“Joking? Some joke!” Oded is livid. In the pale, clear moonlight streaming into the room I can see his fair skin has flushed scarlet. “You invite me to your bed and you call that a joke? What’s the matter with you? How can you do this to me? I climb up the hill on this cold night, all the way from the boys’ camp, and you change your mind just like that? What are you—a tease? There’s a name for girls like you… .” Oded’s voice is a sharp hiss. He begins to back out of the room.
“I’m sorry, Oded. I really thought you were joking.”
“There’s one thing you can do. Don’t breathe a word to anyone about this.”
“I promise. If you won’t, I won’t.”
The door closes behind him, and my head goes into a spin, whipping up a wave of nausea. How did this come about? How could such misunderstanding happen? How could Oded think that I actually invited him to my bed? What kind of girl would invite a guy to her bed in one room with six little children? How could he assume such a thing?
Was I wrong to assume that Oded knew me? Was I naive or silly to believe our friendship was genuine? What did Oded call me … a tease? And what is the name for girls like me? He didn’t say.
Oded is true to his word: This morning no one seems to know of last night’s terrible fiasco. Even Ron and Dov, Oded’s closest friends, treat me with warmth, as if nothing happened between Oded and me. And the girls continue to treat me with grudging admiration, unaware that my “affair” with Oded is over.
I am the only one aware that Oded studiously avoids my presence, and when he inadvertently meets me his face is frozen with fury. It is very painful to deal with Oded’s anger, the way his boyish features twist into a grimace, and even his blond curls seem to stiffen when he sees me. Can this anger ever be assuaged? Will we ever be able to talk as before?
Ever since the agonizing episode with Oded I have been suffering from nausea and sudden stabs of abdominal pain. This morning the pain is so severe, I am unable to take my campers to the dining room for breakfast. Miriam, my next-door neighbor, volunteers to gather my flock under her wings until I feel better.
“I’ll ask Dr. Zeev, the camp physician, to come up here and check you out,” Miriam proposes, but I dismiss the notion.
“There’s no need to make a fuss. I’ll rest a while and I’ll be fine.”
Thankfully Miriam ignores my objection, and Dr. Zeev arrives in about fifteen minutes. By the time he reaches the bunk, my pain is excruciating. The doctor calls for the camp transport to take me to the emergency room at the hospital in Stroudsburg. Yishai, the camp general secretary, helps the driver carry me on a stretcher to the station wagon, and to my surprise accompanies me to the hospital. On the two-hour drive to Stroudsburg, my severe pain is eased by Yishai’s soothing voice and his gentle touch on my hand.
Yishai does not stir from my side while we wait in the emergency room for our turn, and when the attending physician’s examination is over, Yishai approaches him to inquire about my condition.
“What’s the diagnosis, Doctor?” he asks with the genuine concern of an older brother.
When the doctor reveals the diagnosis as severe gall bladder infection and recommends hospitalization, Yishai requests permission to accompany me to my room. After I am put to bed and hooked up to the intravenous tube, he sits at my bedside until the painkiller takes effect and the pain subsides. Only then does he take his leave, and promises to return during visiting hours tomorrow.
All evening I find myself thinking about the tall, slim camp VIP who accompanied me to the hospital and stayed with me, easing my pain and alarm. I keep remembering his large brown eyes, the gap between his two front teeth, his prominent ears, his long neck, and I offer a silent prayer: Please God, make Yishai keep his word.
At the onset of visiting hours, at 1:00 P.M., Yishai arrives with the first batch of visitors. When I see his tan, smiling face appear in the doorway of the hospital ward, my heart skips a beat.
“I brought you a present,” Yishai declares with a secretive smile, and from a large brown paper bag he draws a white sweatshirt emblazoned with the camp’s name and emblem. “It’s long enough for a nightshirt, you can wear it instead of the hospital gown!”
“Oh, thank you, Yishai. How thoughtful.”
&nb
sp; “This is not all. Miriam packed up your toothbrush, hairbrush, and the like. And this.” Yishai hands over a large manila envelope stuffed with Life magazines and a small white envelope bulging with bits of paper. “The magazines are courtesy of the camp management. And these are decorated love letters. Your campers drew them. And they send you lots of good wishes for a speedy recovery.”
Some twenty pieces of paper, mostly drawings, and a letter from Miriam. I place it all in the drawer; will read it all later, after Yishai’s visit.
“We did not notify your family. We wanted to consult you first.”
“Thank you, Yishai. No need to let them know. My mother would worry unnecessarily. As is, I may be discharged in a day or two.”
Before we know it, visiting hours are over. All the visitors must leave the ward without delay.
“Tomorrow we have field trips—I may not be able to come. I’ll try. If I can’t, I’ll make sure someone else will.”
When Yishai leaves, the ward seems dull, colorless. The white metal drawer creaks as I open it and take out first the children’s drawings—hearts, flowers, hospital beds, smiling faces, all spelling love—and then Miriam’s letter. Miriam’s letter is full of news. All the counselors in Shoresh are taking turns to care for my campers, all send their best wishes, expressions of concern … affection. My heart overflows. It was only three weeks ago that I felt like an outsider… .
On the morning rounds the attending physician informs me that my temperature has gone down and I will be discharged today. Great news! But how do I get back to camp? Would he please notify the camp administration? The doctor nods, and within minutes a nurse comes to my bed with the news: “Please be ready to be picked up at twelve noon.”
Hadassah, the camp nurse, and Sarah, the girls’ head counselor, come along with the driver to take me “home.” My campers rush out to greet me. They wrap themselves around my legs and pull at my arms. Luckily it’s the rest period and we can all climb into bed, and in a low whisper I tell them stories until all of us fall asleep.
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