According to the brochure, the word “tikvah” means “hope” in Hebrew. The camp’s name echoes the title of the Israeli national anthem, “Hatikvah.” Toni feels anything but hopeful as the date for her departure approaches. Her gut churns with grim foreboding.
chapter 8
Their new names are Angela and Sharon. They’ve developed into teenage goddesses, the kind that gaze out of magazines, perky and bright, yet with a glitter of insolence that seems to say, “Go ahead and stare. We’re used to it.”
They set the pace among the girls of Cabin Eleven, determining when it’s time to get up and go, whether it will be a pedal-pushers or a Bermuda shorts sort of day, whether a boy’s joke is hilarious or deserves just a weary smirk. They are the sun around which the others spin, even their counsellor, Lorna, who is just a couple of years older than the rest and has squinty eyes and a residue of yellow where she’s dyed the fuzz on her upper lip. When Lorna gives an order, all eyes turn to Angela and Sharon to see how they’ll respond.
Toni knew from the moment she laid eyes on them on the first day of camp that’s how it would be. Everyone stood outside the bunkhouse, waiting for the trunks to arrive, and introduced themselves. There was Deena, a cute, pixie-faced girl with a breathless manner; Faye from Cape Breton—a place none of the others had heard of—speaking in a strange accent and wearing braces and a good-natured smile; heavyset Marion, blotchy red under the afternoon sun, but with pretty forget-me-not blue eyes. They offered eager or bashful grins as they spoke their names and looked appealingly around the circle. When it was Toni’s turn, she kept her eyes neutral, her back stiff. Her name came out gruffly, a crow’s hoarse croak. Angela and Sharon registered no surprise. Their glances flicked over her, cool and bland. Speaking to the others out loud, they said, laughing, “You can tell us apart by our rings,” and presented their soft, golden hands to be admired. While Toni remained aloof on the sidelines, the others twittered and crowded around, in awe of the thick signet rings each of the twins displayed on the middle finger of her left hand. Going-steady rings—one with an onyx stone, the other with the McGill crest—proof of college boyfriends back home.
“Don’t worry if you mix us up,” they said graciously. “We’re used to it.”
Toni remembered how they used to live next door on her street and how, egged on by her buddy Arnold, she used to throw dirt at them when they passed by. She remembered their hoity-toity airs. Assie and Shittie. The kindergarten insult floated into Toni’s mind to mock her, not them. They no longer dressed identically or wore the same hairdos (Angela had a bouncy, shoulder-length flip, Sharon’s was slightly shorter and turned under). Still, they were a picture of mirror-image loveliness. They both had well-cultivated tans, as if they’d worked on themselves with sun reflectors before coming to camp. Pearly pink nail polish winked from their toes. Maybe it would have been better to admit she recognized her old enemies, but the opportunity passed, and then it was too late. She was trapped by her own falseness. The twins exchanged a look. They telegraphed some kind of understanding between them. We know you, their pitying smiles said, we know you know us, but if you want to pretend otherwise for some twisted reason, that’s your business.
Now Toni hears the twins chatter a few feet away as the entire camp assembles in a giant “U” around the flagpole, the oldest groups along the sides, the youngest in the middle, for the morning routine: roll call, pep talks, exercises, anthems. Kids shuffle into place on the grassy slope above the lake and turn to face uphill where Myron, the camp director, stands at attention, beaming down on them. He’s a swarthy, thickset man, barrel-chested, with gleaming white teeth beneath a toothbrush moustache. He generally looks like a jolly uncle, except when the sarcastic edge creeps into his smile. He raises his hand for sheket, silence, and the counsellors all shush their charges. Angela and Sharon lower their voices but continue with their business of sorting out the guys—who’s cute, who’s a drip, who’s merely so-so. What does it matter, since they already have boyfriends to whom they write letters sealed with big, pink lipstick smears on the back flap? It matters. Their voices hiss with urgency. They deliver judgements with confident authority. They ignore Lorna’s feeble attempts to hush them up.
Myron launches into a speech about Camp Tikvah’s goals—sound minds in sound bodies, Jewish identity, love of the struggling, heroic, new-born state of Israel—as his voice grows husky, his barrel chest swells, and his face gleams with the perspiration of earnest effort. How dearly he wants his campers, his 120 “Tikvah-maniacs,” to understand the importance of Israel, far away in miles but close to our hearts. Imagine, he implores, that they are in two places simultaneously. They are here at this beautiful spot on Lac Sainte-Cecile in the Laurentian mountains, surrounded on all sides by spruce and poplar forests, but they are also in the ancestral Promised Land. Look beyond the Canadian bush to another landscape of orange groves, sand dunes, ancient hills. Admire the pioneers with sun-bitten faces, work-hardened hands, the modern-day Davids and Sampsons who carry rifles on their shoulders and books of poetry in their hands. Remember the great ones of history—Moses, King Solomon, the Maccabees, Theodor Herzl, Ben Gurion. Think of the countless other heroes, the kibbutzniks, the citizen soldiers, male and female, and even the children, the bold, miraculous new generation.
“Him? He’s got tits. Didn’t you notice at swimming? And Hank? Oh, Hanky Panky? He’s O.S.I.”
A burst of giggles sweeps through the row of Cabin Eleven girls. Toni does what she’s been trying not to do; she leans over to look at the twins, as if looking will tell her what O.S.I. means. The twins clutch their stomachs and slap their thighs and catch her watching, and their grins turn doubly wicked. We know you don’t know, and we’re not telling.
A stiff breeze flaps the flags, Canadian and Israeli, on top of the pole, and the loose ends of the ropes ching-ching against the metal. Grey clouds scud across the sky. Beneath the grassy slope on which the assembly stands lies the lake, ruffled and purple and cold looking. All around the lake, the forest crowds up against the shore, the trees seeming to huddle together as if they too have goosebumps from the chill morning air. Toni shivers. She can’t swim. She will never learn to swim. She ventured into the lake up to her knees, hugging herself, while Hank, the waterfront captain, tried to coax her to at least dunk her face in. When she did, water leapt up her nose and down her throat.
“Your head is like a coconut. It floats,” he assured her. His hand strayed over the hard packed muscles of his chest as if he loved the feel of himself, couldn’t resist it. Dreamboat Hank. The whistle that dangled from his neck was shaped like a miniature pistol. Little kids half her size walloped the water around her, while in the deep end of the roped-off swimming area, all her bunkmates swam laps, arms churning, pink heels flashing. Rooted to the spot, her toes clinging to the muddy lake bottom, she cringed whenever she got splashed, and trembled with self-loathing.
It’s time for the pledge. One-hundred-and-twenty campers and counsellors put their right hands on their hearts, raise the other in the air and chant, first in Hebrew, then in English: “If I forget thee, O Jerusalem, let my right hand forget her cunning. If I do not remember thee, let my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth.”
One half of the “U” lags behind the other in the slow, mournful chant, so there’s an echo at the end of every line and then another hollow murmur, ghostly and mocking, that seems to come from the lake. Toni pretends to chant along, but she doesn’t know the Hebrew and, even during the English part, her voice remains frozen in her throat.
Myron likes to end the morning assembly with a show of camp spirit in the form of a cheer. Nothing is as important as spirit, which means frantic happiness, and unabashed, shrieking, frenzied enthusiasm bursting forth from every mouth. Their cheer comes from the Bible, from the phrase Moses used to urge Joshua into battle: chazak v’amatz, be brave and strong. Myron calls out the first word and they all answer with the second.
“Can’t hear you,”
Myron bellows, cupping his hand around his ear.
One-hundred-and-twenty Tikvah-maniacs yell out the response.
“Louder!”
Kids bend their knees, put their hands to their heads, scream with every ounce of their lungs. The girls of Toni’s group join in, Angela and Sharon shout with savage glee, everyone howls like escapees from the Verdun Asylum, but it’s Toni who’s the weird one. She stands woodenly, with lips pressed together. She lacks what it takes to cheer her head off.
When the assembly dissolves, the girls of Cabin Eleven, all except Toni, form a chorus line, arms draped over shoulders, and march down the hill toward the dining hall singing: “I go to Camp Tikvah, O pity me, There ain’t a damn man in the vicinity.”
Some of the boys of Cabin Twelve lean over the rails of the dining hall veranda and hoot about the cleavage they pretend they can see. Toni lingers behind, having sloughed off Lorna’s attempts to force her in with the group. You’re supposed to sparkle, bump hips together. You’re supposed to be like Alka Seltzer fizzing in a glass. That’s how it’s done when you’re normal.
Dear Diary,
It’s the second week of camp: forty-two days, 1,008 hours, 60,480 minutes of Hellfire to go.
During after-lunch rest period, while the other girls sprawl on their beds with magazines, letters, and toe-nail polish, and a drowsy heat fills the cabin, Toni goes over her lists:
The things I hate:
1) No privacy. I have to hide under the blankets to get dressed and undressed. There’s just a thin piece of plywood between the toilet and the rest of the cabin and nothing at all around the sink area so everyone sees everything. If I have a pimple or that morning gunk in the corner of my eyes, they all can see me looking at my icky stuff in the mirror.
2) The annoying routine. We’re up at 6:30, with Myron singing a peppy song over the loudspeaker. Assembly, breakfast, Period 1, Period 2, Period 3, etc., until lights out.
3) The endless togetherness. I’m not allowed to wander off by myself. When I try to escape group activities, Lorna hunts me down and herds me back, making “tsk-tsk” sounds.
4) The requirement to be smiley. If I don’t have a grin plastered on my face like everyone else, some counsellor gives me a phony friendly hug and yammers something cheerful in my ear.
5) The twins. I hate their beauty-queen guts.
6) Trying to swim. Hank says everyone can float, but I can’t. I sink down to the muddy green bottom of the lake and the water squeezes my head, the noise is awful and it lasts forever.
7) Folkdancing. They’ve got this frantically happy accordion music blasting from the record player. We’re in a circle holding hands and whirling faster, faster. Everyone stamps in unison, everyone except me, because my stupid body jerks the other dancers off balance. They snort with laughter and the twins roll up their eyes. I pray for the music to end, but when it does all I hear are the giggles and all I see are my big, long ugly feet.
The things I like:
1) My bed. It’s the upper bunk, in the corner, close to the rafters, so almost like a hiding place. Above my head, a daddy-long-legs dangles by an invisible thread. It’s a creepy old thing, that spider, but nice somehow with hinged, hair-thin legs spreading out from a body like a blob of spit. It sways in the breeze, defying gravity. The thread comes from its abdomen. I read that somewhere.
2) The food. My parents think Canadian food is inferior but I think it’s great. I love the pancakes with corn syrup, hotdogs, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on white bread, and Jello instant pudding.
3) Baseball. It’s the one sport I’m good at. The first time I swung the bat like crazy and missed and the boys on the other team made fun of me by covering their heads as if they were about to get beaned. But the next chance up I connected and did their jaws ever drop.
4) Faye. She’s goofy and sweet and so easy-going. When the other kids screw up their faces at Faye’s Cape Breton expressions (“knickers” instead of underpants, “mitts” instead of hands), she just grins and puts on her broadest accent: “Youz turkeys ain’t heard nuttin’ yet.” She sleeps in the bunk below me and always calls up, “Sleep tight, Toni,” every single night. She taught me “O.S.I.” means “over six inches.” (Yuck!) Faye would like to be a bridge between me and the twins. She wants everyone to be one big happy family. Silly, kind-hearted Faye.
5) Beauty. In nature. I’ve read about beauty in books and thought I knew what it meant, but I didn’t until now. It floors me how beauty sneaks up, jumps out. One morning there were swirls of mist on the lake, and the far shore was blotted out except for the dark green pointed tips of the fir trees. A loon called. It felt like there was this huge, looming thing in the silence of the forest. Another time, I saw pale green sparks winking on and off in the thick darkness beyond the cabin. Fireflies. How do they do that? How do they transform their insect bodies into light?
Things I’m not sure about:
1) The singing program.
2) The singing instructor, Janet Bloom.
This Friday evening begins, like all others, with welcome-the-Sabbath ceremonies. Three junior girls wearing white dresses and crowns of daisies giggle on the dining hall threshold: the Sabbath Queen and her attendants. All other Tikvah-maniacs sit in their groups at trestle tables and crane their necks. “Aw,” the crowd murmurs in unison. The hall breaks into a hymn as the trembling procession advances up the aisle. “Come, my beloved, with a chorus of praise, Welcome Shabbat, the queen of our days.”
For Friday evenings, the long tables wear white paper cloths and plastic tumblers of wildflowers whose heads flop forward on wilting stems. Decorations adorn the walls; hand-drawn menorahs, dreidels, golden coins, and the ever-present, somewhat misshapen Star of David. The theme is Hanukkah in July. All the major Jewish festivals will find their way onto the agenda during the course of the summer. Toni had no idea there were so many.
Myron rises from his place at the head table in the front of the room to say a few words about the significance of Hanukkah, the ancient revolt against oppressors and a demonstration of Jewish ruach. “What does the Hebrew word ruach mean?” Myron asks them, but doesn’t wait for an answer. “Spirit and breath. Which brings us to the meaning of Sabbath, too. God’s ruach created heaven and earth. God’s ruach blew into Adam’s lungs. And do Tikvah-maniacs have any of that ruach? Do they?” Myron cups his hand to his ear.
“Yes!” the hall thunders. “Yes, yes, yes!” Feet stamp, fists pound the tables and make cutlery clatter. The hall erupts into chants of, “We want Janet, we want Janet.”
Myron’s chief ally in the ruach department sits at the end of the head table with her chin in her hands, looking dreamy, as if none of this commotion has anything to do with her. She heaves herself up at last and shuffles slowly down the centre aisle. Her face is rosy, freckled, and unremarkable. Her figure is slight, with pink, sunburnt legs sticking out of khaki Bermuda shorts. The hall simmers down. An expectant hush descends.
Janet makes them wait a few moments longer, then opens her mouth and belts out a line of song. “David, David, King of Israel,” she sings in Hebrew. Her voice reaches from one end of the room to the other, hits the rafters, rich and clear, high and sweet. A voice so much bigger than the rest of her. She repeats the line, excruciatingly slowly this time, groaning out the words like a record on the wrong speed. The little kids hoot with laughter. Finally, she delivers the song for real, at its proper peppy tempo, her hands waving for them all to join in. Voices blend and swell into a tide. Faster, faster, Janet urges them as she hops up and down the aisle, her hands clapping, her frizzy red hair springing free from the bobby pins that held it in place. One song melts into another. “The hills skipped like rams,” they sing in Hebrew.
“Hava nagila … ”
“Tzena, tzena, tzena …”
“Michael, row your boat ashore, Hallelooooya.”
Hating her own froggy voice, Toni resists the pressure to sing, but she sways a little; she can’t help hers
elf, the wash of voices sweeps her along. Now arms drape over shoulders, she’s included in the circle, with Marion on her left, Faye on her right, as the whole group rocks together and warbles for all they’re worth. A pleasant vibration rises in Toni’s chest. Her tiny drop of sound flows with the rest. How good when the whole hall unites, when the girls hold onto one another, glowing with goodwill, smiling like angels, all trace of snootiness gone. The room is one great heart, one gust of wind, ruach, roooo-ach. Myron waves his hands as if he’s orchestrating the songfest, but it’s not him of course, it’s Janet, that brilliant spark in the middle of the room.
Then it’s over. Back to the chatter, titters, whispers, gossip, head tossing, exchanges of superior looks.
After the prayers that conclude the evening meal, the entire assembly storms outside onto the lawn and the big wrap-around veranda to await the evening program, a play about the battle between the Greeks and the Maccabees. Toni slips away to the far end of the beach, where overturned canoes and rowboats lie. Secluded from view, she settles on a cool aluminium hull. The water is still as molten glass and dark, except for a path of gold spangles cast by the setting sun. Across the lake, the lower slopes of the forested hills drown in shadow, while the tops glow like candles. On the far shore, the white houses of the village of Sainte-Cecile cluster together. All this beauty is right in front of her, yet a million miles away, beyond her grasp. Loneliness bites deeper than ever.
“Pretty damn gorgeous, eh?” someone beside her drawls.
Toni whips around to see Janet Bloom standing above her. Janet’s bare feet must have whispered along the grass, but Toni heard nothing. The song instructor studies Toni for a long moment, then plops down onto the boat. Fumbling in the pocket of her shorts, she fishes out a matchbook and a somewhat flattened cigarette, which she moulds back into shape with her thumb and forefinger. Casually, she lights up. A cigarette on Shabbat! Instinctively, Toni cranks her head around. She’s become so used to spying eyes everywhere. Janet winks.
Girl Unwrapped Page 9