"What will I tell my mother?" wailed Miriam. She had given her
mother her word that she would take care of her six-year- old
sister... She alone would answer for the child.
Echoes of the Past
I was all of sixteen and in charge of the youngest group in
Camp Bais Yaakov. A heatwave had been on for almost a week and
we were limp and exhausted, totally uninterested in the
activities being offered. A depressing heaviness had settled
over everything and everyone kept looking up to heaven, seeking
signs of the clouds that might bring us some rain and end our
misery. The only relief we could find in those unbearably hot
days was either in the swimming pool or in the forest, a short
distance outside camp grounds. There, in the stillness and
beauty all around, we seemed somewhat calmed, and there was a
low running brook in which the children would go wading. [Ed.
or berry picking, nearby.]
That day, we had finished lunch in the main dining room and
were back in our bungalows for rest hour when the loudspeaker
came on.
"Attention all counselors! Get your campers into bathing suits,
line them up and bring them down to the forest for rest hour.
Let them have some fun in the brook and then bring them all
back up to the pool. Until this heat breaks, that's all we can
offer."
There was loud cheering as the campers complied with
instructions, and noisily, happily, excitedly chose partners to
double file down the steep enbankment that led from camp
grounds to the forest. Six-year-old Zipporah was my partner and
held tightly to my hand as she warily inched her way down the
hill.
Just a few hours earlier, she had clung unhappily to the hand
of her sister, Miriam, unwilling to part with the nine-year-
old who had cared for her in the months that they had been
separated from their mother, still in Israel. It was 1948, and
with the War of Independence raging, only Americans were able
to leave. Their father, an American studying in a Jerusalem
kollel, was able to save the two children by taking them
back with him to America. But, unable to care for them during
the summer months when schools were not in session, he had, in
desperation, sent them both off to camp.
I looked at Zipporah with a love born of pity. She was a
skinny, undernourished child with a sunken bony face from which
her nose protruded grotesquely. Her straight, straggly hair was
pulled to the side with a bobby pin. She'd been hysterical when
she realized that she couldn't be in the same bunk as her
sister Miriam because of the age difference and, despite all my
efforts to win her over in my broken Hebrew, when I became her
counselor, she had resisted all offers of my friendship. But,
when, in the doctor's office for a compulsory routine medical
examination, the fear of him was greater than the fear of me,
and having nobody better or closer around to rescue her, she
had inevitably clung to me for protection. I had hugged her and
cooed to her and reassured her that the doctor wouldn't hurt
her. After that, she had continued to stay close to me. Thanks
to the doctor, I had passed the test. Thanks to the doctor, I
had become her friend.
Now, still holding tightly to my hand, she watched the other
campers gaining momentum down the steep enbankment, until it
was impossible for them to stop. Shrieks of delight and squeals
of ecstasy filled the air as partners let go of one another's
hands and just flew down the hill. Zipporah looked to me for
reassurance. I smiled and grasped her hand more tightly. She
hung on and started to run, robe trailing behind her, revealing
all knuckles and bone. We kept going, faster and faster. Her
face glowed, she giggled. I thrilled to the sound.
The other children had already gone ahead. We followed the echo
of laughter and shouts till we reached them in a small clearing
beside the brook. The sound of rushing, gurling water banished
all thoughts of rest hour and the heat-weary, drooping,
despondent children were suddenly transformed into a whooping
tangle of water numphs, balancing on tip toe to escape the
jutting stones and pebbles. They splashed, they ducked, they
howled in delight.
Zipporah hesitated, looked to me for permission, let go of my
hand and dashed into the ice cold water. She was immediately
swallowed up in the happy hubbub. When I finally located her
amongst the others, her bobby pin had come loose and she was
bobbing up and down, straining to see past the wet strands of
straight flaxen hair that were plastered to her face, blinking
in surprise as children initiated a friendship by splashing her
gently.
I took a deep breath and joined the other counselors, but I
wasn't able to really tune in to their talk. I kept thinking of
Zipporah and her mother far away. On the one hand, I was
overjoyed that the child was forgetting; yet was certain that
her mother's anxiety and longing would never be mitigated until
she'd be reuinted with her children. I hoped that, as the
child's loving counselor, I would be helping the unfortunate
family in some way.
After the exhilirating refresher, the children rested quietly
on the grass, after which we sent them to the pool for a real
swim.
The heat was still on: persistant, oppressive. Birds called,
crickets chirped. The forest cast a spell, stirred a sweet,
lazy awakening. We would have lingered longer but the children
were waiting at the pool.
As we arrived, every counselor lined up her group for a quick
head count and waved them into the magic waters for more
bedlam. Everyone was already in the pool. My bunk remained
standing. I counted. I counted again. I looked all around for
some sign of her, scanned the distance for a straggler. I
counted again. My campers started to fidget, but sensing my
concern, remained standing in line. I finally asked, "Has
anyone seen Zipporah?" With the words out, a great fear filled
me.
There was a babble of voices as each child tried to recollect
where she had last seen Zipporah. It had definitely been down
at the brook.
I was off at a run. Suddenly, I sensed heavy uneven breathing
behind me and turned to see nine-year-old Miriam, eyebrows
knit, forehead burrowed, trying to catch up with me. "Let me
come along with you!" she begged.
In a way, I was grateful for her company; the forest was not a
place to go to alone. We kept on running together. This time,
there was no laughter and giggles as we ran down the hill. A
cold wind had started to blow and the skies hung heavy with
black clouds. Suddenly, the forest did not appear peaceful and
beautiful. It seemed eerie and perhaps even dangerous. Why had
I never before noticed the empty beer bottles that now peered
out from dark recesses? Had the path always been so littered
with cigarette butts? With a strange foreboding, I remembered
the singing and laughter that often came from the forest late
at night. Who knows what harm Zipporah had met, what terrible
thing had befallen the lone, lost child?
I wondered what thoughts filled Miriam's head as she ran beside
me, calling, "Zipporah, Zipporah!" loud and clear.
"Zipporah, Zipporah!" echoed back from the great wall of
mountain that rose above the brook. She waited and called
again. Her calls became an entreaty, ending in a hoarse
whisper, "Zipporah, Zipporah!"
The echo seemed to mock her. "Zipporah, Zipporah." Her voice
caught, trailed off in despair.
She ran looking in the bushes, pulling at the trees in a wild
frenzy. Finally, she stopped, covered her face with her hands
and slumped down to the ground.
"What will I tell my mother?" she wailed. "What will I tell
Ima?"
Her cry resounded and reverberated throughout the forest,
seemed to awaken the forest soul.
Her tears finally stopped, her sobbing tapered off. Miriam took
her hands off her face and looked at me with unseeing eyes. She
had no questions. She had no complaints. She never tried to
shift her burden to anyone else, to look for someone to blame.
Zipporah was her responsibility.
She had given her mother her word that she would take care of
her six-year-old sister. Camp or no camp, counselor or no
counselor, she alone would answer for the child. When she spoke
again, her voice was dead.
The forest was suddenly darker than ever, the heavens made
rumbling sounds. I took Miriam's hand in mine and tried to give
her hope.
"Miriam, Zipporah doesn't know a word of English. Even if she
could understand, she doesn't even know where the pool is. She
probably didn't realize that we were supposed to go to the pool
and went back to the bunk instead."
At these words, Miriam became alive again, and once more, we
were bounding through the forest, this time in the opposite
direction to get back to camp. But even without calling her
name, we knew that the bunk was deserted.
"Hashem!" I implored, "Hashem!" But my thoughts were paralyzed.
All I could say was "Hashem" over and over again.
We pulled our feet after us and started down to the pool.
"There come the children to ask if we found her," I said sadly
to Miriam, as an excited group of campers ran towards us. But I
was wrong. They were shouting something. "She's here! She's
here!"
Sure enough, there was our precious Zipporah, standing knee
deep in the pool, splashing and blinking, shivering in the
oversized bathing suit that clung to her wet body. She had
first gone to the bunk, and finding herself alone there, had
followed the sounds of screeching and laughing at the pool just
a few minutes after we had run off to search for her in the
forest.
Everyone stood at a respectful distance as Miriam, blinded by
her tears, jumped into the water and grabbed Zipporah
hysterically. She buried her face in her sister's neck and
cried and kissed and hugged her as though she would never let
her go. Zipporah looked on good naturedly, not understanding
what it was all about. Suddenly, Miriam seemed to remember
something and stiffened herself to command. Pulling Zipporah
out of the pool, she stood her solidly down on the ground, and
looking stern and adult, smacked her good and hard (in the
place reserved for such treatment), while shouting in a frantic
babble of Hebrew, which ended, "And didn't I tell you to always
listen to your madricha and do and go only where she
says?"
Miriam was crying. Zipporah was crying. We all looked on
bewildered, not understanding what was going on, until,
realizing that everything was in order, we started to laugh. We
laughed and we laughed, unable to stop, and then, when we
thought that no one saw, we each turned away and wiped our
tears.
Only then did the windows of the heavens open and we all ran
back to our bunks.
