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1 Teves 5761 - December 27, 2000 | Mordecai Plaut, director Published Weekly
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Home and Family
Zipporah
by Sudy Rosengarten

"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.

 

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