---

---

It rained during the bus ride in, narrow highway turning to dirt road turning to muddy track through dense wood. Cal had never been to the country, didn't like the way the trees folded into each other. He shifted closer to his brother Maury. Their knees touching. Maury pinched him. Moved away.

A young man with thick glasses hunched in the driver's seat of the bus, worked the gas pedal. He was singing. Camp song. Shouting the chorus. The bus lurching forward. Suddenly, he lifted his hands off the wheel. Raised them over his head. Clapped a few beats. Kids cheering wildly. The bus veering into the trees.

The camp was called Camp Gesher. Gesher, the kids shouted, Kadima Gesher. Gam by layla gam ba boger Geeeesher. Maury leaned into Cal, said: Gesher means bridge in Hebrew. Cal pictured the bus creaking over a wood bridge, logs slipping out under thick rubber tires. Camp Bridge. He looked out the window, tried to see behind him. The road was gone. Leaves shimmering. The smell was sun on vinyl. The smell was chewing gum. Hubba-Bubba. Bubbalicious. Bazooka. The bus turned sharply. Cal again leaned into his brother.

The man driving the bus is your counselor, Maury told him. His nickname is the Mad Zionist. The Mad Zionist had a bushy head of hair and a sparse patchwork beard covering up the zits on his chin.

What's a Zionist? Cal asked.

*

Toby was a fat kid, the son of an orthodox rabbi whose wife had died in a car accident. An act of god, the rabbi always said. But people were uncomfortable in the presence of a holy man with bad luck. Congregants began to grumble about his long, rambling, and supposedly incoherent sermons. Not six months after Toby's mother died, Toby's father was replaced. An unemployed holy man. He quickly went broke. God's will, he told anyone who was willing to listen. Jewish Aid offered to send Toby to camp. The Zionist camp accepted campers at a reduced rate. Toby's father explained to Toby that Zionism was evil, because only the one lord above who ruled over all could bring about the Messiah and the return of the Jews to the holy land. Nevertheless, he would allow him to go to the camp. But what, Toby asked, if they want me to learn about Zionism? Toby's rabbi father shrugged and turned away. Just eight weeks, he muttered.

How many times that summer did Cal catch himself glancing at Toby? The folds of his tubby face; his weight on him like a winter coat in summer; the fact that he had no mother. Cal couldn't stop himself from staring. What does it look like? Does tragedy show?

*

If nothing else, Toby had Cal and Cal had Toby. They had each other. Wolfitz was alone. Wolfitz became the bunk loser. Wolfitz was thin and pale and least funny when he tried to be funny. Their bunk had a hole in it and the boys called it the condemned cabin. Wolfitz slept next to the hole. Mosquitoes flew through the hole and the boys burned green chemical coils all night to keep the insects at bay. The smoke lodged in their throats. Their voices went harsh and dull, which they liked. The floor was splintering off. You had to be careful jumping from a top bunk. You might end up with a sliver wedged in your heel. Wolfitz had grandparents for fuck's sake. Wolfitz had a mother and father who loved him. They came on visiting day.

There was also a girl. Her name was Moira. She had buck teeth.

Moira was in the Chaverot, slept on the other side of the camp, hidden away in the girl's bunk, nexus of mysterious giggles, wafting spicy scents Cal sometimes caught in the air when he and Toby plodded through the back paths during lazy summer afternoons.

Cal and Toby and Wolfitz were Chaverim. Maury, Cal's older brother, was part of the Bogrim, the counselors-in-training. Cal smelled the scent of pines, heard birds chattering, saw the sun on rocks dappled with green algae. Things he never saw so clearly again. How to describe them? For certain sensations, certain impetuous moments, there is nothing that approximates, no description that comes close.

When Cal stepped off the bus and breathed in the air, he forgot all about himself, how he was. There was a photo his mother kept in a special album. She took it from his grandmother's dusty apartment after his grandmother died. A snapshot of a huddled group of Yiddish peasants. The colour was grey. There was no colour. My father, his mother once explained to him, your Zadie. She indicating a young man, blonde, smiling. Then she pointed her finger to the wall just behind his shoulder. That's where they shot him.

The breeze tickled Cal's nostrils, air made intangible in its exhaustible openness. They learned the names of the birds, the bugs, the trees. But he didn't care. This thrush or that rush. Words without feeling. Names uttered knowledgeably as if to fill the wide open spaces.

He ran away several times intending to get lost in the forest, die a death of poison mushrooms and rough moss. He imagined dying alone, in a clustered grove of trees, leaning against a dead crooked trunk. He wanted the mosquitoes to feast on his polluted blood. Nobody noticed he was missing.

*

Midnight dropped them in a clearing like a giant womb. They had Wolfitz spread open over a rotting tree stump. He was silently crying. Cal kept thinking that if Wolfitz would just scream it would all be over. Not that he wanted it to be over.

A giant mosquito landed gently on the fused sack of Wolfitz's scrotum. Finally, Wolfitz moaned. The boys dropped him. Naked on the rustling forest floor. Kids can be so cruel. Toby caught up to Cal, waddle-running the way only fat boys do. Toby's rabbinical nose in the midnight sun. He looked sad. A scholar in sweat pants.

Did you see his balls? Toby panted.

*

Saturday morning. The water-ski boat tugged the Mad Zionist out over the glossy lake. He was singing, his voice overwhelming even the swell of the boat's engine. The song, proud despairing litany, seemed to inch its way across the camp, covering everything with a thick pine-cone sap.

Yerushalayim shel zahav, ve shel choshech...

Saturdays were free days.

Cal woke up Toby. Together they slipped out of the dark cabin. Dappled sunshine through the trees. The Mad Zionist's song catching in the corners, spreading like a rash.

They ambled down the wide dirt road into the centre of camp. They kept looking behind them. They weren't doing anything wrong. But free time seemed so...free. Why give them this present, these hot dry dusty afternoons empty of violent games of murder ball, embarrassing lessons in the art of that insufferable two-step dance the Hora, droningly inscrutable lectures on the economic philosophies behind kibbutz life? The sun and the air and the sound of the boat as it cut its own wake. It was almost too much for Cal. This freedom. This wide open day. Behind the flag pole they sneaked on to a smaller path through the woods. They passed the tree house, steps dangling in the air supported by fraying rope. At Camp Gesher, everything was made with rope and wood. No nails. The Mad Zionist explained that Uri Gershotits, the camp founder, had been an expert in tsoviiout—the pioneer skill of rope tying. Toby's fat fingers working twine. This was the legacy of the camp forefather.

They crossed the bridge, the logs rolling in their rotting rope moorings. Dark water swelling below them. Snake Island. There was nothing expressly forbidden at Camp Gesher. Certain things seemed to be against the rules, but nothing was forbidden. They crossed, heads down, trying to distinguish the loose rotten logs from the equally submerged but still intact timbers that would offer them safe passage. They crossed in half steps, in a tip-toe shuffle. Cal held his breath, watching Toby's heavy feet, the wood bending, Toby's ample buttocks jiggling.

On the island, between the fissures and iceberg boulder chasms there were snakes. Garden snakes, light green like spring conifers. Water snakes, rumoured to be poisonous, long and tubular, black and sinuous. They saw one floating in the brackish water lapping at their feet. Jumped back, laughing and pulling at each other. Cal was young. He didn't miss home. He wanted to see a snake. Didn't he see one, just barely submerged? Didn't he see its shriveled wet face, wizened knowledge and hooded eyes, memories in half shadows? A family of russets or rock snakes, olive tan bodies, pink kissing tongues. They took off their shirts, Toby white and distended, Cal slim and weedy. But they were both pale and smooth and hairless; new. They leaned in close and talked about girls. Time in sly inevitabilities. They had heard the other kids talk this way. The wind blew bog weeds against the craggy rocks. They talked about girls. The Chaverot and the Bonot. Budding breasts, tight bodies under baggy sweatshirts, big hair, heavy lipstick.

Their conversation slipped through the wind as if, for once, talk was going to make fantasy possible.

Cal's hand grazed Toby's sweaty thigh.

A cloud drifted over. Trees and the clinging veil of the lake's mist. You could touch things. He tasted hot flesh on his tongue.

Bonot Barbara's tits were real. As real as anything would ever be real.

They used the word tits. Cal's shorts tented up. He sat with his legs crossed. Toby next to him. Pulled an illicit chocolate bar out of his pocket, hot and slick and delicious. Cal leaned close into Toby's chocolate breath and said: Were you there? Were you there when your mother died?

*

In the middle of the night, Cal woke up. The air dense with mosquito-repelling smoke. He peered through the gloom. A rustling. Mouse in the junk food box? The Bonim staging a raid? Something kept him from yelling. A lot at stake: Chips—sour cream and onion, salt and vinegar, ketchup, barbecue, ruffled, ridged, regular—red and black licorice, bars of sticky chocolate fluffed with rice and wafer and marshmallow.

The communal junk food box was the result of the Mad Zionist's proscription against candy ownership. He had told them about it on the first day. Rooted through their duffels for contraband sweets. Toby had a convenience store under the false bottom of a suitcase. The Mad Zionist dumped t-shirts, underpants. Knew all along. Toby's face melting like a chocolate bunny. I believe in the communal, The Mad Zionist had told them. Everything goes in the box. Share and share alike. Best friends forever as we build a new nation based on equality, hard work and the resolve that runs through our collective blood. The Mad Zionist kicked a cardboard box to the centre of the bunk. This is called kupa, he explained. Cookies hitting bottom with a thud.

Cal heard the rustling get louder, then abruptly stop. He rubbed his eyes. Made out a skinny tall figure—the Mad Zionist—digging through the junk food box, pulling out a big bag of chips. He watched as the Mad Zionist returned the kupa to a high top shelf inaccessible to his short charges.

*

In Arts and Crafts Cal painted a rock black, gave it to Toby without a word.

Toby might have once touched his lips with a squat finger under the pretense of wiping off a glob of smeared marshmallow, bonfire darkness, bunk cookout, weenie roast.

Moira had long black hair. The lumps on her chest were like predestination. After that night in the woods with her, he got a rash.

Cal still wakes up in the middle of the night, itchy and sweaty, and sees himself back in that living dream. Moira is with him. The clasps of her bra, her mosquito bite lumps. The Mad Zionist stealing their snacks.

*

Camp Director Moishe initiated a new tradition that summer, a game to be played out between the hours of one and six a.m. Night game.

Cal lay in his sleeping -bag, not daring to open his eyes. He could hear the shuffling of the Mad Zionist's sneakers as the counselor ambled around the Condemned Cabin, pulled back sleeping bags here and there to inspect cherubic faces for signs of misdeed, of panty raids and nocturnal emissions sweet with the sour optimism that is growing up. The Mad Zionist's steps getting louder and closer. Cal could smell something decaying, at once rotten and intoxicating.

Happalah! the Mad Zionist suddenly yelled, ripping sleeping bags out from under his startled charges. It's Happalah!

They painted their faces black and coated themselves in bug repellent. The Mad Zionist herded them out and over to the Beit Tarbut, the meeting hall. They were counted and accounted for, divided into groups of boys and girls from different bunks. He was put in with Moira—a Chaverot. He stood next to her. Looked down. Mosquitoes buzzing ankles. They were all shaking. The night seemed cold, enormous. The once friendly counselors wore outlandish military outfits, prodding the campers, telling them that their lives depended on absolute silence. He could see Wolfitz and Toby, in another group. Wolfitz sniffling back tears. Terror in weak brown eyes. And his older brother Maury, dressed as a soldier, sporting a red beret, standing with other counselors-in-training, looking confident and aloof, as if he alone already knew what would transpire at night out there in the open spaces between trees and marshes and country roads. The Mad Zionist patted Wolfitz's head tolerantly, reminded him in a loud lecturing voice that tonight they were the pilgrims to Palestine, the dispossessed, the unwanted, the dreamers of future conflict who stood in brave glory on the precipice of history. Wolfitz sniffled.

The Mad Zionist joined Cal's group and led them out. They trudged down the dark road leading away from the camp. Cal squinted at the stars, watched them blur. Nobody spoke, fearing that a question—an inquiry into the nature of these timeless pioneers whose actions they were to somehow imitate—might drive the Mad Zionist into an impromptu bout of folk dancing.

*

You don't know how dark it can get until you're in the woods at night, winding down a rutted track through the trees. Cal doesn't look above, because the sky is low, a tent canopy falling, crushing him. His heart skips a beat then thumps twice to make up for it. They march and Cal holds the hands of the campers in front and behind.

In front is a little girl named Rachel from the youngest kvutza in the camp, the Amelim. Rachel is luminous, you can see where you are stepping on account of her terrified innocent shine. Her hand disappears in his. Behind, his hand rests in the palm of Chaverot Moira, a shy quiet girl with protruding front teeth and black hair. She smiles as they move along the road, urged on by the Mad Zionist's frantic whisper:

There's only one way into Palestine. Do exactly as I say. I'm a member of the Haganah—the secret underground Zionist army. I was sent to sneak you in. You have to do exactly what I say. When I give my command, you run like hell. Otherwise, the Brits will grab you, take you to Cypress and torture you.

Rachel squeezes his fingers.

The Mad Zionist whispers. I go psst once and we stop in our tracks. I go psst psst and we jump off the road and hide in the bushes. You don't move till you hear me give the signal again: psst pssst.

Rachel cries. Glows. She's afraid to jump in the bushes, doesn't want the Brits to torture her, doesn't want to go to Cypress, wherever that is.

Be strong, the Mad Zionist says. Do what I say. No crying. You're on your way to Palestine.

They march.

Pssst.

They stop.

Okay, the Mad Zionist says. We're ready.

Cal holds Rachel's little hand and Moira's big one. They walk in a line. He doesn't have to think about making his legs move, they step out on their own, awkward angles, stiff limbs. His hand in Moira's, his dark crotch straining under zipper jeans. He thinks: I'm holding her hand.

Psst psst.

They jump into the bushes.

A pick-up rattles to a stop. Tires and crushed dust.

Well well. A fake Brit accent.

Cal holds on to Moira. Together they take maybe one breath.

A cute little Yew!

A sacrificial yitlle yamb!

Rachel cries. Her glow lost in the headlights.

Two counselors jump out of the pick-up. Pressed uniforms. Their hair shined and combed to one side. Red berets gleaming. One of them tucks Rachel under his arm. The other one waves his fist at the whistling branches.

We'll be back for the rest of you Yids, he says.

Rachel kicks. Pisses herself.

Oie! Would'ya look at 'er! A little Yid!

Cal feels Moira against him. He lets himself breathe. The smell is birch trees. Insect repellent. Sweat. Perfume.

He's so hard.

Psst psst, the Mad Zionist hisses, clambering up the embankment like a wild animal.

He knows her name is Moira. He doesn't dare say her name. They could be walking circles. He doesn't care. They could be locked in dungeons. In Cypress. Black flies dive bomb. Their buzzing descent sounding her name. Moira.

Pick-up trucks pass. Patrols. Nothing looks familiar. The path narrows. Spills into a wide avenue, bog bordering both sides of the road, a rank urgent odour lapping pressed dirt. The Mad Zionist has them sprint, warns them not to jump into the swamp. They are better off in Cypress, he says, then floating dead under lily pads. Which are edible in a pinch, he adds. They run as fast as they can without letting go of each other and then dive into the moist brush just in time to avoid the patrol.

The truck slows.

Yids!

Yews!

Yiddle Yid Yews!

I smell Yews!

Stinks here, doesn't it.

Quite.

They laugh. Drive on. The British are increasingly vulgar, if he knew to know he might think they were drunk. Spot of sherry. Touch of port to warm the bones on a cold Northern summer night.

*

The Mad Zionist says: psst. He has them gather around him in a semi-circle. He points to where the road disappears into the night. Campers peer, think they might see something. Maybe the first blush of dawn, though no one can imagine it, it's as if they've lived in the dark all their short lives. The Mad Zionist says: Okay we've got to split up. Everyone listen. Just over that hill is the machane—in other words, Palestine. You've got to get to the flagpole, where you'll be given a forged passport and then you're safe. We're coming in from the side. Go west—that's a right turn, this way—you'll cross the path. Head for the back of the cheder ochel. Everyone pick a buddy. Be careful. May we all reach the promised land. May our days be filled with milk and honey and collectivism. Death to the Brits.

Death to the Brits.

Death to Palestine.

Death to Palestine.

Long live the Eretz.

Long live.

Cal holds Moira's hand, closes his eyes, opens them. Stars everywhere. Very bright. They crest the hill and it's like they've fallen off the planet. He kisses her, feels her buck teeth press against his lower lip. Feels the swell of her tits against his heart-pounding chest. They run. Through woods, into woods. The night clearer than any day. The mosquitoes buzzing, chanting: Moira.

They fall into a cocoon of weeds and leaves and old pine needles gone soft. She takes his head in her arms, brushes his lips.

She sticks her tongue in. He makes a noise in his throat. He's never done this before. Didn't know people did this.

He'll say to Toby: It's not something I want to talk about.

He'll say: I don't want to talk about it.

He'll keep it inside. One day when he's much much older he'll wake and think about little Rachel who glowed like a firefly and spent the night in the cheder ochel helping the Brits slap the camper captives with jam.

He kisses her with spit and passion. In the distance, kids scream, slip past the drunken Brits like mice between the hairy legs of the camp cook.

She pushes, slips to her knees, pulls off her sweater. Her bra the colour of wet stars. Her nipples in fat pebbles. He feels them swelling. She puts her hand down his pants.

A light rain at dawn. Then the morning sun. Steaming over wet logs. The bridge to Snake Island. The teetering tree house. The ripped open walls of the condemned cabin. The machane flag pole, camp colours beseeching the heavens.

She touches his dick. Pants trapped at the knees. He fumbles. Gets her bra off. White shoulders. A light rain at dawn.

He whispers: Which way to Palestine? She smiles. Strokes him.

He takes a breath, rubs against Moira. She grunts and over-bites her lip.

Yids are marched down a forest path, their hands in the air, their faces smeared with peanut butter and jelly. Wolfitz sniffles. Rachel licks a red glob off her cheek, tastes strawberry and something she doesn't recognize, some other taste.

Cal grinds against Moira.

Flashlight like a target, beaming where their bodies meet.

Well well, a jubilant Brit proclaims. What do we have here? Ywo fornicating Yews.

A cold hand closing around the back of his neck.

Cal twists frantically, trying to see behind him.

Catches a glimpse:

His brother Maury, counselor-in-training, wide insane grin obliterating dawn.

© 2005 Hal Niedzviecki