Summer of 1961, Pine Bush, New York

By Roz Leiser

While our head counselor divided the older campers into teams the girls in my bunk rolled our eyes. None of us liked Ringolevio, a glorified version of hide and seek. In the summer of 1961, at the age of 12, I resented participating in activities I disliked, but I ran off to hide anyway. Near the campfire site I squeezed myself behind a large boulder, close to the ground.

As I tried to make myself as tiny as possible, I scraped my elbow against the cold rock’s surface. Although I was a chubby preadolescent who never felt small enough, I did my best to become invisible. My other arm was warm beneath my face, but after what seemed like hours, pins and needles started in my legs and my blue cotton shorts no longer kept me warm on the damp earth. I wanted to shift my position, but could I do it without making a sound? In the distance I heard the slap of sneakers on the grass and shouts when a member of the opposite team was located and captured.

A mosquito buzzed by my ear. If it bit me I knew I would move, stirring up the rotten leaves and pebbles beneath me. I pictured the indented circles and squares they would leave in my knees. Slowly, I turned my head to the other side, where I could see a small slice of sky dissected by tree trunks. How long could I remain like this?

I hated this game, but it gave me a chance to practice hiding. To imagine that I was a partisan in the woods, who lived on crusts of bread and thin cabbage soup, and would never be defeated by a mosquito. My desire to be courageous enough to have survived the horrors of World War II created endless fantasies that ran like a movie through the back of my mind before I fell asleep and at random moments when I was alone. In this parallel existence the subway could instantly become the train to Auschwitz, the toll collector on the George Washington Bridge an SS man, the boulder I hid behind relocated to the woods of Poland.

I never spoke about this shadow world. Certainly my parents were unaware of it. And I’m sure the German Jewish camp owners had no idea what this game evoked for me. I didn’t even wonder if the many other campers who came from families that had escaped Europe had similar thoughts. We didn’t talk about such things.

I thought I smelled wiener schnitzel coming from the kitchen. Whether or not I was captured in this game I would get dinner. After a warm shower my chill would be gone and I would crawl into my bed under the green army blanket. I wanted to just give up, sit around with the other captured team members and wait to eat. Knowing that I could do that did nothing to avert my fear when leaves rustled nearby. Was someone about to find me? Should I run?

As a partisan I would have no blankets. I might be lucky and find a haystack to sleep in. Hay would be softer than the ground and might offer a little warmth, but I was allergic to it and would probably sneeze all night. I’d never be able to put on pajamas for fear that I’d have to move quickly. I wouldn’t have pajamas anyway. The small band of people I was with would wear filthy rags and never be able to bathe. My shoes would have holes and soles so thin that any pointed pebble would stab my foot right through them. But it wouldn’t matter because I could save my family and myself.

I was terrified that I could not be as brave as my grandmother Rosie for whom I was named. Although she hadn’t hidden in the woods, she had saved her family. My father always said so. She had gotten fake visas to Uruguay and miraculously shepherded them out of Berlin in 1938. Two years later she stood on a dock in Holland and persuaded her three young sons and her aging parents to jump into a fishing boat to go to England. How could I ever compare to her?

I opened my eyes to rays of sunlight lower on the horizon, lighting up the small rectangles of sky. No one had found me yet. I hadn’t moved. I was proud. Goosebumps had formed on my once warm arm.

A sudden loud yell, “Ach, was ist das?” sent a wave of panic racing through me and I bolted upright. When I stood sharp pain stabbed through my leg, but I was determined to endure it. My right leg gave way as I tried to run; it had fallen dead asleep and was numb.

I was so disappointed in myself, I could feel the burn of tears forming behind my eyes and I swallowed over and over to keep them from escaping. Then I realized that it was only Joel. He too was from a refugee family and we had made a pact to speak German to each other for two weeks. I was so relieved to see Joel’s camp T-shirt and dungarees instead of a Nazi uniform that I didn’t mind surrendering. It was, after all, only a game. Tomorrow, I knew we would have riflery, and I would get another opportunity to practice my skills at partisanship.

Roz Leiser is a freelance writer and counselor for people facing issues of illness, wellness, and grief in San Francisco.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Tuesday, February 27th, 2007 | Email This Post

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