Guest Column
A Different Kind
Of Camp
room and scrubs his
he tall, black door
hands and face. He final-
creaks open; rusty-
ly brushes his teeth with
brown carpet is
bottled water, gargles for
exposed. A dirty window
a few seconds, and
lies open across the room.
begins humming once
Signs on buildings are in
again.
view, but I cannot read the
"Zayde, please. It's
words. A little wooden desk Deborah Anstandig
almost 1 a.m. We need to
sits in the far left corner.
Special to
be up early tomorrow.
A tiny bathroom is across
The AppleTree
Can we please go to
the way: a shower without
bed?" I plead.
a curtain, a rusty toilet connected
"Yes, Deborah, just give me one
with a string flusher, a strange roll
moment to ..."
of dark-brown toilet paper, an old
It's hopeless. I try to sleep, as
rectangular mirror, and an unsturdy
thoughts race through my mind.
sink fastened to the wall.
What was I doing here? Why was I
At the opposite side of the room,
taking a week from my summer vaca-
two old and small beds are posi-
tion to go half way across the world?
tioned perpendicular to each other
As I try calculating what time it is
against the walls. I uncover the top
back home, I picture my friends at
scratchy blanket and lie down on
camp, singing, dancing and having
the over-starched and tightly pulled
a great time without me.
off-white sheets. I close my eyes
I roll onto my side and listen to
and picture my bright familiar room,
my zayde's humming becoming soft-
with its crisp-white walls, snow-
er. Why was he visiting the land
white carpet and comfortable bed.
where underneath lies the blood of
As I reopen my eyes, I sigh. It isn't
our people? Why spend a week on
a dream, for I am in Warsaw,
land where the bones of our people
Poland; and I am going to be
were ground to dust? Why was he
spending the night in my zayde's
in Poland, where millions of Jews,
hotel room.
including his own family, lost their
I set my Sony Discman and CD
lives in the Holocaust?
case on the shelf. My modern
"Goodnight, Sweetheart. I'll wake
music player looks like a sparkling
us up early so we will have enough
gem in a pile of crumpled leaves in
time to eat breakfast tomorrow
this primitive room. I quickly jot
before we leave." He kisses me,
more notes in my journal and try to
gets into his own bed, and peaceful-
sleep. Meanwhile, Zayde is calmly
ly falls asleep. Uneasily, I turn onto
going about his usual nighttime rou-
my side, close my eyes, say a silent
tine, as if he were in Lathrup Village
prayer and slowly fall asleep to the
and not on the other side of the
sounds of his soft and steady breath.
world.
As planned, Zayde wakes me up
His routine unfolds as he hums a
the next morning with a smile.
pleasant tune and pokes around the
I quickly dress and meet the rest
room. Then he goes into the bath-
T
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66 Detroit Jewish News
of my family for breakfast. The
sight of the dark-brown eggs, blue-
and-white cheese, and burnt toast is
enough to make me yearn for a
delicious bowl of Cinnamon Toast
Crunch. I spot a familiar drink,
orange juice, and taste a sip. Even
orange juice tastes funny in Poland.
With a groan, I open a blueberry
cereal bar from back home and
devour the first of the many break-
fast bars I was yet to eat on this
journey and head to the tour bus
which would soon take us all
around Poland.
As the trip continues, the more
depressed I became. Monuments in
memory of the Holocaust were
everywhere. The community build-
ings, hospitals and even the schools
had a connection to the Holocaust.
Feeling down, I turned to the
other 17 family members on our trip
for support. Cousins from various
locations in the United States and
even a cousin from Israel were
embarking on this journey. Everyone
seemed tired, hungry and
depressed except for one person:
my zayde.
After a few hours, the bus stops
and we all file out. With glowing
eyes, my zayde announces, "This is
the town my grandfather was from."
It looks liked a shtetl from the set
of Fiddler on the Roof. Old wooden
homes and decaying stores are
everywhere.
My zayde immediately walks
down the streets with hope. He
recalls that behind his grandfather's
house was a group of trees, an
open playing field and a river with
a bridge. We excitedly follow him
and try to help him recall any
details that might help us find the
house, if it is still standing.
After only 10 minutes, my cousin
Michael leads my zayde to a
house.
"Could this be it?" he asks with
apprehension.
My zayde is overwhelmed. His
gleaming eyes tell it all. He glances
at the house, then walks behind it.
There, in a group of trees, is an
open field and eventually a river
with a bridge. Zayde recalls visiting'
with his grandparents and playing
soccer and catch in the field.
How could Zayde remember such
details from his life when he was
younger than I am? I see the antici-
pation in his step and his eyes by
seeing the house and realize I am <
not so depressed after all.
Moments like this made me real-
ize that we are in Poland to learn
about our past, and I have just dis-
covered information about my great-
great grandparents. How could I
possibly trade this experience for
summer camp?
We visited many historic places in
Poland. Some days were harder
than others, like when we visited
Auschwitz and Birkenau. Some
days we laughed because at one
of our restaurant dinners an eye of
a fish looked at us from the plate.
Other days, we cried when we vis-<
ited the only Jewish cemetery left in
my zayde's home town.
The final morning came. We filed
into the tour bus for one, last time.
While driving to the airport, I
looked out through the windows. It
was goodbye to the peculiar city <
with the sigt)s I couldn't read.
About 10 hours later, the airplane
slowly begins to descend. I look
outside the window as the Lego-
piece world comes into focus. I am
back in sunny Detroit.
We arrive back home and I run to
<
my room with delight. The walls
have never looked as white, my
floor has never been as clean, and
my bed never as inviting.
An hour later, I climb into bed
and cover up with the warm and
soft blankets. As I close my eyes, I
can still hear Zayde humming as he
gets ready for bed. n
Deborah Anstandig, 14, lives in
West Bloomfield. She is in eighth
grade at Hillel Day School.