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 2/12 [ 999 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.