Lifesaving

“Hakshivu, hakshivu!” The wake-up call blasts through the loudspeaker, shattering Beth’s dreams. Cold New Hampshire air bites her nose. Reaching for covers, Beth discovers she’s already covered, tightly tucked, in a narrow cot. At home, in Rhode Island, where it’s hot in summer, she’d be lying on top of her soft chenille spread, comforted by a breeze from the whirring window fan. She would not be hearing creaky wooden shutters opening up to dampness and fog. Or croaky counselors nudging ten twelve-year-old girls out of bed. She certainly would not be taking today’s pre-test for junior lifesaving, which will likely trigger an asthma attack and end in disaster. Most of all, she would not have to listen to Zev, the hairy scary head of swimming, as he yells the test instructions in Hebrew, a language she barely understands.

Beth had longed for a place where, as a child, she could be a child, to break free of the sadness at home. This must be so hard for you. There are no words. May you be comforted among the mourners of Zion and Jerusalem. Fool that she was, she’d ended up in a place where she felt even more wretched than before. She’d accepted a scholarship to attend Camp Akiba, which abides by Orthodox rules and is Hebrew speaking, even though she’s not Orthodox and doesn’t speak Hebrew. Back home, in Hebrew school, where teachers taught more reading than speaking, Beth was at the top. Here, she’s at the bottom. How was she supposed to know she wasn’t adequately prepared?  Now she has no choice but to suck it up.

It is time to pray. Filing out of the bunk behind her best camp friend, Arielle, Beth walks past the shower house up the hill to the community hall: Beit Ha’am, House of the People. A divided people: boys on one side, girls on the other, in rows of backless benches. No romantic distractions that way, or so the dopey rabbi thinks. In the opening prayer, the men and boys thank God for not making them female. “Thank God for not making me the kind of person who would say such a thing,” Beth whispers to Arielle, who also isn’t Orthodox, hoping for a laugh. But Arielle presses her finger to her lips. Beth looks up at the high pointed ceiling. Its wooden beams seem warped, threatening collapse. The room smells like sweaty armpits, or is it sour milk, or… mold. Beth’s chest tightens. It’s hard for her to breathe just sitting here. How can Zev expect her to breathe long enough to swim two miles around Natacook Lake?

It is now time to learn. School in summer? At camp? After breakfast, Beth sits at a desk to study Hebrew, through pictures, with nine-year-olds. Humiliating. At least the class isn’t the waterfront, and the teacher, Moreh Goldstein, is no Zev. He uses English, for one thing, making sure every kid comprehends. Wearing a white baseball cap backwards, he draws comical stick figures on the blackboard that make Beth smile. His tanned arms make her swoon. When Moreh Goldstein catches Beth’s admiring gaze, she turns away, mortified. Through the torn window screen, Beth sees the camp director’s wife on the porch of her cabin, swaying back and forth on a white wooden rocker, her long black hair pulled back in a red ribbon. She looks down, adoringly, at her nursing baby. His whole tiny body fits in her arm, snuggly and safe.

It is time to change for swimming. Beth returns to the bunk with the rest of the girls, all of whom, unlike her, have sprouted breasts. Arielle holds up a towel and promises not to look while Beth slips into her flat-chested swimsuit. Is there no end to...