American
Auschwitz
By
Clifford W. Lazar
Copyright Ó
1985, 2002, by Clifford W. Lazar
Visitors
Comments
Neal watched his father and the other parents pause and then disperse in
ones and twos into the knee-high morning fog, like confused gleaners on a field
of sorghum. As he squatted in the truck bed, the wind condensed cool
droplets of moisture on his face and eyes, blurring his vision and causing him
to blink.
Every noise and bump and cold drip of fog was felt and savored and
recorded in his Jell-O journal--his memory.
Every rock, tar strip and rut was transmitted through spinning double
black tires to red painted wheel rims to greasy axles to rusted springs and then
to the truck bed. He imaged and felt and sensed all the machinery of this
passage. He wanted to remember all
the sensations of the separation. The
engine's growling mixed with the rhythmic creaking of the truck's wooden estate
frame was mentally Xeroxed as a tattoo pattern on his back for later
recollection.
He watched the last of the parents until the truck passed under the camp
gate and turned the corner. Only
then did he consider the others he would be with on this survival exer\'1fcise.
Without moving his head, he scanned feet and backs and other rucksacks,
while he pulled on already-tight straps on his rucksack.
Some younger, some more mature than me, he compared.
The girls, five of them. Some
had breasts even. Not big ones. One isn't wearing a bra; can almost see the whole thing
between the buttons. Seventeen or
18, looks very washed, nice light brown pony tail, a beautiful mouth with thick
lips and dark brown eyes that look down through thick eye lashes at a book.
Must be smart.
One of the guys has a stringy mustache.
Has a knife too. An old one.
He's been out before. He
probably knows it all, all ready. Probably make time with the girl with the
book.
"Hi...My name is Mike...I live in Newark.
I'm...in Ninth grade. Have you been on one of these Maccabean trips
be\'1ffore? I haven't.” The young voice cracked over the road noise.
The kid is short, Neal observed. Hair long and black and curly all over.
Looks like he just came from his bar mitzvah.
God, he's thin. No
competition from him with the 'plaid shirt'.
She didn't even look up from her book.
"My name's Neal. We
live in Rye, outside of New York. I've
just graduated from the 12th grade. I've
never been on one of these, though I read a couple of books on survival, and
hunt\'1fing Indian-style before I came."
"This is going to be a lot better than dancing the Hora and playing
shuffle board,” Mike, the kid, exclaimed.
I think 'plaid shirt' glanced up when she heard that I
studied up on this stuff. 'Fuzzy
face' just sprawls over there like he owns the truck.
Maybe he does. Maybe he's a
counselor or something.
"You can only do that family camp stuff just so much.
Getting out in the forest, getting close to nature, trees and animals,
looking at the stars, that's more important to learning how you relate to your
soul." That should get her.
"Yeah, Neal, that's why I'm here too."
Shit.
Girl looks like that, got to have experience. Really looks assured. Looks sensitive too. Bet she's been in love with some older guy, probably, She's got a macramé string necklace with some carving on it. She's not a bitchy, little miss Jewish Princess like Rachel is becoming. I'll ask her about her book when we stop. Can't do it now, have to yell, it would be too obvious. Get next to her when we get off the truck.