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A camper in 1949, a writer now, this essay about Camp Kinderland was published in The Christian Science Monitor June 10, 2015.
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COMMIE CAMP
As an only child my parents were anxious for me to learn how to share. We lived in a third-floor apartment in Brooklyn so the decision to send me to a camp Upstate New York for two weeks seemed idyllic--to them. They chose a camp that they thought would be perfect for me. And I reluctantly agreed to leave my friends, my books, my life as a city mouse.
All the campers departed in a caravan of buses from midtown Manhattan and arrived at our bunks a few hours later. As soon as we were settled, the counselors asked us to deposit our books, toys, games, even money in the center of the bunk. Everything would be shared. I heard that word as if I was about to be decapitated. Sharing? And with strangers?
I looked around as my camp-mates dropped their goodies, including dollar bills onto the pile. We were told that we would go to the camp store and use the communal money. I dropped my books, games and money onto the pile but I kept one item secret. There was a salami in my suitcase. I quickly decided to hide it as I pushed my suitcase under my bunk.
A few days later I realized that the salami might start to smell so I handed it over to the food police with the feeble excuse that I had forgotten about it. Nobody questioned me. But with each passing day of sharing and the use of communal money, I hated camp more than ever.
My next decision was to run away. At nine years old, I didn't have any idea where I would go. At night. I hid in the boys' bathroom as searchlights scanned the campgrounds. It didn't take long before I was discovered and brought back to my bunk. I wasn't punished or yelled at. My counselor simply wanted to know why I was so unhappy. "Because you're mean!" I told her. She smiled and suggested I get ready for bed. There would be swimming and rowing in the lake the following day.
During my two weeks at camp we went to the country store often for licorice sticks, gumdrops, candy bars and used the communal money. Meanwhile, whenever we received letters from home, the envelopes usually included a few dollar bills for spending money. My parents sent money, too. I didn't try to hide it. What good was it? I wouldn't be able to spend it. It would have to be shared.
When I think about that summer I remember hiding my salami and handing over my spending money. But I also have a happy memory: The actor/singer, Paul Robeson, visited our summer camp and sang for us. I can still picture him standing in a huge field surrounded by tall pine tress. His magnificent bass voice soared over the field, leaving me with a lifelong love of music.
Whenever I discussed the camp with my parents, they insisted that the camp had been a good experience for me. They also insisted on calling it a Socialist camp. I never questioned that until there was another camp reunion in Manhattan fifteen years ago which my husband and I attended. I had never gone to a reunion and thought it would be interesting.
As my husband, a stockbroker and college history major, walked around the rooms looking at the photographs, he lingered in front of one then gestured for me to join him. He pointed and said, "This wasn't a Socialist camp like your father told you. It was a Communist camp."
"Look at the statue of Lenin in the middle of the campgrounds." I laughed and remembered my "sharing" experience. A few years later, that camp became famous. There was a lengthy article about it in The New York Times. An independent film had been produced titled "Commie Camp."
The movie had a limited run, mostly in New York. I was living in New Mexico by then. Shortly after he New York run, there was a run of the film in Santa Fe. A friend I had met online who had gone to the same camp asked if I'd like to go and see the film with her. I said, "Yes, of course.' We drove up from Albuquerque to Santa Fe and saw the movie. After it was over, there was a discussion about the film and the camp. I raised my hand and said I had been a former camper. I didn't mention my hidden contraband. Instead, I told the audience about hearing Paul Robeson. Several audience members agreed that I had been lucky to hear such a talent.
Attending "Commie Camp" was definitely an education. During nature walks I learned to identify trees and birds. My favorite trees were the tall white pines which we observed as we walked around a forest. I also became a stronger swimmer as a result of swimming in the lake every day, But sharing? I'm not sure that took.
THE END.
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