In the Catskills: A Century of Jewish Experience in "The Mountains" (44 page)

Another occupational hazard of camp life, and a dire hazard it was, was the parties tossed two or three times each week by the guests themselves in their own cabins after the social hall closed, and to which the social staff was always bidden. It seemed to be taken for granted by any and every guest that included in his weekly rate, was the right to the private as well as the public services of the social staff, a conclusion that most camp owners concurred in, and if you refused to appear at parties, either in self-defense or out of sheer exhaustion, there were always loud and long protests the next morning that the social staff refused to “socialize” and that next summer they would certainly go to a camp that had a social staff that did.

We could escape only some of the parties and the others we suffered through as best we could, for if there was one thing worse than entertaining the guests ourselves, it was being entertained by them at their own parties. Almost every guest who gave parties had a sneaking suspicion that he or she was equally as talented as the social staff. This was their chance to prove it—and the remembrance of various young men, a salami sandwich in one hand and a glass of celery tonic in the other, bellowing out “I’m the Sheik of Araby” can still chill my blood; or the recollection of countless ill-advised girls giving their own rendition of “Dardanella” is enough even now to make me wonder how I lived through six solid years of it, without entering the realm of the demented.

There was one hazard of camp life, however, that the social staff did not share. It was faced exclusively by the guests themselves, and it provided the staff with an endless source of entertainment and pleasure. The hazard was a simple one, but it was unfailing and constant in every camp I ever worked at. Both male and female guests always arrived in complete anonymity except for the initials on their luggage; and when they decked themselves out in their summer finery for their first appearance in the social hall or the dining room, it was impossible to tell whether a shipping clerk or the boss’s son had arrived in camp. By the same token, it was impossible to tell whether a private secretary to a Wall Street broker or a steel executive was making her first appearance, or, what was more likely, a salesgirl from behind the glove counter at Bloomingdale’s was beginning her two-week vacation.

Each suitcase bulged with a hard winter’s saving of every penny that could be spared and strategically spent on a series of flamboyant sport shirts and doeskin trousers, or flowered prints and organdy dresses, to say nothing of the very latest in the way of bathing suits and costumes
pour le sport
for every hour of the day that might dazzle and titillate a member of the opposite sex. There were, of course, some well-heeled boys and girls among the guests, and I suppose even a boss’s son or a private secretary to a Wall Street broker occasionally turned up. But in the main, the bulk of the contingent that descended on the camps every summer was composed largely of shipping clerks, bookkeepers, law clerks, receptionists, and what-not, who spill out of New York City and it environs for their annual two-week vacation.

And since part of that vacation at camp had as its goal sex on the part of the boys and marriage on the part of the girls, there was better chance for the achievement of these goals if both partners gave no hint of their true status while in camp, but played the game of letting the other one assume that each was heir to a junior executive’s job or a wealthy father. It was a game of endless variations—a stately minuet of lying and pretense, and the social staff watched it flower and blossom every two weeks with no little delight and a good deal of malice.

We even aided and abetted the masquerade whenever we could, not only as a method of revenge against our mortal enemies—the guests—but because it was uncommonly instructive and somehow wonderfully comic to see the citadel of virginity being stormed each day and wavering uncertainly every evening before a pair of white flannel trousers. It was impossible to tell, of course, if those trousers encased a young man on his way up the executive ladder, or a packer who worked in Gimbel’s basement. Nor could the white flannel trousers themselves tell if the girl beneath the flowered chiffon he held in his arms as he danced around the social-hall floor was really the young lady of means she seemed to be.

We made bets on the outcome of the more spectacular stormings of the fort and we listened with unending pleasure to the lies that blew through camp like thistledown in a field of clover. It was one of the few outlets we had for anything approximating glee as the camp season rolled on. Even this source of amusement was apt to wear a little thin by the time Friday morning came around, for Friday evening was “Drama Night”; and with Eddie’s staggering lack of organization, both Friday and Saturday nights—Saturday being “Musical Comedy Night”—were always torturous and exhausting beyond belief or necessity. It was, of course, no easy task to present two one-act plays each week, as well as what we called “An Original Musical Comedy”on the following night, in addition to all our other activities.

The Casino

Harvey Jacobs

C
arpenters from Monticello went to work in the spring following Al Berman’s blueprint. A long flight of wooden steps was built leading to a long porch held by white columns. The interior of the building was left hollow to the roof beams. A smooth wood floor, waxed and mellow, led to the stage. Two dressing rooms, stage right, stage left, were added and under the stage a storage room accessible by trapdoor was a final inspiration. The concession was placed to the left of the stairs with its front serving the porch, its side serving the inside of the casino through a large window. The result was a Catskill masterpiece, a local wonder. The casino itself was a handsome structure. The idea of so much empty air with walls around it, not a church or synagogue, was totally unique. Naturally on the busy weekends the dressing rooms held paying guests and the dance floor hosted rows of army cots for bachelors, so all was not lost.

“We had a casino practically before Jennie Grossinger,” Al Berman said many times over twenty-two years. And it was true.

Since its creation in 1924 the Willow Spring casino held up nicely. Carvings were added to the columns, initials, hearts, designs, but they kept their circular dignity. The high barn ceiling became a haven for bats but they usually stayed out of the social whirl. The dressing rooms, inhabited by post-adolescent musicians and assorted social directors, were covered in graffiti that immortalized their transient occupants. The velvet curtain on the stage snagged on its rope pulls. The room under the stage was a home to small insects and animals who lived on kosher crumbs. The stage had a half-moon of lights installed around its arc and along its base. The concession’s inside serving window was enlarged to a counter. Movable wooden benches were arranged before the stage for shows, shoved back for dancing. An upright piano was placed on the floor, stage right, where the band set up. A jukebox with obsolete hits was plugged in on stage left. An electric amplifier with a standing mike, cousin to the PA in the main house, was nailed down to stage center.

The latest addition, far back in the room, was a spotlight on a pedestal. This touch of class was added in 1944 at the urging of Joe Kamin, the social director for seven years.

Joe Kamin, formerly of the Yiddish theater, was the casino
mavin
. He produced and directed the shows, except the kiddie shows. He booked the movies and acts from Monticello agents to supplement his homemade entertainment. He chased bats, killed mice, changed failed light bulbs, opened and shut windows, hung bunting and confetti on the walls, swatted wasps, hung flypaper, even swept after the
klutz
handyman.

His easy night was Friday. All he had to do was introduce Essie Poritz and she brought on the kiddies, followed by dancing. During the kiddie shows Joe Kamin sat with the guests watching the clumsy
shloomping
on stage while parents and relatives
kvelled
. Some of the cockers were showstoppers, but art it was not. Joe Kamin applauded with the rest and yelled
bravo bravo
. A vacation.

“Applesauce,” Joe Kamin yelled from the casino stage while Richie Schwartz gave him a drum roll.

He began Saturday show time by holding up a batch of tickets that said
WILLOW SPRING HOTEL. ANNUAL BENEFIT FOR THE SOCIAL DIRECTOR AND THE BAND. PRICE ONE DOLLAR. ADMIT ONE. CHILDREN FIFTY CENTS
.

“Dear people,” Joe Kamin said, “that time has come again. Every year I ask you to do yourself a big favor and buy a ticket to the benefit. The proceeds go to the band of music over there and to a certain party over here, you know his name, a wonderful person, Joe Kamin.”

A
tsa tsa tsa
from Richie Schwartz stroking a metal brush over brass cymbals.

“It’s a long winter, so please open your heart and your wallet. You won’t regret it. I promise a night to remember, the best since you got married. Tickets can be purchased from me, the musicians or by the concession.
Gott helfen
if you buy or don’t buy. But if you don’t buy he shouldn’t
helfen
so much. I’m only kidding. Seriously, ladies and gentlemen, we hope you will support our cause.

“Now, this week we have great talent here at the Willow Spring, the best money could buy, Broadway acts who work in top places where you would pay more to see it than it costs for a week right here. Presenting that international song-and-dance team, Happy And Tappy.”

Ta-da
.

Al Berman went to bed early, so Harry Craft ran the spotlight. He chased Tappy, who clicked around the stage while Happy sang the Monticello top ten, a list that stayed constant for a few thousand years.

Yiddish hymns from a jungle face fractured the audience. Happy And Tappy did encores.

This time Tappy tapped down on the floor and Happy joined him. They tapped between benches, finished at the door and ran for their car. They had another show at Henderson’s and one after that in Zupker’s Farm.

“Wonderful, boys,” Joe Kamin said to the microphone. “Not too much, not too little, just enough. Ladies and gentlemen, Happy And Tappy have another show to do down the road in Henderson’s. Let’s hear it for the Bermans and Ferinskys, who bring us fresh acts first, always the absolute best.”

A fanfare from the band of music.

Now the casino darkened. Red Toritz And His Boys cued up an eerie refrain. Joe Kamin told Harry Craft to turn off the spotlight. He pulled a flashlight from his pants and lit himself from under his double chin.

“Next, ladies and gentlemen, we have for you the world-famous magic of Hara The Great. Give a big hand. The performers appreciate it, I know. Hara The Great, ladies and gentlemen.”

Hara The Great came out of the curtain with splendid energy. He did card tricks. He made flowers come and go. Ribbons came from his ears and his nose. They vanished in his mouth. They came again from his assistant’s mouth and fled through his navel. A rabbit, drooping, gave a jump from Hara’s hat.

“I saw how he did it,” said a voice from the dark. “A false bottom. Any kid could do that.”

“You expect Houdini?” said another voice.

The audience rode Hara’s back. It was expected. Hara The Great knew magic made such audiences nervous. They had to be led by the nose to the unknown. Some in the casino grew up believing firmly in ghosts, goblins and dark spirits, all cousins of death. They were committed to the practical and the real. It was the American way. They could be had, but gradually. In the way of Monticello magicians, Hara The Great kept coming, saving his best for last.

“Give him a chance. He’s trying.”

“Look in the sleeve. He got some kind of rubber band.”

Ernie Pincus, who collected Hara’s garbage, the ribbons, the flowers, the rabbit, a candle that lit by itself, was now called to stage center. Hara asked for two chairs. He placed the chairs back to back, five feet apart. Between his gestures and the wispy music a mood was building.

Joe Kamin smashed the mood when he stood in the audience.

“The chairs remind me of a story, you should excuse the interruption. There was this couple, Benny and Becky. They were married sixty years, it should happen to you. Sixty years. On the anniversary Becky says to Benny, I’m tired of how you do it. You’re tired of how I do it? Benny says. So how should I do it? Try a new position, says Becky. What position, says Benny. Back to back, says Becky. Why not, says Benny. So they take off the clothes, my dear, and lay down back to back. Tell me, dollink, says Benny, how do we do it back to back? It’s not hard, says Becky. But we got to get another couple.”