A Legacy of Camp Massad: Too Much Hebrew Can Be Dangerous
“Courts and camps are the only places to learn the world in.”
– Letters to his Son, Lord Chesterfield (October 2, 1747)
Before there was a Camp Morasha, Moshava, Mesorah, Ramah or Yavneh, there was a Camp Massad. Indeed, not only were the former helmed by alumni of it, but they were patterned after it. We didn’t eat in the dining-room, but the Chadar-Ochel, didn’t swim in the lake, but in the Agam.
Difference was, the former encouraged speaking Hebrew; Massad demanded it.
I recall one color-war (excuse me, Maccabiah) our team lost the game, but received more points because our opponent exulted in English.
Speaking Hebrew in Massad was like speaking French in Quebec. If you didn’t speak it when you arrived, you soon learned it to survive.
It was a two-month, 24-hour unremitting Ulpan. Before long, you were thinking, dreaming, singing in Hebrew.
(I recall being enthralled by the poetic Hebrew folk-song Le’an Neelmu Kol Haprochim?, then being disappointed, after returning home, by the prosaic Kingston Trio-translation “Where Have all the Flowers Gone?”)
I subsequently discovered, eventually traveling to Israel, Massad was more committed to Hebrew than Israel was.
My first summer there, learning evenings in Jerusalem can be chilly, I need to buy a sweater. Entering a Mom-and-Pop shop, I ask Pop (Mom’s on break) the price of his cheapest Tzimriah [Massad – sweater, derived from Tzemer – wool.]
He has no idea what I’m talking about. I point to a sweater. He insists it’s called Sveder.
Sveder?! That’s worse than “Where have all the Flowers Gone?”!
Who coined it? Chico Marx?
I discern from his accent, Pop is an immigrant, assume he didn’t bother learning the Hebrew-word.
I lightheartedly reprimand him (in Hebrew): “Did Eliezer Ben Yehuda (father of modern-Hebrew) call it a “Sveder”? Let us respect him, our language, our culture.”
We kibitz a little. Mom returns. He asks her to wrap up the Tzimriah.
She replies: “What are you talking about? This is a Sveder!”
Winking at me, he responds in mock-indignation: “Did Eliezer Ben Yehuda call it a Sveder?”
Days later, in a cheap hamburger joint, I ask the proprietor for the Resek Agvaniot (Massad -ketchup.) He tells me, if I want some, go to a fancy restaurant.
I point out a bottle behind him. He informs me: “That’s Kechoop!” apparently another Chico Marx-translation.
(Leonard [Ahron] Marx’s nickname was actually Chicko, referring to his perpetual girl-chasing. His childhood Yiddish-roots were unmistakable in his pseudo-Italian stage-accent.)
The proprietor is sufficiently irritated at me that I don’t invoke Eliezer Ben Yehuda.
Subsequently, Israeli friends inform me, Sveder and Kechup are, in fact, the correct Israeli words for sweater and ketchup. Apparently, they were still insufficiently authentically Hebrew for Massad.
The worst is yet to come.
Our group travels to Eilat, which, shortly after the ’67 war, is largely staffed by self-described pushtakim [miscreants.]
Our short, muscular, Jewfro’d waiter, Rowdy, for example, incessantly hits upon our religious girl-counselors. The more outrageously he propositions them, the more uncomfortable they become, amusing his colleagues.
They complain to me; I approach him privately asking him nicely to dial it down. He suggests, in response, we step outside to resolve this “Man-to-man.” Not the resolution I had in mind.
I speak to the manager who complains to me he can’t find staff other than Rowdy and his ilk. He asks me to try to make the best of it. And so, we do.
Our final morning there, our prettiest counselor, who has been the lucky primary beneficiary of Rowdy’s attention, begs me for help.
She wants to order scrambled eggs. It’s not part of the buffet, but she notices other guests eating it. She knows if she asks Rowdy, he will ask what he will “receive” in return. Furthermore, she doesn’t speak Hebrew. I do.
I remind her he’s been trying to pick a fight with me since we arrived. She responds, just be polite. He can’t get upset at that.
I motion to him. He approaches, tray on one shoulder, chip on the other.
“What!” he demands, glaring at me.
As respectfully as I can, I say:
“Slicha, Adoni [excuse me, sir], Haim Yaish Lecha [do you have] Baitzim- Mevulbalim [scrambled-eggs]?”
His eyes bulge. His veins pop. He throws down his tray:
“Ani Areh Lecha! [I’ll show you!]”
He punches me in the mouth, tries to punch me again. I grab him. We’re rolling on the floor.
He’s trying to kill me. I’m yelling: “Forget it! I’ll take the French toast!”
When the manager finally separates us, I discover:
A- The Israeli term for scrambled eggs is Mekushkeshet, not Baitzim–Mevulbalim, as in Massad.
B- Baitzim also means testicles.
C- I had insulted Rowdy’s manhood.
D- Rowdy did not take it well.
Massad closed in 1981. During its four decades of existence, and five camps, it inculcated thousands of campers and staff in a love of Hebrew and Israel.
Because of that, a significant percentage of them moved to Israel.
I hope they learned to forget the uniquely Massad Hebrew-translations sooner than I did.
