my thigh. It was a surface wound but had produced a startling amount of blood. Despite the sound of the rushing water, I heard the boys nab Pippi.
“You run so fast,” she said, laughing. The three clambered into the cabin, and I brushed away the jealousy I felt. What would it be like to kiss such a good-looking boy? Did I need to tell my supervisor if Pippi succumbed?
“What a good kisser you are,” I heard Pippi say.
I heard the creak of the bedsprings, more giggling from Pippi, and then moans from one boy. Where was the other one? Watching?
Pippi put up embarrassingly little resistance, and I heard them breathing hard and loud. How could she?
“You can’t keep your clothes on,” one boy said.
“It’s so dirty in here,” Pippi said.
I crouched there motionless, for any move would reveal my position. Pippi seemed to be enjoying it all, but then she had a change of heart.
“No, please,” she said. “I need to get back—”
“It’s not fair to get this far—”
“You’re
hurting
me,” she cried. “Herta!”
Friends help each other, but I’d warned her. Why hadn’t she listened? Her lack of discipline was a weakness.
“Help!” Pippi cried. “Someone, please—”
Aiding her would only endanger me, but I couldn’t leave her in that situation. I took up the scissors, cold and heavy, and stole to the rotted cabin steps in the almost darkness.
The screen door lay on the ground, off its hinges, so the doorway provided a good view. There were many rusted metal beds in there standing on end, and Pippi lay on the only horizontal one. It had collapsed, the mattress ticking stained and torn. One of the boys was lying on top of her, his ass blue-white in the dark room, smooth and hard and pumping as she cried. The second boy, the dark-haired one, stood at the head of the bed pinning Pippi’s shoulders.
I stepped over gaps from missing floorboards into the cabin.
“Stop it,” I said.
The second boy lit up when he saw me, perhaps hoping for a chance himself. I brandished the scissors, a dull silver in the dark room.
“She’s serious,” said the dark-haired boy. He released Pippi’s shoulders.
The blond one slammed himself into Pippi with renewed vigor at the prospect of her backing out.
I stepped closer. “Get off her,” I said.
“Let’s
go,
” said the dark-haired boy.
The blond pulled himself off Pippi, grabbed his shorts from the floor, and left with his friend, both avoiding my scissors. Pippi just cried there on the mattress. I untied the bandanna from my neck and placed it on the bed.
“You can use this to clean yourself,” I said.
I left her and walked outside to make sure the boys were gone. Satisfied they were not coming back, I walked to the stream. I raised the scissors and felt for a handful of my long hair, pulled it taut, and cut. Every muscle relaxed with that release, and I continued, feeling for any stray lock, until my hair was cropped to less than a thumb’s length all around. I tossed my hair into the river and watched it travel downstream, sliding over rocks, off into the darkness.
I helped Pippi back to our cabin. With much crying, she thanked me for rescuing her and admitted she should have followed my advice. She promised to write once she got home to Cologne.
Pippi’s parents retrieved her the next day, not at all happy, if their abrupt manner was any indication. I watched her leave, as she waved through the rear window of her parents’ car, my one friend gone.
For the rest of my stay, I kept my scissors close, but in the end my self-cut hair did the trick, and boys let me be. When the sleepaway trip concluded, half of my cabin went home fingers crossed, hoping to have a baby, while I left camp happily without a fertilized egg.
1939
O nce Hitler invaded Poland, mild foreboding turned to genuine panic at every New York consulate, and all hell broke loose at our office. To make things worse, Washington tightened visa restrictions, and it became
“You run so fast,” she said, laughing. The three clambered into the cabin, and I brushed away the jealousy I felt. What would it be like to kiss such a good-looking boy? Did I need to tell my supervisor if Pippi succumbed?
“What a good kisser you are,” I heard Pippi say.
I heard the creak of the bedsprings, more giggling from Pippi, and then moans from one boy. Where was the other one? Watching?
Pippi put up embarrassingly little resistance, and I heard them breathing hard and loud. How could she?
“You can’t keep your clothes on,” one boy said.
“It’s so dirty in here,” Pippi said.
I crouched there motionless, for any move would reveal my position. Pippi seemed to be enjoying it all, but then she had a change of heart.
“No, please,” she said. “I need to get back—”
“It’s not fair to get this far—”
“You’re
hurting
me,” she cried. “Herta!”
Friends help each other, but I’d warned her. Why hadn’t she listened? Her lack of discipline was a weakness.
“Help!” Pippi cried. “Someone, please—”
Aiding her would only endanger me, but I couldn’t leave her in that situation. I took up the scissors, cold and heavy, and stole to the rotted cabin steps in the almost darkness.
The screen door lay on the ground, off its hinges, so the doorway provided a good view. There were many rusted metal beds in there standing on end, and Pippi lay on the only horizontal one. It had collapsed, the mattress ticking stained and torn. One of the boys was lying on top of her, his ass blue-white in the dark room, smooth and hard and pumping as she cried. The second boy, the dark-haired one, stood at the head of the bed pinning Pippi’s shoulders.
I stepped over gaps from missing floorboards into the cabin.
“Stop it,” I said.
The second boy lit up when he saw me, perhaps hoping for a chance himself. I brandished the scissors, a dull silver in the dark room.
“She’s serious,” said the dark-haired boy. He released Pippi’s shoulders.
The blond one slammed himself into Pippi with renewed vigor at the prospect of her backing out.
I stepped closer. “Get off her,” I said.
“Let’s
go,
” said the dark-haired boy.
The blond pulled himself off Pippi, grabbed his shorts from the floor, and left with his friend, both avoiding my scissors. Pippi just cried there on the mattress. I untied the bandanna from my neck and placed it on the bed.
“You can use this to clean yourself,” I said.
I left her and walked outside to make sure the boys were gone. Satisfied they were not coming back, I walked to the stream. I raised the scissors and felt for a handful of my long hair, pulled it taut, and cut. Every muscle relaxed with that release, and I continued, feeling for any stray lock, until my hair was cropped to less than a thumb’s length all around. I tossed my hair into the river and watched it travel downstream, sliding over rocks, off into the darkness.
I helped Pippi back to our cabin. With much crying, she thanked me for rescuing her and admitted she should have followed my advice. She promised to write once she got home to Cologne.
Pippi’s parents retrieved her the next day, not at all happy, if their abrupt manner was any indication. I watched her leave, as she waved through the rear window of her parents’ car, my one friend gone.
For the rest of my stay, I kept my scissors close, but in the end my self-cut hair did the trick, and boys let me be. When the sleepaway trip concluded, half of my cabin went home fingers crossed, hoping to have a baby, while I left camp happily without a fertilized egg.
1939
O nce Hitler invaded Poland, mild foreboding turned to genuine panic at every New York consulate, and all hell broke loose at our office. To make things worse, Washington tightened visa restrictions, and it became
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