Dan Brook
A Kid in the Catskills
The big hotels in the Borscht Belt were like a stationary cruise. Grossinger’s, Nevele (whose name was said to have some connection to 11 schoolteachers—Nevele is “eleven” spelled backwards), and the Concord—where my parents met on a singles weekend in 1969 and where we went most often—were huge hotels, big enough for a kid to get lost in. Although I often stayed with my parents, I frequently wandered off on my own, exploring the place, playing games, talking to strangers, discovering cool things.
I went to the Concord with my parents (and sometimes grandparents) a lot in the ’70s, less so in the ’80s, and I think once in the ’90s, when they had their 20th anniversary party and I said hi to Yakov Smirnoff as he walked by, which I miraculously have on videotape.
As a child of about 7 or 8, and thereafter, I would drink a screwdriver (or two) in the appetizer room (neither my parents nor the hotel employees cared) before we went to the main dining room for gluttonous meals, where it was common for people to order multiple appetizers, soups, main dishes, and desserts. Nu, why should we be hungry?
I remember speaking with Holocaust survivors there and seeing the numbers tattooed on their forearms, though to me they were just old people like my neighbors in Brooklyn.
My brother and I won a shuffleboard tournament in a highly contested battle at The Pines against what I remember as very old people. They certainly weren’t going to just let us win, and there was no way we would let them win either. I treasured my little plastic-covered Pines Hotel pad-and-pen prize for years!
At Grossinger’s, we went snowmobiling. At the Concord, we went skiing in the winter, hiked and picked blueberries in the summer. I would play Simon Says in a ballroom, watch the evening acts practice in the lounge without an audience, play pinball, and be a free-range kid in a safe and wonderful environment that was different from New York City in most ways, despite the same personality types. I saw so many singers and comedians in the clubs at night, some good, some great, some not so much, but it felt exciting and luxurious.
In the ’80s, when my wife was my girlfriend, we escaped a bungalow colony where my friend Stevie was staying so that Julie wouldn’t have to sleep in a bed with his Romanian grandmother again. We wound up at Kutsher’s Hotel, wandered around for a while, and eventually chose an empty albeit large basement ballroom to sleep. It was easy when there weren’t surveillance cameras everywhere nor mobile phones. In the morning, we availed ourselves of their huge breakfast just like any other guest. We were indeed guests, just not paying ones, but guests all the same. I simply felt comfortable being there because these people were my people and this place in the Catskills was my place.
Josh Koral
A Job in the Borscht Belt
In 1966, at the age of 15, I worked in the kitchen of the Pinegrove Resort, a Borscht Belt hotel in Kerhonkson, New York. At 450 guests, it was smaller than the larger resorts in the Ellenville area, the Nevele and the Granit, but had the same model, which offered huge amounts of food and drink, nightly entertainment, swimming pools, and sports.
My friend Denis, who got me the job, would pick me up in his two-toned 1959 Ford Fairlane at 5:45 every morning, seven days a week. We listened to “California Dreamin’,” “Wild Thing,” and “Summer in the City” as we drove through the predawn fog to the kitchen.
Although the cuisine produced by the kitchen was “Jewish,” all the kitchen staff were African American except for the hotel’s owner and Denis and me. The cooks, however, produced excellent stuffed cabbage, kishka (stuffed derma), chopped liver, and matzoh ball soup, among other Eastern European delicacies. The cooks enjoyed watching this 15-year-old white kid eat with gusto. They prepared special plates of food for me. My favorite was the oversized stuffed cabbage.
The pot washers, dishwashers, and prep chefs made $57 a week for a fifteen-hour day, seven days a week. Some of them were scooped off the Bowery by New York State Employment, and bussed to the Catskills. Most of my co-workers had to pay $35 for room and board, which was deducted from their wages.This left little pocket money. Many struggled with alcoholism, which left them penniless at the end of the week. Instead of cash tips, on Friday we were given a carton of non-filtered cigarettes.
My first job in the kitchen was as a pot washer. I would often ask the cooks why they didn’t use any grease on their pans, which caused me laborious scrubbing with steel wool to clean the caked-on dirt. They would laugh and tell me to use more elbow grease!
My second job at the Pinegrove was on the dishwashing line. Esquire (who claimed he owned steel mills in Pittsburgh) would load the seemingly endless flow of bus boxes, filled with dishes, silverware, glasses, and food debris, into racks. He was truly charming, though while working, he’d often munch on raw onion, between swigs of bourbon. The racks would go to Jimmy, who had been recently released from prison after serving a sentence for mail fraud. He would spray the dishes and load them into the commercial dishwasher. I would take the hot, clean dishes, load them into a shopping cart, then roll them into the kitchen, where I’d stack them onto shelves. This would go on for hours during meals. We had a rhythm, often with cigarettes hanging from our lips. It created a true bond between unlikely characters.
I was later promoted to second salad man. Early in the morning we prepped breakfast plates with a piece of lettuce, a flowered radish, and a slice of tomato. Waiters would come to our station and order lox, matjes herring, herring in cream sauce, sable and whitefish plates. We sometimes created up to 400 individual orders. I probably smelled like fish for the rest of the day.
My final job was as a busboy in the dining room. It was where good cash money from tips was to be made. The swinging dining room doors, however, were also the color line. There were no people of color in the dining room. The busboy was responsible for setting the table, clearing dishes, and serving coffee. More than once I prematurely took a plate and had my hand aggressively pushed away by a guest. In order to serve the coffee hot, we carried five coffees at a time. In one hand you held two double-stacked cups, and one in the other hand. A real balancing act. I was hesitant to fill the cups too high, as I feared burning a guest. One guest who felt shorted shouted at me, “You cawl this a cup of cawfee?”
I retired from the Pinegrove after my stint as a busboy in 1967. Like many Jewish resorts in the Borscht Belt, the Pinegrove closed its doors in the early ’80s. The success of the resorts had been primarily due to the restriction of Jews from other facilities and to their proximity to New York City. As anti-semitism lessened and cheaper airfares became available, vacationing beyond the New York area was open to more Jewish families. The Pinegrove reinvented itself and became the extremely successful Pinegrove Dude Ranch. Recently the family sold the property to an Orthodox Jewish organization.
Although it’s almost 60 years since I worked at the Pinegrove, to this day, whenever I pass it, I can still smell the brisket being cooked, the sounds of the waiters ordering herring, and the image of the crusty pots.
Barbara Kivowitz
Summers in the Catskill Mountains
It started as a one-bedroom cottage with a cast-iron woodstove for heat on the chillier summer nights. A screened-in front porch, which tilted slightly to the left, kept folks cool on the sweltering, muggy days that the Catskill Mountains produced with great frequency. On those days, the thumping of the sewing-machine foot pedal under Aunt Shirley’s bare feet and the whining of mosquitos were the background sounds to our cries of, “It’s too hot. What can we do?”
Eventually, we became an extended family of twelve cousins, four pairs of aunts and uncles, and Nana. As the family grew, so did the cottage. It sprouted rooms, an outdoor shower, and a second kitchen. The attic was divided into a girls’ bedroom and a boys’ bedroom. The aunts and uncles slept downstairs in tiny rooms that barely fit a double bed. Only Nana had a room of her own.
This is where we spent our summers from the time I was one month old until I was sixteen. The Catskill Mountains from the 1920s into the 1960s were where New York City Jewish families went to escape the even more sweltering heat, humidity, and “germs” of the city streets.
Some went for a multi-week stay at a grand Borscht Belt hotel. Others went to bungalow colonies. We had our overgrown, wobbly homestead on a dirt road that dead-ended on Toronto reservoir for fishing and was a short walk from our swimming hole, Black Lake. The women and children stayed the entire summer and the men came up on weekends, returning to their city jobs Sunday evening.
The joys of the Catskill summers were not city joys. They were country. Friday nights, welcoming the Sabbath by the blaze of the campfire with freshly baked challah and hot dogs.The first time you were allowed to use the big knife to sharpen the end of your campfire stick and roast marshmallows until they caught on fire and charred into a delicious, gooey mess. The first lake swim of the summer when the cousins raced each other to find the underwater tree stump you could stand on and claim to be “king of the lake.” The first spoonful of Nana’s blueberry jam made from the berries you spent all afternoon picking.
During those lazy, unfettered Catskill summers, while the women played canasta and chatted on the porch, and the men shot hoops to win one or more pizzas that never materialized, I wandered alone.
After lunch, with carrots and apple slices stuffed in my blue jeans pockets, I crossed the road to our neighbor’s farm, squeezed between rows of the barbed wire fence, and waited. Soon my horse would show up and nuzzle my pockets for the treat he had learned was inside. He wasn’t technically my horse, but I claimed him as my wandering companion. I’d give him a carrot and then we’d begin our trek. We walked side by side, up hills and down valleys, to the blueberry patch where we both munched on some berries. We meandered
to the brook where I’d sit under a tree as he grazed on the grass nearby and nudged me with his velvet muzzle from time to time to receive another carrot or apple slice.
We returned by the same path. I’d give him the last carrot and say, “See you tomorrow.”
One time, without my horse, I walked down the road to the reservoir but decided to return through the woods. I was seven years old with no sense of direction, and no fear. I trudged for hours. Eventually I came out on the road where Mel’s gas station and its freezer of ice cream bars lived. With the ten cents I had in my pocket, I pulled out a chocolate ice cream bar, paid Mel, and walked the two miles back to the cottage on roads I recognized.
When I got back, no one yelled, “Where have you been!” or cried, “I’ve been so worried about you!” My absence was unnoticed. It was just part of the cycle of summer life in the Catskills.
Today’s parents would be horrified at what they’d see as negligence. Back then it was just the way it was. And that freedom – to wander with a stallion twice my height and fifteen times my weight, to get lost in the woods, buy my own ice cream, find my way back home, to sit down at any table and know that the aunts, my mother, and Nana would feed me – well, that gave me a sense that the world is full of magic, and it’s not only safe, it’s joyous to get lost in it. And later, as I traveled the world, I was never afraid. I knew that with treats in your pocket, a good map, and a sense of belonging, you can wander and discover small
miracles, and maybe even a friendly horse.
Raina Cohen
Sunnyhill Bungalow Colony
In the hot, sticky days of June, we traded the steaming heat and bustle of Brooklyn for the green, leafy quiet of “the country.” The first summer we spent at the Sunnyhill Bungalow Colony in the Catskills was in 1961. My brother had just turned one, my sister was six, and I was nine. Out on Fort Hamilton Parkway, my father filled up the trunk with our boxes and suitcases. Anything soft that didn’t fit into the trunk was shoved into the back seat. There were no seat belts in those days to restrict us so we lounged and reclined on the pillows and blankets stuffed around us. The car ride was only about 100 miles on the highway, but in my memory it was an eternity.
In those days the Catskills Mountains were home to a multitude of hotels and bungalow colonies filled with city-dwelling Jewish families like mine. We had a small bungalow surrounded by grass, with a screen door that creaked as it closed. There was a community pool, trees to climb, bushes to hide in, and absolutely no schedule. We were outside from the moment we were dressed in the morning till the stars came out at night. We just had to stay out of Mom and Grandma’s way while they hung the laundry on the line to dry in the sun or prepared meals in the tiny kitchen.
Most afternoons were spent in the pool, although we were ordered to wait for an hour after we finished lunch before entering the water. According to my mother, defying this rule would be an invitation to a stomachache and leg cramps, which would lead to a certain death. My mother didn’t know how to swim nor did she like being in the sun, so while she played mah-jongg in the shade with her friends, we would go to the pool with Grandma Ida. My grandma had a ritual she performed almost religiously when she entered the pool. She would dip her hands into the cold water, bring them to her neck, and as the water trickled down her chest, she would sigh “Machaya,” which means joy in Yiddish.
I could climb the little crabapple tree or stretch out under it and read. I found a stack of True Romance magazines in the clubhouse, which I read from cover to cover. Traveling salesmen made the rounds of the bungalow colonies selling clothing or food. Everyone cheered when we heard the announcement over the loudspeaker, “The knish man is here! Come get your hot knishes!” My favorite was (and still is) the potato knish.
Late on Friday afternoons the kids would stand by the side of the road awaiting the arrival of our fathers. They would emerge from their hot cars in rumpled shirts, ties askew, jackets slung over their shoulders. The dads stayed until Sunday afternoon, spending the days relaxing, and attending Friday movie night and Saturday entertainment night with their wives. The movies were suitable for family viewing, so I could join my parents, but Saturdays were for adults only. I was dying to know what went on in the clubhouse on those nights.
My dad went fishing every weekend. I would watch him as he concocted bait from cornmeal and water before he went to bed on Fridays. I slept on the pullout couch in the kitchen with my grandma, and sometimes heard him when he left in the darkness of 5 a.m. on Saturday to go fishing with his buddy Bob. He often came back with a huge carp, which would take up residence in our bathtub until my grandma was ready to behead it and chop it up for gefilte fish. My father never touched the fish after it became food. I tried many times to stop the slaughter of the carp, hoping I could keep it for a pet, but no matter how often I pleaded for a stay of execution, the result was always the same. To this day I refuse to eat gefilte fish.
My favorite pastime was collecting the little toads that burrowed in the dirt at the ballfield. They had tiny toes and bulging eyes and were about the size of a quarter, their bumpy bodies in various shades of brown decorated with black spots. I adored how miniature they were. I would keep them on the bungalow porch in a dirt-filled terrarium fashioned out of a wooden crate, covered loosely with wire mesh to make it easy for them to escape to forage for food. All summer I had a revolving population of little spotted toads. My mother didn’t seem to mind as long as the toad community resided out on the porch. What she never knew was that on evenings when the grown-ups went out, I would set my menagerie of toads free on the kitchen floor. I tried to get them to race each other. They never did get the hang of it, but it was entertaining to watch them hop around.
My girlfriends and I often borrowed a card table to play mah-jongg in the shade, having learned from watching our mothers over the years. I loved the clicking and whooshing sounds when we swirled the tiles around to mix them between rounds. We copied our mothers as we picked up or tossed the tiles into the center of the table. We became miniature versions of our mothers, with potato chip crumbs on our lips instead of dangling cigarettes.
In my teenage years I hung out at the clubhouse at East Pond cottages, a larger bungalow colony adjacent to Sunnyhill. Their clubhouse had a jukebox, counter service, and a lot of teenage activity. Teens would lounge on the counter barstools, drape themselves over the pinball machines, or arrange their bodies on the outside steps. I had a serious crush on a dark haired, brown-eyed, handsome boy named Lonnie. When I was 14, he and I were both junior counselors at East Pond’s Day Camp. More than once, Lonnie and I led the kids as far as we could go into the forest, and set them loose for nature exploration. Then he and I would seek out a secluded area behind some boulders where we could still hear the kids, but hopefully not be seen by them. This was the spot for my first real kiss, a French kiss, and it was heavenly! I still have the group photo of the camp staff for that year. Occasionally I permit myself the thrill of looking at his photo and remembering how bewildered and excited I was about life when I was a teen.
Those bungalow communities no longer exist in the Catskills. But the sweet memories will always remain, popping in and out of my consciousness, taking me back to those carefree summers at Sunnyhill.
Irene Zahler
At the Kuchalayn
I’m Irene Zahler, and my age, if you could believe it, is 98, and going strong. I feel I’m going to last maybe to 120, 130… who knows! At any rate, I feel that way—I feel very young at heart.
I come from New York City, the Bronx. My father was born in Poland and my mother near Kiev. She was 18 when they were introduced, and running a tailoring business. My mother would make uniforms for the Cossacks. She was a really, really good tailor.
My parents escaped to Poland after they were married because the pogroms around Kiev were killing the Jews. They never looked back. My father didn’t say goodbye to his parents, my mother didn’t say goodbye to anybody, and her whole family was there except for Sam, her brother, who was in America. He had gone there when he was 16 and got himself established. In every letter he wrote to the family, he asked Mom to come. After one of the pogroms, my mother said we’re going to get on a boat to America and go to Sam. And that was the story of their escape.
So, I grew up in New York City. The summers there were so hot. There was no air conditioning. My two brothers and myself would take pillows to the fire escape and sleep out there to get away from the heat. About the time I was 12, my mother said, “It’s so hot… Becky (our cousin) she’s been going to ‘the mountains,’ and she just loves it.” There are kuchalayn—a Yiddish expression for a bungalow colony, with a kitchen facility for the whole group in a big barn.
So we went to the kuchalayn. There were lots of children, and we would get into the most mischievous things. Of course, the mothers were busy screaming, “Hey, Shloimy, stop that! You’re making a wreck of the place!” And that’s what you heard the whole time…. She and Shloimy got along that way… they yelled at each other. But sweet little Irene! My mother didn’t know all the craziness I could get into if I only had the chance.
At any rate, it was lovely. You always found someone to cruise around with, and, oh, so what if Mom can’t find me for a half hour, I’ll come back. I always knew where I was.
The kids were mainly occupied with the swimming. Some of the places had dug-out holes. Nobody really taught you to swim, you just did it. You jumped in and you swam.
There were long tables for meals. You could sit with your family or a friend that you loved a lot and didn’t want to leave for suppertime.
We just came up there to raise you-know-what, and have fun with each other. It was a wonderful way of growing up and learning about friendships. You knew you were going to say goodbye until the next summer. And that last day was sad. But you lived through it, and you waited for next summer when you would all gather again.
Let me tell you about the strudel. My mother’s friend was known for her strudel. She used to get up at 4 in the morning to make it so it would have time to expand. She spread out tinfoil on the enamel table. For two days, she left the dough on the table, covered with a wet cloth, and it expanded, and then she would cut: this part for the kechel, this part for the challah, and whatever else. And then she would stuff [the kechel] with dates, nuts, sometimes figs, prunes maybe (though that was nobody’s favorite). She’d roll and bake it.
Don’t ask! It was like a bakery. The smells were unbelievable. That was the thing I most enjoyed, the smell of the baking. And then you would slice it. It was very good.
Shabbats up in the country, with many families, were a beautiful sight, because everybody had their candlesticks next to where they ate. They’d all say the prayer for welcoming the Shabbat, all these women saying their Friday night prayers over the candles. The voices sounded so pure and good and warm.
When I was older, we went up with Bonnie, my sister-in-law, whose family owned a very popular hotel, Brown’s, where Jerry Lewis got his start. And she would tell us, “Oh, we’ve got to go see this performer!” We would put on our best clothes, very pretty, long skirts with beautiful tops with sequins and stuff. I remember getting what we call fahpitzed, which means you were dressed to the nines. Bonnie would introduce us to the stars, and that was always a thrill.
At the hotel, sometimes they would tell us, “We’re pretty full tonight—we can’t accommodate any more.” But Bonnie wouldn’t take no for an answer. So, we would go into the ladies’ room and sometime later sneak out into the dining room. And we always found a place to sit!
On one of the trips to the hotel, I met this guy. I think he was one of the waiters. He was a terrific dancer, and I was very little. And so he said, I can take you and whirl you around—which he did. He would pick me up and whirl me around. We were really a show. I said to my mother, I hope you don’t mind. Because the one thing that they had raised us with is, when you get older you don’t socialize with non-Jews, especially boys, because they were always afraid of intermarriage. And he was not only not Jewish, he was half Black. He was gorgeous. I said to my mother, I only dance with him. We don’t do anything. We know that dancing is between us. And she said nothing. So, I figured that was yes, it was okay. That’s how I got away with that. There was none of this hanky-panky or anything. That wasn’t it. It was mostly dancing. And singing! Oh boy, did I sing.