It was just a couple of days before our departure date, when Rabbi Avremel Korf, then the only shliach in Florida, ran into 770, a look of desperation on his face. I was sitting with a few friends in the back of the shul, and Rabbi Korf headed straight in our direction.
“Bochurim, I’m opening Florida’s first Camp Gan Yisroel in Deland – just north of Orlando!” he said, urgently. “Everything is ready! The only thing I still need is counselors. So nu? What do you say?”
We all looked at each other uncomfortably.
“You’re a little late! We’d love to, but we’re already going to other camps this summer...” we explained.
“Nu? Write to the Rebbe and ask if you should come to my camp instead!” Rabbi Korf insisted.
Seeing none of us were volunteering, Rabbi Korf offered, “How about if I write to the Rebbe for you? Can I mention your names?”
In the end, Rabbi Korf gathered a list of ten names. The Rebbe circled three of them, including mine. Instead of going to the camp I’d planned to attend, I went to Florida to fulfill the shlichus the Rebbe had handpicked me to do.
From the moment we received the Rebbe’s orders, we had exactly 45 minutes to throw all our stuff together. Camp was starting, and we needed to run to the airport for the next flight out. We only barely made it to the plane before the doors closed.
Just like that, our summer plans changed.
It was an amazing introduction to the mesiras nefesh, flexibility, and multi-tasking skills shlichus calls for.
The next summer in 1964, I returned to Gan Yisroel of Miami with a larger group of counselors. That experience was unforgettable. In fact, when Rabbi Korf went to report on the camp in a yechidus, as all Gan Yisroel directors did, the Rebbe told him his camp was one of two that gave him the most nachas that summer.
The Rebbe said he’d received inordinate nachas from Gan Yisroel Montreal, which had just introduced a “masmidim” bunk that summer. The bunk was a yeshivas kayitz program for yeshiva ketana bochurim, so they’d be gainfully employed during summer break.
Our camp, Gan Yisroel Miami, had also given the Rebbe immeasurable nachas for a different reason: every single camper came from a non-observant home, and each one had returned to that home committing to do at least one mitzvah from then on.
Four years later, the Rebbe sent me to Florida to check on every camper and see how they were doing. Incredibly, every single boy was still keeping their mitzvah commitment, some with mesiras nefesh!
Josh* told us he had to balance his pillow on his head every morning when he said Modeh Ani, because his parents forbid him from wearing a kippah.
Barry* had to hide in the bathroom to say Shema so he wouldn’t be caught by his parents.
This was four years after they’d attended camp, but the impression Gan Yisroel had left on them was so strong, they were still eager to keep these mitzvos, despite the sacrifices they demanded!
Avi Fried*, like many of our other campers, was headed to public high school after his summer with us. We knew that summer was our one chance to make Yiddishkeit part of his life.
After an enjoyable summer, Avi traded in his bathing suits and baseball bats for notebooks and backpacks. Enrolled as he was in sixties culture, where drug use and anti-establishment sentiments were everywhere, it didn’t take long for the influences of camp to fall by the wayside.
Avi leaned heavily into hippie culture, moving on after graduation to a commune in California.
And then one day, Avi called his father in Florida to share some good news with him – he was engaged to be married.
Knowing just how far his son had strayed, Mr. Fried asked Avi to tell him about his future wife, hoping that she was at least Jewish.
“Jewish, non-Jewish – does it matter?” replied Avi. “She’s a human being, and that’s all you should care about!”
Mr. Fried’s pleas to appreciate the importance of Jewish roots and lineage fell on deaf ears. Devastated, Mr. Fried called Rabbi Korf in tears and asked him if he could do something, anything, to help. Located as he was 3,000 miles away, and with no Chabad presence in Los Angeles at the time, Rabbi Korf did the only thing he could think of – he wrote to the Rebbe, asking for a bracha for Avi.
Three weeks passed, and Mr. Fried called Rabbi Korf, this time with positive news.
It seemed that Avi and his fiancé had gone to the local courthouse to get married. As they climbed the many steps leading to the entrance, thoughts swirled in Avi’s head and he began having doubts. The four weeks he’d spent in Camp Gan Yisroel suddenly began replaying themselves in his head. Avi started thinking about his camp counselors and the songs he’d learned, like “Ain’t Gonna Work on Saturday.” By the time Avi reached the top step, he turned to his bride-to-be and told her he was feeling sick and needed to leave – the wedding ceremony was going to have to wait.
Avi got into bed as soon as he got home and closed his eyes, waiting for blissful sleep to overtake him. The minutes turned to hours, and as Avi tossed and turned all night long, he thought of his time in Camp Gan Yisroel. The seeds of spirituality that had been sown in his soul began to sprout vigorously. By the time dawn broke, Avi knew there was no way he could turn his back on his Yiddishkeit – the wedding was off.
*Names changed to protect privacy
