My lilac bush bloomed this week and its glorious fragrance reminded me of a spring many years ago when I was working with children of holocaust victims in an after-school program at Toledo’s Jewish Community Center. Our building with its adjacent playground was located in the inner city and the children gathered there after school to wait for their parents to return from work. Most of the parents could not speak English and although their youngsters attended public school, they had no idea what was being said to them. Although we tried to help these youngsters adjust to their new culture, none of them had a happy time their first few years here.

Their parents struggled to make a living at menial jobs that matched neither their skills nor interests and at night they went to school to learn the new language that was the key to unlock the dreams that had kept them alive during the nightmares they endured. They were determined to give their children a future that would erase the violence they had suffered. I don’t think in all my years working with children that I have ever seen a parent hug his child with such fierce and protective love as I saw during that summer of ‘48.

I remember two of the children in particular. Bella was a squat child, very short for her five years and fat. Hers was not the healthy plumpness of a well-fed child. It was the bloat of malnutrition that welfare meals couldn’t alleviate. She was an angry child who pushed the other children if they tried to join her at the sandbox or asked for a turn on the swing. In the several months I watched over Bella, I never heard her laugh even when her parents came to fetch her. She would gallop to them kicking and pushing her way through the collection of other youngsters gathering up their belongings and run into their arms screaming a tirade only the three of them could understand.

In contrast, the other child I remember was a tiny mite named Herschel who came to the playground each day immaculately dressed sporting an iridescent three-colored skullcap on his head with a propeller on top. Jewish boys from the old country believed in covering their heads and Hershel’s Mama wanted her son to preserve tradition and still look like an American child. She had seen other children wearing the spinning propellers and with the very first coins she could spare from those she spent for food for her family, she purchased this American version of a yarmulke for her little boy.

Herschel sat for hours without moving, lost in fantasies I feared to share. His tiny face was always serious and he would often come up to me and slip his hand in mine as if my presence protected him. I picked him up and hugged him, but he, like Bella and all those emotionally scarred children never smiled. There was always sound on that playground: scuffling feet, screams of alarm and the whoosh of children plunging down the slides or swinging high in the air. There was the clatter of lunchboxes, dropped building blocks and bouncing balls. But no laughter. Never any laughter.

At that time, my family owned a feisty terrier named Junior; my cousin Jessica had a dachshund, Pee Wee whose back feet trailed two blocks behind his front paws and the Kaplans had an ebullient collie named Zeke. Down the street, Maureen Zeitz owned a white ball of fluff named Darlene. Maureen pinned a different ribbon in Darlene’s hair every night before she took her on a walk around the park. Susan Zarneke had a little Yorkie mix named Beverly who danced on her leash like a ballerina auditioning for Swan Lake.

One spring night as I returned home from the playground, the lilacs were blooming and the ground was covered with swatches of color. Tulips and daffodils lined my paths and the fragrance in the air was celestial. As I drank in its beauty, I dissolved into laughter at the antics of my neighbors and their pets in the park on our street. Zeke was chasing Junior while Beverly leapt over and under them and Darlene posed under a dogwood tree. How I wished my little group of children could see this delightful panorama of spring madness.

I called Jessica right after dinner and I told her about the contrast between what I had seen and the gloom that pervaded the Center playground. “I wish I could do something to make them act like children, “ I said. “They left one prison only to find another almost as awful for them. There are no gardens in those tenements and none of them are allowed pets. It’s really sad.”

“Maybe we can convince everyone to decorate their dogs with fancy ribbons or flowers and bring spring to them,” said Jessica. “I’ll get everyone here to help. We have a station wagon and so does Mrs. Zarneke. If we make it all happen Friday afternoon, the children will have something nice to remember all weekend.”

That Friday, I gathered all the children around me on the playground. “Does anyone know what season this is?” I asked.

No response.

I cleared my throat. “IT’S SPRING!!” I exclaimed. “Look!”

I pointed to the street where my aunt and Mrs. Zarneke were parking their cars. The doors of the cars swung open and out jumped Junior, his collar decorated with daffodils and jingling bells. He charged into the sandbox and met Bella on her way to the jungle gym. Bella paused, amazed and then she and our little terrier began a spirited game of tag around the slide, under the swings and into the sand box. Pee Wee waddled over to Herschel. He licked the little boy’s foot and the child knelt down and stroked the dachshund’s head. Zeke wore a plaid bandana around his neck; a tulip rested behind his ear and lace booties graced his giant paws. He romped into the playground to nuzzle Brendel Schwartz while Beverly leaped and swirled in the air like the accomplished ballerina she thought she was.

“LOOK AT DAT!” screamed Martin Edlebaum and everyone gasped. The back door of our station wagon swung open and out strolled Darlene, dressed as I have never seen a dog adorned before or since. She had simulated white and brown saddle oxfords on each paw with cuffed bobby sox, and a floral cape around her shoulders. She wore a tiny tutu over her hips and on her head was a red straw hat trimmed with daisies. She paused as all well trained models do, surveyed her charmed audience and strolled among the awed children.

The stunned silence was broken by a trill of laughter and soon every child on that playground was giggling and tussling with their new spring friends. I looked at this scene filled with so much audible joy, but I could not join in their laughter. My eyes were blinded with tears.