Free The Communist's Daughter by Dennis Bock Page B

wall of the classroom. His eyes suggested that I had gained his undivided attention. Three times his head hit the wall and three times his yellowy eyes rolled over like broken egg yolks. I would surely have continued, for my anger felt quite intoxicating, but something came over me—common sense, most likely.

    Before I was able to release the boy from my grip I felt a punch on the side of my head. Another boy was on me. I turned to face a big farm lad named Jimmy, a sullen and angry boy I’d never much liked to begin with. Without a word I laid him out with a single punch. He fell like a sack of potatoes, and silence descended over his classmates. Stepping over him, I returned to my desk and sat ramrod straight, staring down the young cretins like a regent awaiting signs of full-out rebellion. Soon the boy came to, whimpering somewhat. He moved his jaw with a hand, testing it as he returned to his seat. When the hour struck I rose silently and walked out the door, convinced that this was the end of my teaching career.

    That evening I was restive. I lived with an old woman who had difficulty remembering my name, but her head for figures was fine and she never failed to remind me how much I owed her from week to week. I lay in my hard bed late into the night and wondered what the following day held in store. I had no fear of the law for I knew this community frowned upon its Constable Ryan. He was a sad drunk, they said, and kept his nose out of their business as best he could, as long as they didn’t come between him and his favourite taverns. It was not the law I was concerned about.

    I shaved that morning, and though it was doubtful I needed to, that is what I did. I suppose I was shoring myself up, I probably made threatening faces in the mirror, but I remember staring at myself and wondering what my face would look like cut and smashed and what hints of regret it might bear should my body be laid out on a slab awaiting identification by my parents, and what their reaction would be beyond the sorrow felt by my mother and the pity and shame felt by my father. Would I be a good-looking cadaver? I wondered. A strange thought—though it has crossed my mind a number of times since.

    My heart racing, I left my landlady sitting silently in her rocking chair and marched down the single street of that village, prepared to meet whatever awaited me. I unlocked the schoolhouse—being as much custodian as headmaster, principal and teacher—and arranged my textbooks, then began pacing nervously up and down the classroom.

    To my surprise, the morning proceeded without incident. I sensed no rebellion whatsoever. The boys were well behaved, better than I had ever seen them. It seemed that yesterday’s confrontation was precisely what was needed to settle them down a good deal, so I thought we might make some genuine progress. We concentrated on the mathematics, then reading and history in the second and third hours, and when geography came we began with a lesson on western Europe. Only four of the twenty were able to locate that continent on the map for me. This ignorance suggested a sad state of affairs indeed. But the manner in which these boys wore their ignorance that morning was almost endearing, for they were humbled and by no means proud of their lack of knowledge. I could hardly blame them for their rowdy behaviour in a school that had managed to teach them so little.

    I dismissed the boys for lunch on a positive note, liberating them a few minutes early as a reward for their co-operation. I worried that I’d misjudged their cruelty and thought badly of myself for doing so. They were a fine lot, I concluded, and the day was looking up. I returned to my lodging for a meal of barley and beet soup and three slices of dark rye and started back to my schoolhouse before half past noon.

    The mood there was very much changed, with boys swarming and snickering in the schoolyard. I felt their energy from