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my life
© Birth
© Kindergarten, Betrayal
© Kindergarten, Field Trip
© The Diploma
© Costache
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Birth
I don't remember any of the events preceding it neither. Most of it is hearsay, much of it is stories, and all of it is from rock solid reliable sources as you can imagine. I wouldn't include it here otherwise. Of course I won't ask for your approval or opinion, if I do there will be no book and you will all go fishing. Thus I will simply dump it on you. OK? And to those wondering - yes, I AM insured... OK, stories, let's see. Let's start with the first event linked to my creation, and I don't mean what you mean, you naughty naughty... my parents never did this kind of thing, of course. I mean that other event, when I was already about the size of a billiard ball and my mother's belly about the size of a basket ball meaning we were both at an advanced stage of growing, I internally and she externally. Thus I could not participate in the action directly but I was forced to participate indirectly. Real fun it was... I guess?! You see, around the time my parents married they inherited this small and black and white and sharp and noisy and fiery mongrel bitch, God knows from where, why, and even when exactly. I believe they had no recollection of the details. Not very usual, as it happens, for a Jewish family with traditional background to own a dog, certainly not at that time - end of the forties, and certainly not at that place - some forgotten little town in the north of poor Romania. They probably didn't even know they loved the silly wild creature till that one special day when the poor silly wild creature was run over by a carriage. Correct, carriage and not car, as there were no cars in that place, nobody ever saw one in "flesh", and they were masked out even in the movies. The closest to a car there, was the train. Luckily the dog was not hit by a train. It was high noon when one of the neighbors came rushing over to my mom telling her between various commiserating sounds, tasting her cakes, and mentioning the problems she had with her lumbago, that the dog was run over. I am not sure if the main reason was the dog or the cakes, and neither was my mom sure or care. Now, you have to know that for those people at that time in that place, my parents included, superstition was a religion. If a cat crossed their way they returned home. If somebody cursed them they would spit three times, and if a pregnant woman touched an animal her newborn will resemble this animal. Fact. As clear as the shining sun that very day. So you can imagine the street-long awe when my mom, with this huge belly containing billiard ball sized me almost touching her chin, rushed down the long flight of stairs, picked up the bloodied figure from the middle of the cobbled street, and rushed with it on foot, god knows what distance, to the only medic in town (there was no such thing as a "vet") she trusted. It was our neighbor from downstairs who worked at the town hospital. It was not to be done. She did it. Doc saved dog. Don't have the details except that it was touch or go and touch got the upper hand. A limping beast returned home in her arms, licking her hands to bone clean and whimpering with pain and love. My mom courageously braved the noses peeking from behind each curtained window and entered the courtyard to our home. The street... well, the street were heavily betting on the shape of my ears and the size of my tail. Some even ventured to talk about the length of my muzzle. Clearly something to be followed closely by self appointed volunteers once the time arrived. The time arrived. It so happened they all lost their bets. I decided to get born this one beautiful hot summer night, somewhere around the midnight of a sweaty Friday, in the one yellow bulb lighted room of the local dilapidated hospital. I started by trying several times to get out straight onto my feet like any reasonable human being would, and the doctors insisting again and again that I should come out head first. The ignorants. The one I would later on call mama labouring and crying for almost a full day in terrible pain with nose-high me completely ignorant of the fact, and the one I would later on call tata screaming at the doctors "get him out even in pieces, just get him out, he's killing my wife..." Don't forget the time and the place, it was maybe called hospital, with emphasis on maybe... Finally I did it, tore my way out into the world, got pissed off at what I found, and decided there was a mistake somewhere in the planning. So I got out dead. Yes, dead, you know, dead like not alive, like a piece of wood, or a lump of clay if you insist. They, the doctors, the midwife, tried hot water then cold water then hot water... dead I stayed dead. Nothing left to do with such losers as myself, so they threw me aside and started dealing with my mother. Relieved as she was and so in pain, she still had the power to lament and be so sorry because my dad so wanted a son... Women... first they scream then they are sorry... ha, women... I don't remember clearly what happened to me. My brain must have been too small and too under oxygenated to remember what happened. Did I have a sudden change of mind? Maybe. Probably being swayed by the events I was somehow witnessing, not to mention starting feeling sorry for myself as I was lying there rolled up in bloodied cold towels, forgotten, naked, blue... that while they were patching her up I decided it is about time for me to give it nevertheless a try. What the heck, all of them seemed to have made it somehow and get to some reasonable age. Maybe I should try too? So I let out my first scream. Surprisingly surprised they were surprisingly kind of happy. The doctors the surprised part, my parents the happy part. The more I think of it the more persuaded I am they were. My parents I mean. Happy I mean. Otherwise how could I explain the love they showered me with for the rest of my life from that moment on? * * * The news spread like wild fire in a dry wheat field. It was a big event in my house, huge. No, not my coming home, sorry, so sorry, I may have misled you. The big event was not my coming home but my coming home to a house full of newly born babies. Don't start guessing, I will tell you. Did I tell you about my parents' small black white sharp noisy fiery mongrel bitch? I did. What I didn't tell was that this lady, even a dog she was, had such a following and renown in our in(ha)clusive neighborhood, that no sane male dog in town that cared a tiny bit about his reputation could resist her. They all visited her. And some of the very few she graciously accepted to embrace in her daily adventures became unwilling fathers to a new generation of snappy wild mongrels. Not season in and season out but EVERY season. She didn't mind the fathers disappearing on her once the deed done; but the puppies, she simply loved with wildest wolf ferocity. And right then, just as my mom was coming home with the screaming bundle in her hands, the cheeky little mongrel decided it's time to compete for the front of the stage and she came out with a salvo of not less than five squealing puppies herself. My goodness. The noise was probably so deafening, the event so shattering, that it would have gotten first page in the local newspaper had there been any local newspaper. End of story? Of course not, otherwise I wouldn't have started it. Well, well, well, thought to herself my parents' brooding hen (they had a hen too, you see, not a mongrel this one). Well, well, well, thought to herself the red feathered querulous minded worms eater. Funny species are you: one featherless chick coming with mama, ha, five furred chicks coming with mama's wolf, haha, let me show you what a real chicken looks, does, and acts like. So she showed them. And to the one featherless chick, and to the five furred chicks, the madam added her own cacophony of a sharp unmistakable sounding chorus of a dozen newly hatched small yellow feathered chicks this time. I don't know who drank whose milk and who ate whose worms and who slept in whose bed or lair or den. I do know that the house has become a symbol of fertility, and Boldog Asszony (the Hungarian fertility goddess, Romanians never had one so I had to loan from the neighbors, sorry...) was probably proud. My parents? I mean - my parents in all that? Well, I think they... loved it. And they kept telling me and repeating the story not dozens, but dozens of dozens of dozens of times. Not only because they wanted to but mostly because I kept pestering them to, later on when I was able to pester. Which does not mean I grew into a pest. I don't think so. * * * Just a sec, how did I get into all this nostalgic stuff? Ah, the story of my circumcision... Hey, really, it was just an excuse to tell you the way it all started for me. I don't really think you want to go into details about it. There is rather more stuff I really do remember myself, not just being told, and which I want to tell you about. Scary, isn't it? The fact that there is more coming and you can do nothing about it...
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Kindergarten, Betrayal
I woke up as a soft voice kept calling my name with different intonations. "Ioji, Iojica, Ioynole..." Romanian is rich in endearing diminutives. So is Yiddish, the Jewish language my parents often lapsed into. And those names mentioned are only some of the possible variations. It sounded so good that it almost called for further sleep. But I loved my kindergarten, loved the kindergarten mistress Elvira, and getting up early just helped get the fun start early. I got down from bed and my mom helped me get dressed. There was no running water in the house so with some shivers I symbolically wet my face with water from an iron bowl, peed through the window in the courtyard behind the house, and was ready for breakfast. It was the same food every morning and I loved it. I knew in the back of my mind that nothing else is actually available, still - I really loved it. My mom prepared one big hot tin cup of warm milk with chicory, then she put pieces of dry bread in it, and fed me with a teacup till it was empty. I hated eating by myself, and she loved feeding me, so all parties enjoyed the ceremony. The dog was long ago out of the house, when my father went to work he let her out, but I knew I will find her in the street to greet me on my way. I finished the cup, picked up the sandwiches tin box with the two loafs of bread spread thickly with black cherries comfiture (my preferred...) and left for the kindergarten. It was half an hour's walk, and sometimes I met other kids going the same way. This day I got there without meeting anybody. I used the opportunity to pick up a long thin lilac stick and on the way I cut viciously a few flower heads. Some kids arrived earlier so I threw my lunchbox in the classroom and rushed out to play with them. They found an opening in the fence to the adjoining puppets factory and were busy looking for glass eyes. I had a small collection myself and every time I found one was a small personal victory. I exchanged them at times for pieces of other kids' food. This time, same as all the other times, we were scrapping the ground and investigating the factory's garbage cans, when I saw it - round, big, brown. Another kid, Ionel, saw it at the same time. I leaped for it, scrapped the ground with my fingernails to collect it, and started running. The other kids started chasing me, though they knew they had no chance, nobody could catch me. I could run almost as fast as my dog, and within seconds climb a tree, climb a roof, slide in a dark basement... They gave up fast, threw a few stones after me, and returned to the searching. Elvira started calling for us to get in and we entered the kindergarten class. I loved it. It was a small two rooms building, one room with small chairs and a big closed fireplace and hundreds of books, the other room with small chairs as well, and loaded with puppets, wooden colored blocks, colored pencils and lots of white paper. I could already read, and many times got lost undisturbed in a corner of the room sunk in the world of heroes and beautiful maidens and terrible dragons. From time to time I found some poems, I loved poems. Elvira usually left me to myself, as long as she knew where to find me she didn't mind me not joining in the games. One kid less to worry about. This time she was going to read us a story. I joined the other kids on the floor around her as she started reading. I knew the story, probably most of the kids did. But listening to her had something magical to it, one timely, like the story turning real before my very eyes. The story was called The Goat and her Three Kids. The goat had to leave for shopping in town and told her three kids not to open the door to anyone, especially not to the wolf. So when the wolf came and asked them to open the door they did not. Then the shrewd wolf went to a blacksmith to sharpen his tongue, to make his voice sound thinner. The two big kids opened the door, while the little one hid. So the wolf ate the two but not the little one. It was not a sad story, it was a story with a lesson to it, that's the way I always took it and compared to Little Red Hood it was even much less bloody. And I both read it and heard it several times already, however the fascination stayed. Especially since I knew what follows after a story reading - a game based on the story. This time some of us will have to hide and the others will have to find them. I was great at hide'n'seek games, rarely someone succeeded to find me and I asked of course to be with the hiding party. Elvira agreed, and after several seconds of hesitation I found my hiding place, I hid... inside the fireplace, up the chimney, just like the goat's little kid. It was dark, dirty, smelly, but this never bothered me. Especially with "so much" at stake. The other two kids hid in the usual places, one under a desk, one above the fireplace, behind the chimney. You can imagine the roar in the small room as they were looking for me (the others were found almost instantly) and could not find trace of me. The kids kept looking the same places again and again, even picking at the floor boards, while Elvira kept looking at the old clock on the shelf, eyeing my direction from time to time, and smiling undecidedly. I was following them all through a crack in the chimney, and felt, proudly so, their growing disbelief. Some even ventured outside, though they knew there was no chance for me to have gone there. It was great, they will have to give up and then I will get out with that well known victoriously inflated chest of mine and the not lest familiar "I'm the best" smile painted upon my face. I loved winning, and actually hated losing was a better description of it. I was ready even to spend the night there if necessary. Well, I was but my teacher was not. And as I kept spying them all through the crack, I just could not believe my eyes when I saw her suddenly giving a short nod with her head to a kid, showing him where I was, and then looking away as if nothing happened. Betrayed. No, Elvira, no... was what I felt like shouting. Tears invaded my vision, my beloved teacher betrayed me, this kind of thing does not happen, it happens only in stories... I started sobbing, the black sooth sinking deep inside my throat and my fingernails digging inside the soft bricks layer. I got out before they would come and get me, dirty, covered with ash and doing my best to dry my eyes while the best I could do is smear the dirt further. I looked at Elvira with a long accusing look, all the childish indignation accumulated in me focused in this one long silently accusing look. Traitress. She kind of winced, not ready and not expecting this kind of vicious reaction on my part, so much stronger than any physical reaction or tantrum might have been. After all it was just a game. No, not for me, it was not. It was a competition of wits and I was cheated out of my rightful victory. You betrayed me, Elvira, and my eyes were screaming pain. This day she lost my admiration. This day I suddenly grew older. She became just my kindergarten teacher, and no more the admired leader of my childish dreams. And for me it was my first lesson in mistrust. So early in my life. I came home, gave my mom the dirty clothes, refused to eat, and climbed into the attic. I took the dog with me. Her wet tongue was the only thing that could help me overcome this world's injustices. I fell asleep with my head on her warm belly.
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Kindergarten, Field Trip
Two hours later I heard the clanking of the opening store and everybody got on their feet shaking the numbness from their limbs. Felt good being there with all those tall, silent, grey faced adults before me and behind me. I knew I am doing something important, I knew I am performing some kind of duty for my family and it made my chest swell with pride. We advanced slowly, each one presenting his empty one litre bottle with the money and the rationing stamp and getting it filled from a big barrel via a tin funnel. My turn came, I paid, gave my stamp and watched the oily liquid get up to the mark on my bottle. I corked it and ran home. My parents were not yet there. I climbed to the roof of the shack holding our winter wood, then opened the window above it with a long nail and climbed into the house. My sandwiches were ready so I stuffed them in my pocket, kissed the dog, and descended the way I came. I did not want to be late to kindergarten today. We were going on a field trip and I was not going to miss it for anything in the world. I did not forget the earlier betrayal. But, fatalistic as any kid, I was taking with both hands all that life had to offer me and storing all extra luggage in a closed department for later use. When I got there the other kids were already getting organized in pairs, holding hands for the road. I didn't mind who my partner was, I loved the open space of the field we were going to, I spent there so much time with my friends, the thought blinded all my other senses. Don't even remember getting there till... there we were. The ground was soggy. I splashed all over the place, waiting any moment to be swallowed by the swamp as I saw in a French movie. The thought frightened me and drove me to try even harder. It was a mix of exaltation and morbidity that only kids know the sense of. Crazy people too. The forest edge was visible in the distance. The forest was the forbidden territory, I knew that. Snakes, wolves and bad sorceresses controlled every piece of ground there and I had absolutely no intention to be eaten alive. I picked up a stone and threw it in the forest's direction, with half of the boys following my example. Now, that my courage was proven beyond doubt, I could concentrate on playing with the others. We rushed to have a look at the small pool of accumulated rain water, but we didn't dare get any closer. None of us knew to swim and except for a few frogs - the "lake" was green with moss and didn't look interesting. Instead we got to our preferred game of hide'n'seek under the ever vigilant eye of Elvira. It changed soon after to who-throws-the-stone-farthest, and after about half an hour of that we fell on our sandwiches like hungry wolf cubs. Sitting on the dirty ground didn't present any problem, while Elvira opened some magical collapsible chair and sat on it. The air was warm, a bit humid, flies and butterflies by the thousands, wild yellow and red flowery carpets stretching for as far as the eye could see, and if I knew about heaven at the time I certainly could have defined it as that place. It was quiet, no other living thing around (except for the insects and the wolves in the forest, of course...), I felt like Robinson Crusoe whom I started to read several weeks ago. I lay on my back on the ground, the wet grass sticking to my shirt, my belly full, closed my eyes and fell asleep. I woke up to the sound of action. I rolled over on my belly and saw a group of kids kicking a ball around and shouting wildly. A ball... I've never seen a ball except on Saturday's when the family ritual was to go to the inter-city soccer game chewing-spewing dried pumpkin seeds and shouting our throats hoarse in support of our local team. And never owned one that was not made of old rags. This one was a rubber ball, soft, yielding. I jumped to my feet like lightning and rushed over to join the game. I closed in, looked at the ball... and suddenly I started charging the players instead of the ball, throwing each one of them to the ground with kid fury and kicking savagely. I wasn't the biggest but I was the wildest and strongest and on a one on one, no kid my age stood a chance. Some started throwing balls of mud at me but soon they gave up fighting, gave up the ball, and started chasing the hundreds of butterflies filling the fields. I kneeled close to the ball and tried to touch it. I saw the small needles contracting but no sign of life except for that. I pulled my sleeves down to cover my palms, picked up the small hedgehog between them and ran with it towards the forest, wolves or no wolves it did not matter anymore. No one followed me. I stopped, crouched down and slowly let the round spiky bundle slide down to the ground, waiting to see if it will unwind. I sat down close by and waited, watching silently. I don't know how long it took till I heard my teacher calling me. I was disappointed, the poor thing stayed coiled until I left, and didn't open up till I lost sight of it. But I knew that I have made a big discovery, one that I could not phrase clearly or correctly but was in some way a major one for my age - hedgehogs were not as impenetrable and protected as I have read in a children's book a few weeks back. They were soft and they could be hurt. And I cared. Maybe not only hedgehogs? I did not know at the time what kind of lesson this event taught me, but I sensed that it was probably a very important one, one to follow me all through my life...
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The Diploma
I hated it when they called me jid. The other kids and some of the teachers. I did not take any special pride in my being Jewish and I hated it when someone was rubbing my nose into it. I soaked in, kid fasion, extremely fast the communist rationale of no God and equality to all, and being Jewish in this small town lost somewhere in the north of Romania was just an accident. My history was the Romanian history, and my heroes the national poet born in my town, and King Stefan who once ruled the county I lived in. I knew the first one's poems by heart and the second one's history book chapter by heart too. A proud Romanian boy. This time, as all the previous times, it happened with friends. We played "war" in the local public garden, my group was winning and someone got angry and called me jid. In a few minutes stones started flying and a few bleeding heads scattered to their respective homes. One of them was mine. None of us cried, tomorrow morning we will all be as good friends as ever. It was the going home, however, that was frightening. Finally I got no choice but to drag my body home. It was getting dark, and if I wanted to get out again after dinner for another round of playing, I had first to get home. My mom was busy in the kitchen, preparing dough for Saturday's sweet bread. I tried to sneak past her but the dog started yapping happily and she turned around to see me. I stopped, seeing her look at me, my eyes fixing a rusted nail somewhere on the wall and the dog wagging its butt of tail like it never saw me in three days. I expected everything, from a "your father will take care of you" to a serious spanking. Funny, not this time. I breathed with relief. She led me to a chair, took a towel and soaked it with water, then started cleaning the wound and then wiping away the dried blood. She didn't even ask what happened, it was not the first time that I returned bloodied back home from some street battle. But it was the first time that she seemed to take it easily, as if she didn't mind it at all. She just gave me a new shirt, asked me not to tell a thing to my dad, and went back to her chores. I was relieved. I knew my parents have been worried lately and I wondered whether this was the reason I got so easily off the hook this time. They have filled in forms for emigrating to Israel, and my father was afraid it will cost him his job. And the fears of an unexpected knock on the door in middle of the night... Securitatea... was wearing them down. None of which bothered me. The only worry I had was what will happen to our dog if we got permission to emigrate. The rest was grown ups worries. I ate my dinner and went out looking for my friends again, the hole in my head forgotten and new mischief in my mind. My mom just reminded me that next week the end of the school year's festivities will take place and I better keep out of trouble or she'll find this stick she kept threatening me with. It flashed for a moment in my mind - hey, this is the reason I got off so easily, she was so proud of my grades that she just didn't feel like punishing me... Just a flash, and off to the dark streets and to another few hours of playing. The plan for tonight being a raid of a dried apples stock in a dank cellar, where we hoped to get out with a nice booty of eight, ten apples each in our pockets. Monday arrived. I finished fourth grade with exceptional grades. Fourth grade, who cares? Well, I did, my parents did, and the whole town did. Food and clothing may have been scarce, but school was sacred and good end of year results, any grade, were considered a national treasure and were celebrated with pomp and fanfare music. I was number one all my previous three years, school wide. And every year the ceremony, the handshakes, the diploma of which three hung already at home above my bed. This was to be my fourth from this school. For my fifth year I was moving to another school, a mixed boys girls school, and I wanted to finish this year again as school's number one. I was. My teacher informed my parents that according to my grades that was the situation and they should expect my fourth diploma to be hung next to the other three. My father went to work as usual, he could not take a day off. But my mom was home and she was coming with me. Every previous year it was the same. The Sunday spent arranging her hair with those hot round iron pincers that curled her hair, following which she was binding the curls with colored small ribbons to fix them in place. Then on Monday she was dressing in her best of clothes, best of shoes. I was taking for once the second of my once a week bath, hating every moment of it but knowing it to be a necessity. Then, dressed in short blue trousers, white crisp shirt, short white socks, new shoes bought just for the occasion (and knowing they will give me blisters) and topping it all the freshly washed freshly ironed blood red pioneer necktie around my neck, the symbol of belonging, of excellence, my pride - we locked the door and went to the school. My mom carrying in her arms a freshly bought bouquet of white gladiolas, to offer the teachers once they will call me up to the stage for my diploma. We entered the big hall and looked around us, as always awed by the grandeur of the moment. The front rows were seats taken by all the important party hot shots and a few guests from out of town. Then the rest of the rows were taken by kids and parents, family members, friends. On the stage a long table with a green cover and about twenty chairs for the school teachers and some important guests that were supposed to deliver speeches for the occasion. And at floor level, at the right side of the stage, a few higher class pupils dressed in uniforms, with drums and trumpets and flags, ready for the occasion. We decided not to sit down, but rather wait standing up somewhere at the back of the hall, just to save me the embarrassment of having to crawl out between so many seated guests once I will be called up. My mom greeted a few faces, and was looking for my teacher, when the ceremony started without finding him. We knew, even the kids, that he had a drinking problem, yet it did not diminish any of his teaching skills. The kids loved him, I too. All rose to the national anthem. The drums beating the cadence, the trumpets calling in triumph, I felt that all this ceremony was for me and me only, school's number one again. My mom proud at my side, the flowers clamped tightly to her chest. Then everybody but us two sat down. The speeches started, I never paid attention, all these long words, interminable sentences, I was impatient, waiting for my turn, embarrassed yet one head higher than my usual size. My teacher was on the stage, got there late. We tried to catch his attention but didn't succeed, he looked a bit weary, kind of lost in a world of his own. Drunk again, I thought to myself, feeling a wave of love for the man that was guiding me for four years now. It was coming. The speeches were over, a restless movement passed through the seated audience as the schoolmaster rose from his chair, the list in his hand, ready to start calling the names of the best. Some heads turned around to look at us, they knew who will be called first. Drums again. Then the trumpets again. I started going forward even without waiting for my name to be called. I knew I am number one. I stopped. A name was called and something unclear registered on my mind. This name was not my name. A second name. A third. Not mine. Not mine. Kids were pushing through the rows of chairs, passing me on their way towards the stage, getting on it, shaking hands and getting handed pieces of cardboard paper. I was frozen in place. Tears started gathering in my eyes... something was wrong, something was terribly wrong. The last name was called out. Not mine either. I felt a shape storming past me, with unabatable, unabstainable fury. My mom's back rushing forward towards the front of the stage, stopping there for a moment and looking all those dignitaries accusingly in the face, and with one despising move throwing the flowers to the floor. Then she turned around without a word, took my hand and pulled my tearful shape out of the hall. At this moment, I fully realised for the first time in my life who I really was. I was a jid.
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Costache
My first day's visit to the new school was not any different than that of millions of other kids worldwide. Someone stole my food, someone stole my chair, and at the end of the first day the three bullies on duty from my class tried of course to bully me. They should have known better, though it did not come to a real "showdown". They were just kicking my books bag on the floor and pushing me aggressively into a corner and it was almost getting into a fist fight when a girlish voice sounded in the empty classroom from the doorway admonishing them... leave him alone, what are you doing?... There is some respect in those "circles" for good and successful pupils, and as they looked around and saw that the one admonishing them was Tereza they simply picked up their stuff and left. I was thankful. I was not afraid of kids but I was afraid of teachers, especially of teachers writing letters to my parents about "bad behavior". I faced already some similar events in my life in the previous school, very unpleasantly so, and my intentions were extremely honorable when it came to preventing similar occurrences from happening here. And on this specific occasion, this event left lingering in my mind a certain surprising respect for this specific girl. It was something new. I guess it was the first break through in my boyish attitude of us versus them though it took about two more years till it developed into a let's approach them attitude. I gained my suitable position in the class quite fast. I had a good head, loved literature and math's, hated music and biology, a normal kid but better at most subjects than the others. And this was respected at those times in these places. My nose was never high, though I took pride in the fact that my picture was always high up on the "wall of honor" in the school, and I didn't mind other's envy either. After all - this was my personal worth. As always, the class was a mix of various characters from various backgrounds. Mostly Christian kids, a small number of Jewish kids, a few gypsies. The class included as well the inevitable "repeaters", mostly kids from an extremely poor background, fathers usually drunkards, broken families, and some simply just plain weak students. There were about five of those in my class, two or three years older than the rest of us "normal" kids, most of them big strong wild oxen, not necessarily undisciplined in class but outside of class they were to be feared and avoided. They were feared an avoided by me as well, even though I was on good terms with most of them. Especially with one of them, a kid called Constantin. Big, strong, lowest grades in class. We had nothing in common actually, we did not play together, we did not meet outside of school, he was quiet, keeping to himself most of the time, and I had the impression that he was really trying to catch up with the others however before too long he became the teachers' favorite scapegoat. And especially so when after a few months his sister (older than him) joined the class as well and started making his life miserable. I could not stand her, big mouthed, treacherous, nasty. A dislike that changed to hate on this one occasion when their father came to school and she told him something nasty about her brother, and the father slapped him in view of all. I felt like dying in shame for him. And I decided that my best revenge would be to try to help him. I don't remember exactly how it began. We started staying after school together, trying to prepare the homework, trying to understand the material. I discovered an intelligent head, eager to learn and succeed, willing to get off the end of the queue, industrious, and above all and surprisingly so for such a giant... a sensitive boy. We could not become friends, the big age difference, the fact that I was Jewish, the fact that I was always first in class and he mostly last, even in misery there are classes and my class of misery was one layer higher than his... but some kind of undefined affinity developed there against all expectations and surprising everybody around. Even the teachers decided to start giving him a chance, after all if the best pupil in class (well, sometimes second to Tereza) gave him this kind of attention, they had to respect it. Teachers were no less respectful of good pupils than colleagues were. In native Romanian some name "diminutives" are considered nice, other are considered nasty, derogatory, not allowed. Depending on circumstance of usage, of course. A nice one for him would have been Costica. A derogatory diminutive of Constantin was Costache. Meaning ignorant, low class, rough. I was the only one in the school allowed to call him Costache. He proposed it himself, unexpectedly. And I considered it a great privilege, a favor he was allowing me in his own cumbersome way, a mental hand offered for a handshake breaking any artificial barriers. Some kind of a link was developing here, not a friendship but a powerful link leading... nowhere, yet always present. One of the classes I loved most was "crafts", and this year we were into wood, each pupil having to build a chair's leg. Never knew how difficult it was to build a chair' wooden leg till I had to do it myself. This type of schooling took part in another, far away school where they had a workshop, so one day each week we had to go there. On foot of course, busses were not yet "invented" in my home town at that time. It was winter, dark, high snow, cold. I left home around six in the morning, wearing a thick coat, a furry hat, high shoes, and went on the way to pick up a friend. We were going together, it felt less lonely that early in the day with hardly one lamp post per street and nothing moving except us kids hurrying to school. The fresh snow crunched underneath our feet, the sparkling magic mixed up with the fear of the wolves ululating far in the distance. Wolves were frightening, yet there was some kind of magic to this sound, somehow making us feel more important as we faced all these terrible dangers just to get to school, hoping the teachers would appreciate the danger and the sacrifice. We got there quite early. It was freezing cold and the few kids already there were building a snow man just to warm up. Some more kids arrived. Snow balls started flying and it soon developed in a merry free for all. I wasn't really in the mood for a snow fight, I was frozen and waited for the school to open and hoping it was warmer inside than outside. Which was not always the case, of course. I did not see it coming. One of those "repeaters", about two years older than me, not the biggest guy but known for his wild ways, sneaked behind me and suddenly I felt a bulk of snow being shoved deep down inside my shirt. I shuddered, I felt like dying, frozen, and most of all humiliated for allowing myself be caught in such "indecent" posture. I started crying, trying ineffectively to pull the snow out from my back, anger and frustration blinding my thought and logic. I was never supposed to interfere with them, to fight with them, they were too strong and dangerous. I saw him laughing his head off in front of me, I lost my head. I bent down, scooped a big chunk of frozen ice in both hands, and as he watched me incredulously getting close to him, I hit him fully in the face. Then I ran away. I knew I was lost. I was going to get beaten like never before in my life, I was scarred to death yet a certain pride rode my chest as I kept running away knowing that he has no chance to get me today. But tomorrow at school, I knew what awaits me. He gave up his chase long before I stopped running. Then I returned to the workshop following some ways known only to me and waited for everybody else to get into class before I followed in. I felt his eyes fixed on me with a thirst of revenge that would not be satisfied until he gets me down and steps several times on my frozen and bloodied figure. Next day at school I arrived just in time to get in the class before the bell ring. It was a short respite. The first class hour was getting to its end, the bell was about to ring and my moment of truth was awaiting me in the courtyard. This time there was no running away. I was trapped and better it is over fast. The bell rang. I went out. I looked cautiously around before leaving the safety of the school's corridors, the courtyard, the playing grounds, he was nowhere to be seen. I stepped outside, moving towards the hand-ball field, lots of kids around there, some with sledges, some sliding on patches of ice, my big "enemy" was nowhere to be seen. I started feeling much better, actually within seconds I forgot all my fears and rushed over to the big patch of ice where everybody was sliding either on their feet or on their butt to sounds of shrieks and laughter. And I didn't sense anything happening till it was too late to do anything about it. Suddenly I was isolated. A bunch of about ten, twelve kids , all from the one grade lower, created a wide circle around me and now they were closing in slowly, faces smiling with determination and drive, looking at each other for gathering courage while approaching my "menacing" shape yet knowing that I stand no chance. They were all thickly clothed, hands loaded with ice balls, and steadily advancing. I did not see "him" around, he was probably wary of the school's reaction so he just organized the "party" for me and now was probably regarding it from somewhere remote and enjoying it. I could not run away neither, or lose my face forever in the face of all those looking at whatever was about to happen. The circle advanced, closing ranks steadily and stopped only when they were about two yards away from me, all around, and watching me intently ready to crush me in. I chose a first victim, one that looked a bit unsure of himself, jumped over him and threw him to the ground surprised to hear his wailing sounds, then jumped away to the middle again as he got up and returned to his place. I jumped a second one, same as the first. The power of the pack was clearly visible, unbreakable. It was clear they were hesitating but not for long. The rush was about to happen, it was a matter of seconds before the wolves would go for the kill and tear me to pieces, I saw it growing on their faces and hands... hey, what was that? One, two, three flew up in the air like popping balloons, another two got their faces slapped with a huge paw leaving bloody noses in its trail, the others didn't wait but just scattered away in random directions leaving me suddenly alone, frightened and panting in the middle of a non existing circle. I looked at him, he did not smile, he did not gloat, did not say anything, there was that look in his eyes, that look that didn't say anything to anyone, to anyone except me. I didn't thank him, didn't have to. There was a bond there, it acted, a bond so strong that nothing ordinary could break for as long as we stayed in each other's vicinity. Costache, my special, my sensitive, my unique friend. I did not thank him, I was thankful. * I returned to this place, my old town and old school, twenty years later. I wanted to find him, I asked about him. I found out he committed suicide a few years after the last time I've seen him. I knew he was a sensible soul, I did not know just how much so he was, and probably I would not have appreciated or understood it as a child. But I miss him. I miss you my special friend Costache, this is one special wound in my heart that will never heal.
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