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By Root 954 0

on adventure-laden trips to Galilee, the Negev, Trans-Jordan, Mesopotamia, the pyramids, and the hanging gardens of Babylon, with the aid of wall maps and occasionally a battered magic lantern. Mr. Neimann Junior declaimed the fury of the prophets at us in thunderous cascades, followed at once by gentle rivulets of comfort and consolation. Mr. Monzon, the English teacher, hammered into us the eternal difference between "I do," "I did," "I have done," "I have been doing," "I would have done," "I should have done," and "I should have been doing": "Even the King of England in person!" he would thunder like the Lord from Mount Sinai, "even Churchill! Shakespeare! Gary Cooper!—all obey these rules of language with no excuses, and only you, honorable sir, Mister Abulafia, are apparently above the law! What, are you above Churchill?! are you above Shakespeare?! are you above the King of England?! Shame on you! Disgrace! Now please note this, pay attention all the class, write it down, get it right: It is a shame, but you, the Right Honorable Master Abulafia, you are a disgrace!!!"

But my favorite teacher of all was Mr. Michaeli, Mordechai Michaeli, whose soft hands were always perfumed like a dancer's and whose face was sheepish, as though he was forever ashamed of something; he used to sit down, take off his hat, put it on the desk in front of him, adjust his little skullcap, and, instead of bombarding us with knowledge, he would spend hours telling us stories. From the Talmud he would move on to Ukrainian folk tales, and then he would plunge suddenly into Greek mythology, Bedouin stories, and Yiddish slapstick, and he would go on until he came to the tales of the Brothers Grimm and Hans Christian Andersen and his own stories, which he composed, just like me, by telling them.

Most of the boys in my class took advantage of sweet Mr. Michaeli's good nature and absentmindedness, and they dozed through his lessons with their heads resting on their arms on the desk. Or sometimes they passed notes around or even tossed a paper ball between the desks: Mr. Michaeli did not notice, or perhaps he did not care.

I did not care either. He fixed me with his weary, kindly eyes and told his stories to me alone. Or just to two or three of us, who did not take our eyes off his lips, which seemed to be creating entire worlds in front of us.

48

FRIENDS AND neighbors started appearing in our little yard again on summer evenings, to talk about politics or cultural affairs over a glass of tea and a piece of cake. Mala and Staszek Rudnicki, Hayim and Hannah Toren, the Krochmals, who had reopened their tiny shop in Geula Street and were once more repairing dolls and making hair grow on balding teddy bears. Yakov-David and Zerta Abramski were also regular visitors. (They had both gone very gray in the months since their son Yoni was killed. Mr. Abramski had become even more talkative than before, while Zerta had turned very quiet.) My father's parents, Grandpa Alexander and Grandma Shlomit, also came sometimes, very elegant and robed in Odessan self-importance. Grandpa Alexander would briskly dismiss everything his son said with a "Nu, what" and a scornful wave of his hand, but he never found the courage to disagree with Grandma Shlomit about anything. Grandma would plant two wet kisses on my cheeks, and immediately wipe her lips with a paper napkin and my cheeks with another one, wrinkle her nose at the refreshments Mother had prepared, or the napkins that weren't folded the right way, or her son's jacket, which seemed to her too loud and verging on Oriental bad taste:

"But really, Lonya, it's so cheapl Where did you find that rag? In some Arab shop in Jaffa?" And without favoring my mother with so much as a glance she added sadly: "Only in the tiniest shtetls, where culture was barely more than a rumor, might you have seen somebody dressing like that!"

They would sit in a circle around the black tea cart that had been taken outside to serve as a garden table, unanimously bless the cool evening breeze, and over tea and cakes analyze Stalin's