Mitla Pass - Leon Uris [160]
There was something further that was unique to Miss Abigail. One or two of her students ran off with most of the honors every year. During the first days of a school term, she scrutinized her pupils quietly until she found the children she was looking for, and she’d work with them hard for honors, but only if they wanted to.
Gideon had been sick with a severe asthma attack when the school opened. He came into the class several days late and slipped into a seat in the last row—a dubious distinction—because his last name began with the letter Z.
“I think I see a new boy,” she said. “Would you please stand up and give your name to the class.”
Gideon arose. “Gideon Zadok.”
“So you’re the missing culprit. In my classroom we reverse the alphabetical order so that the Z’s are in front. We don’t get many Z’s, so I saved your seat, right up in the first row, please.”
“Wow!”
There was an immediate eye contact established between Gideon and his teacher, which told them both that this was not going to be an ordinary relationship. It broke into words two weeks after he entered her class. Miss Abigail ended a lovely songfest with a medley of Stephen Foster tunes which had been requested by a number of the students.
I hear those gentle voices calling,
“Old Black Joe.”
As she took the sash from about her neck and set the guitar on her desk, she and Gideon exchanged another of their instantaneous glances. She detected sudden rage in his eyes. It lasted but a fraction of a second and was gone. Miss Abigail bided her time and, in the course of the day, asked Gideon to remain after school to help her clean the blackboards and erasers. Gideon sensed that it was going to be no casual encounter, and he closed up.
After the blackboards were erased, he got a pan of water to wash them as she corrected papers. “I was curious about something, Gideon,” she said. She saw the boy’s body stiffen and his lips tighten. “I’m not going to bite you, relax.” She smiled in a certain way that made the recipient also smile. “What do you have against Stephen Foster?” she asked.
“I ... I ... nothing.”
“They are very lovely songs, aren’t they? I’ve never been around a campfire when he wasn’t sung. Well?”
“I guess they’re beautiful, if you say so.”
“Then why weren’t you singing?”
Gideon broke into a fit of sneezing. “Excuse me. It’s the chalk dust.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked you to do the blackboards.”
“It’ll go away in a minute ... ka—chooo.”
“Does Stephen Foster make you sneeze?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Then why don’t you like him?”
“I don’t sing Christmas carols either, Miss Abigail. I’m Jewish and I don’t believe in Jesus. I pretend to mouth the words, but I really don’t sing. I ... I just don’t like what Stephen Foster is saying.”
“How is that?”
“Well, because he makes it sound like the negroes enjoyed being slaves and he treats them like they were ignorant little children, or dogs licking the feet of their white masters. You know, ‘Massah’s in the cold, cold ground and all the darkies am aweeping.’ You know.”
“What?”
“They didn’t want to be slaves. Nobody wants to be a slave.”
“Do you know any colored people?”
He did. His dad had meetings with them sometimes, and many times he had gone to hear a Communist speaker in black churches. “No, ma’am,” Gideon fibbed, “I don’t know any negroes.”
Miss Abigail chewed on it all for a moment. “I agree with you, Gideon,” she said at last, “but I’m in a difficult position. Every school in America, or certainly every school in the South, sings Stephen Foster. Here it’s required. The school is named after a Confederate general. Can you understand that I agree with you, but I still want to be your sixth-grade teacher and have to do some things I don’t always like.”
Gideon blinked at her and frowned. No adult had ever said anything so grown-up and honest to him before. Molly was always honest with him, but she wasn’t a totally grown-up adult yet.
“Can you understand it, Gideon?”
“I think I can, Miss Abigail.”
“It’s a secret we have to share, because