We, the Drowned - Carsten Jensen [30]
The teacher's face took on a vigilant expression as he scanned the room again, this time in an exaggerated manner, as though he were in a stage play. He went over to Albert and stared hard into his face. Albert was one of the younger ones, and they were always the first to crack. But Albert just stared ahead stiffly, and Isager let him off and moved on.
There were a lot of us. He never addressed us by name. He just called out, "You there!" or hit us. His rope knew us better than he did.
The class grew silent. Those still crying covered their mouths, terrified of summoning a catastrophe with even the smallest squeak. Then from somewhere in our group a raucous sob emerged (clapping your hand over your mouth didn't always work) and Isager jumped, his eyes narrowing behind his spectacles as he looked around and roared:
"Shut up!"
"Mr. Isager," ventured Albert, "it was wrong of you to hit us. We haven't done anything."
Isager paled. Even his red nose lost its color. Then he unbuttoned his tailcoat. That was the sign we'd feared. All through the hymn he'd been holding the rope: book in one hand, tool of punishment in the other. Just a moment ago he'd been singing about joy and good tidings and the light of grace; now he uncoiled the rope with a practiced hand. If it were a whip, he'd have cracked it.
"You'll get your punishment now"—here his breath caught—"upon my most sacred honor!" And with a single movement he yanked Albert up by the sweater, hauling him from his desk and ramming him down to the floor. Then, trapping him between both legs, he grabbed the lining of his trousers. He'd been saving his strength for this: for an entire long, leisurely summer, he'd had only Josef and Johan to thrash. His moment had come. Deploying skills he had honed over three decades of practice, Isager prepared to land his rope with full force.
Albert cried out in terror. He'd never been flogged before. Laurids had rarely hit him, and his mother mainly boxed his ears. He was used to that. But now he was being thrust down onto his knees. He squirmed to free himself from Mr. Isager's grip.
"So, you're being disobedient, eh?" Mr. Isager hissed and hefted him back to his feet by the hair. He looked Albert right in the face.
"Disobedient," he muttered again, and whipped him across the cheek.
Then he moved on to his next victim.
By now, some boys had climbed up onto the windowsill at the back of the classroom and were struggling with the window catches. By the time Isager was aware of it, the window was gaping open and the boys had jumped out onto the playground and escaped through the gate. Isager had the thrashing rope poised for the next flogging, but the boy between his legs wriggled loose and hurtled round the classroom in a blind panic. At this, Isager began storming across the room, lashing out with the rope, left, right, and center.
"Hurry up, hurry up! He's coming!" we screamed.
Another boy squeezed through the window just before Isager reached it, thrashing those who remained before hauling them down from the sill. The rope flayed our legs, our backs, our arms, and our bare faces. One boy curled up in a ball on the floor, protecting his head with his hands while Isager whipped his back and booted him in the ribs.
Hans Jørgen grabbed hold of Isager's arm. He was a big, strong boy who was due to be confirmed the following spring.
"How dare you lay a hand on your teacher, you lout!" Isager yelled as he struggled to free himself.
Even though there were enough of us to overpower Isager (and if all seventy of us had mobbed him, our sheer weight would have suffocated him), we simply didn't dare come to Hans Jørgen's aid. Indeed, it never crossed our minds. After all, Isager was our teacher. Most of us stayed in our seats, too frightened to move, even though we knew our turn was coming. But Albert approached the still-scuffling duo and looked our teacher up and down. Isager, busy freeing himself from Hans Jørgen's