Opposite Sides (9 page)

“
. . .
you’ve certainly got a good idea, there, young lady.” The classroom
mistress leaned over the front of the wicker wheelchair, her back
in Hans’ direction. Jan paid him no attention as she and her
teacher submersed themselves in one of Jan’s exercise books. Jan’s
work was always carefully planned and neatly written, not like some
of his with its smudged ink blotches after he’d tried to soak up
the excess ink with his piece of black-stained blotting paper. When
it seemed that Jan had finished, she removed her glasses and spent
some time carefully wiping and re-wiping them before putting them
back on, and then taking even more time to pack up her things and
lay her bag across her lap. Finally, she managed to turn the large
wheels of her cumbersome wheelchair and cross the
divide.

“
You can
wheel me home now, Mr Resmel.”

Hans said nothing. He
took hold of the high handles on the rear of the chair and began
pushing the heavy, awkward chair down the pathway which led round
the back of the main school building and through the rear gate. He
made an awkward right turn and followed a narrower path leading up
to Miss Turner’s house. Jan did not speak; not even one word. When
he finally reached the house door, Miss Turner’s two maids, Mary
and Ellen, were there to meet them and help Jan with her
wheel-chair. Jan just nodded in Hans’ direction. She sat in her
chair looking at him in deathly silence.

“
Thank you,
sir.” It was Mary who came down the steps and spoke to him. “We’ll
be ready f’you tomorra mornin’. Good afternoon, sir.”

Hans clicked his heels to
acknowledge the greeting. Then without a word, he swung round and
strode back down the path back into the college grounds. He was so
relieved to have rid himself of that dreadful girl.

So, that was
Janine; no, that is Jan Turner
.

As soon as he
had got rid of her,
he let his guard down
and began to whistle a snippets of music he had remembered from his
early childhood. As he rounded the last corner to make his way to
the wide gravel driveway, four of the remaining boys who had been
behind the shed blocked his path.

“
Here comes
Fritzy boy!” They pointed and jeered in Hans’ direction. “Hun on
the end of the ‘andles!”

Hans stopped in his
tracks, his fists clenched so tightly together that his nails bit
into the sweaty flesh of his palms. He glared at his tormentors.
The taunts continued.

“
No funk hole
for you this time!”

The words were spat out,
menacing and threatening. The boys began chanting one of Wilfred
Gibson’s war poems as they edged closer, trying to push Hans
against the wall.

“
Both his
legs are shot away, And his head is light, So he keeps muttering,
All the blessed night: Two rows of cabbages, Two of curly greens’ .
. . Two thumps to his kidneys, Let’s see how he
screams
!”

Hans raised his fists,
ready to defend himself. The largest boy, well-muscled and
menacing, sneered right into his face as he pretended to
shoot.

“
Bang! Bang!”
The other three laughed like troopers as Hans recoiled like a gun.
“They all fall down!”

Hans was at the point of
lashing out when the click of the main door was heard in the pause.
His attackers suddenly broke ranks, and disappeared in the opposite
direction, leaving Hans standing, shaken. But this time he was
unharmed.

Over the next couple of
days everything went wrong. Mr Moore had been assigned to take the
boys for a game of cricket out on the sports’ field. It would be
the last match of the year. Hans knew nothing about the game and
did not want to know about it, anyway. He had tried to watch it
with Robert several times but found it so boring and slow that he
had fallen asleep on the grass.

Mr Moore had divided the
boys into two teams. Hans’ team had won the right to bat first
which meant the Hans at the rear waiting for a turn that was never
to come. Finally, their team was bowled out and everyone had to
take their place on the field. Hans positioned himself as far away
from the wickets as possible and tried to think of other things
other than the boring game.

“
Get the
ball, boy!” The master’s voice had anger and frustration in
it.

“
Sir, can
Harry bat now?”

One of the boys pushed
Harry forward and another placed the bat in his hand. They all knew
Harry could not strike a ball no matter how gently it was bowled.
Harry blamed his poor eyesight but his teacher knew full well the
boy was far more into books rather than into sports. Mr Moore’s
attention was re-directed to the fielding team.

Hans was pleased when Mr
Moore called an end to the game. The bell had not yet gone so there
was still a minute or two left and the master held up his hand to
rescind his last order.

“
Ah, Mr
Resmel. You appear to have done very little this period. Let’s see
how good your bowling arm is!” The master laughed, a cynical laugh.
“Let’s see how a German boy can play a real English game! You call
the score, Mr Anderson.”

Mr Moore threw the
cricket ball to Hans and motioned to him that he should
bowl.

“
Give it your
best, Hans,” Robert whispered. “Copy what Lofty did.”

Hans wiped the little
ball on the side of his trousers as he’d seen Lofty do. Then he
lined up the wicket in his sight, took several large running steps
towards the batter, raised his arm and heaved the ball with all his
might. One of the stumps flew into the air as if it had been
launched from a catapult.

“
He’s hit the
wicket!”

“
Next
batter!”

The boy handed over the
bat. Mr Moore was not impressed. He threw the ball back to Hans.
Hans prepared himself again. The ball shot down the bowling green
so fast the new batter did not have time to react. Matthew Anderson
called out again in his flat voice.

“
You’re
out!”

“
Pack up,
boys!” the master ordered.

Mr Moore turned his back
on the bowler and stormed off the field.

Later that afternoon,
Hans found it extremely difficult to keep his concentration focused
on his studies. German became mixed up with English, and Religious
Studies with History. What was worse, this afternoon Mr Moore had
decided to give the boys their test results and after the morning’s
cricket game, he had a very short fuse. Each boy was made to stand
before his competitors as Mr Moore read down the list, the top
ranking student first and then progressing downwards as the marks
got worse and worse.

The day was turning out
to be a dismal failure. Mr Moore, whose normal temper seemed to be
as short as an inch, was now on the point of exploding. Then, he
got to Hans.

“
What do you
call these blotches in your book, Mr Resmel?” Hans stared at his
page. He could not see anything terribly wrong with it. There were
a couple of tiny ink smudges but nothing to really anger a master
but this master continued in a very loud voice. “They are a
disgrace! You expect me to read and mark this rubbish? You’re just
wasting my time! Out! Get out of my sight!”

A hushed silence hung
like a fog in the classroom as each boy caught his breath and dared
not exhale. The black cloaked arm of the master pointed towards the
door, waiting for Hans to gather up his things and
leave.

He was making his way
along the corridor, past all the photographs of past masters and
headmasters and towards the headmaster’s room when he happened to
bump into Miss Turner; well, almost.

“
What are you
doing wandering the corridors and why are you here, Resmel” she
asked, “and not in class?”

“
My book was
not good for the master. I was told to go. Nothing’s good for Mr
Moore!”

“
Come into my
office. Come! Come!” She made him sit. “I’m very much afraid, Mr
Resmel, that you’ve burnt up the last straw.” She eyed him like a
hawk. He really couldn’t think what a heap of ‘straw’ had to do
with his school work, or why she should have accused him of burning
anything for neither the garden litter nor any of the buildings had
gone up in smoke. But before he could fathom it out, her next
comment, along with her tone, told him that she was very, very
angry with him. “A good bout of corporal punishment might teach you
a lesson or two. Unfortunately, Mr Bowes-Heath is far too busy at
the moment to deal with you and I do not remember seeing any
prefects around. They have too many other duties without having to
take you to task. What have you to say for yourself, young
man?”

“
I do not
understand.”

“
Maybe a
caning one end will send messages to your brain at the other end.”
Hans was astounded. He had been led to believe that of the teaching
staff, it was only the headmaster or that dreaded senior master, Mr
Moore who caned. If this was to be his punishment, and from a
woman, that would be far worse. It would punish his pride. “Come
into my office. Stand and bend over that chair.”

He turned his head to the
side, watching her closely as she opened a cupboard door and take
out a long cane; silently cursing every bone in the old dragon’s
body. Surely, she did not mean to administer the blows herself. It
seemed to be so degrading, being caned by a woman. His body ached.
The constant strain of tensed muscles making him feel weak as he
waited for the seconds to tick by.

“
It pains me
to have to do this, especially on the last day or so of the year Mr
Resmel but I fear if I let this incident pass, not only will your
mind not be saved, but I fear for your soul as well. Now, prepare
yourself and bear it like a man.”

Think of something,
anything . . . Salzburg, the mountains, the Tiergarten in Berlin .
. . anywhere where he had lived. But he failed. Only a blankness
remained.

The slashes cut into him,
stinging his flesh even under the layers of clothing. He never
realised a woman could hit so hard. The cane hummed as it vibrated
through the air. One, pause; two, pause; three, pause. He counted.
It made things worse as he anticipated each lash of the whip.
Three, pause; four . . .

It stung his pride more
than his backside, yet he was surprised that the ‘old hawk’ had so
much muscle in that arm of hers. He was upset that she had used the
cane on him for such a trivial thing. It was so unfair!

He waited for the next
sting to arrive.

“
You may
stand up now!” Miss Turner relaxed and laid the cane across her
desk. “I hope that will send you a message: take more care with
your learning next time. Your family did not send you here to waste
time. Many sacrifices have been made to allow you to come here.
Don’t dishonour that. And, don’t test my patience again, Mr Resmel.
Now, go back to class! And I think you owe an apology to your
master.”

How he hated her: not
because she had punished him but, because this time, he felt it
unjustified. She had humiliated him. It was open warfare,
now.

It was during another
Friday afternoon when gardening duties were handed out again - Mr
Moore made sure Hans was handed the dreaded scrubbing brush and
ordered to clean the dreaded fountain. He did so while the master
was watching but the moment he felt the eyes were no longer there,
Hans threw the brush down in anger.

A prefect had seen him.
Six lashings this time. In the prefect’s room he was instructed to
bend over the chair. Three short swishes from the long slender
weapon.

“
This will
hurt me more than you!” A routine saying to every boy who was to be
caned. And then, “I hope you take it like a real man!” Whatever,
that was meant to mean seeing he was constantly being told he
needed to grow up.

The prefect, a year or
two older than himself, threw all his feelings of anger and hate
into that cane. There was a swishing noise as it cut through the
air. Then a hiss as it made contact with Hans’ rear end. This time
the sting bit hard. It lingered for much longer than
before.

“
You may get
up now. Return and report to Mr Moore.”

When Hans did return, the
master had no more time for him.

“
Report to
Miss Turner. If you cannot obey the rules, let her deal with you.
Good bye, Mister Resmel!”

Hans knocked on the
matron’s closed door. He waited alone in the corridor and this time
he knew better than to lean back against the wooden panels of the
wall. He waited and watched the door intently. He really didn’t
want it to open. But, he knew that sooner or later, it would open
up and then he would be swallowed up and sucked inside. The voice
on the other side summoned him in. In a hypnotised state, he opened
the mouth and entered the digestive tract of the
monster.

Miss Turner sat behind
her large desk. She almost looked demure as she peered around a
high stack of what looked like student exercise books. Hans told
her what had happened.

“
You can’t go
on like this, Mr Resmel, Hans. You must obey orders. If the school
is to operate in an effective way, there must be order. Do you
understand that, young man?” Hans nodded so she continued. “What
are we going to do with you?” she asked but did not wait for him to
answer, for she speculated none. “That arrogance of yours is doing
you no good. No matter what the task, do the honourable thing by
getting the task done, no matter what the job. Do it without all
this anger. If this college teaches you nothing else, you should
learn to be willing to do whatever is asked of you and do it
well
. Is that
understood?”