History was taught by Georgy Vasilyevich, but in our class, just as in every other class, he was called “GooPoo.” That was a very exact nickname because there was something slimy about him. Add another consonant, and it will be clear what we all meant. But even without the added consonant, the name was quite expressive.
We were not lucky with teachers. There were hardly any about whom we could say, “That’s quite a teacher!”
One of the exceptions was Yulia Pavlovna who taught geography. That pleasant, calm woman seemed not to make any special efforts to captivate us. She simply loved her ancient science and took pleasure in sharing with us what she knew. And one more thing – she treated children nicely. We who had just been fighting during recess didn’t notice how we turned into knights or crossed an ocean on merchant ships, prepared for a fight with pirates or floated in weightlessness in a spaceship in her class. Of course, we remembered all that, and when Yulia Pavlovna asked questions, all hands went up. From all directions one could hear, “May I answer?”
We all admitted that Yulia Pavlovna was quite a teacher. And such recognition is not something that came easily from kids. We scoffed at our teachers most of the time, seeking out their funny features and foibles. One of them would look at his shoes all the time, removing every speck of dust from them, while another delighted in picking her nose.
Georgy Vasilyevich surprised everybody. It wasn’t any single habit. His whole person was… In a word, his nickname GooPoo was not accidental.
In class, GooPoo behaved either like a tamer of beasts in the circus or a warden at a camp for juvenile delinquents. He walked up and down the aisles all the time. His pacing had certain rules, which he observed precisely. First, GooPoo would stop in the middle of a row, standing up straight, as if at attention. Then, after swallowing saliva, he would produce a very loud sound with his lips and tongue. Tsk-tsk was the approximate sound. Then he would take a few steps, beating his leg slightly with the pointer. That polished wooden pointer was always in his hand; he never parted with it. One got the feeling that GooPoo didn’t see children’s faces in front of him but rather a herd of wild horses. Phyut-phyut – his pointer, or rather whip, whistled softly from time to time, accompanying almost every word the teacher pronounced.
“I’m not” phyut - phyut “your Flura Merziyevna… or Izolda Zakharovna.” phyut - phyut “I won’t allow…” phyut - phyut “…nonsense in my class.”
For some reason, GooPoo thought that nonsense took place in the classes of our head teacher Flura, and physics teacher Izolda.
“I won’t allow it!” GooPoo repeated, lashing his leg once again with the pointer, going up on his toes, then down, and clicking his heels. That gymnastic exercise obviously raised our teacher above our class and other teachers. Perhaps, a rooster views himself as soaring above the whole world when he spreads his wings and stretches out his neck before crowing his cock-a-doodle-doo. After that, GooPoo would scan the class with his piercing eyes and proclaim, “There will be complete attention in my class!”
And then he would turn sharply and smartly, like a frontline officer, to his next victim standing at the blackboard. Zhenya Gaag was his victim today. Thin, pale, and light-haired, he shrunk so much under GooPoo’s gaze that it seemed he was trying to become invisible. The number of freckles on his face was increasing right before our very eyes… Zhenya had never demonstrated brilliance in class. It was hardly possible he would do so this time.
“Well, what can you tell us about the distinctive features of the primeval communal system? Summarize the material.”
It was that very system and its contribution to future social systems that GooPoo was teaching us, in his usual dry, boring manner, that day. The boredom could lull anyone to sleep. Since GooPoo would tsk-tsk, tap his leg lightly with the pointer and walk up and down the aisles while he delivered his lectures, it was impossible to doze. But it was also impossible to listen to attentively and remember it. Many boys in my class, including me, really liked history. When we did our homework, we read the textbook “The History of the Ancient World” willingly, and we didn’t find it boring. It was a good textbook, with many photographs and drawings, with interesting stories about expeditions and excavations, about the skeleton of a dinosaur found somewhere in the Sahara, about a cave, the abode of primeval people, discovered in the mountains of Europe. But there were no dinosaurs nor caves nor people wearing animal hides, no smell of smoke from a fire started with a wooden stick nor roaring of a mammoth whom hunters had driven into a deep hole in our history classes. There was no life in those classes.
Poor Zhenya! GooPoo continued swishing the pointer, repeating his command, “Summarize, summarize.” But Zhenya was shrinking even more and uttering incomprehensible sounds. He was like one of those primeval people about whom he was supposed to speak. However, such similarity could hardly be considered the teacher’s accomplishment.
“Congratulations on your D grade. Take your seat.”
After finishing off his victim, GooPoo turned to the class with yet another round of exercises. His pointer whistled as it hit his leg, then was raised, the point forward as if it were ready to fly off and pierce another martyr. The class sat motionless. Who would be next?
Dr-r-r-r! the bell rang out.
Hurray! What great luck!
Chapter 38. The Cold Morning
“Now tell me, Uncle, how’d it chance that
Our Moscow could be burnt to ashes…”
It was quiet in the house. Everyone was still asleep. Grandpa Hanan fell fast asleep peacefully by morning. I had heard his hacking, seething cough throughout the night while I was half asleep. Now, repeating the lines of Lermontov’s poem, I listened to it unwittingly. The last time I was here, Grandpa hadn’t coughed so hard or so much.
“…Our Moscow could be burnt to ashes
And captured by the French?…”
I had come to visit my grandparents for the short winter vacation because Grandpa wanted to see me very much.
The famous poem “Borodino,” in the lines of which the raging battle resounded, was not difficult to memorize.
It was about eight in the morning. The bright crescent moon was high in the pre-dawn blueish sky above the yard seen through the window. The intense blue color grew paler and paler and the silhouettes of the houses in the yard grew clearer. I could see all that because I sat with my book at the window, framed by a thin lace-like design of hoarfrost. The window was cleared of ice in the evening, and the frost didn’t have enough time to spin a web of hoarfrost over it again. Other windows were fully covered by it. They froze because it was cold in the house in the winter, sometimes very cold. I woke up this morning because I was very cold, even though I slept under a padded blanket. I shivered as I got dressed and was chilled to the bone even after I dressed. The stove had to be lit right away.
When I visited Grandma Abigai and Grandpa Hanan in the winter, I was the one responsible for that. It had happened all by itself. Since I was a kid, I had hung around Grandma or my aunts when they lit the stove, pestering them with my nagging, “May I do it?” until they finally got so tired of me that once I heard, “Well, give it a try.” I was proud and happy. Fiddling with fire was my favorite thing. Since that time, I ardently made sure that no one violated my right while I was visiting. In the morning, I was the first to jump out of bed, shaking from the cold.