The Horse Adjutant Chapter Two Green Hills
When I was a boy, I was just a boy. I did not enjoy school. The only subjects that interested me in the slightest were history and geography. Both were more impor- tant than I realized at the time. However, even with those budding interests, I was neglectful. I would frequently go to school without doing my assignments, leave my books at home or just stare out the window, dreaming. Thinking back, I was far more afraid of my teachers than policemen or anyone else. My behavior led to stern warnings from my teachers to my father and me. One time, my teacher said to my father, “How can your son learn without books or doing his assignments?” My father simply shook his head and chastised me, “If you keep this up, you will be lucky to grow up to be a dogcatcher.” I tried not to let it bother me, especially when I was on my own, which seemed to be most of the time. How was I to resist the temptations that lay all about me? There were so many things I liked to do. I would explore the hills and forests of the moun- tains towering above me, wade in streams and rivers filled with frogs, play around the old, high railroad bridge that arched like a Roman aqueduct across the river near my home, raid the neighbors’ apple or pear trees or play stickball with my friends. Up to the age of 12, there was no question I had many better things to do with my life than sit around a boring classroom. Just about the only good thing I can remem- ber while sitting in class, was that I could imagine a breeze blowing down from the mountains calling me away from duty and schoolwork. This idyllic vision was often interrupted with a whack on the head. My school was strict. All the children regardless of racial or ethnic background went to the same school. Girls and boys went to separate classes. The rules might have been designed with good intention, but the teachers had the authority and the inclination to beat students. Too many times, I was on the teaching side of that stick. I may not remember the lessons they taught me, but I have an uncanny memory for names, dates, and faces. I went through elementary school over 70 years ago, but I never forgot my teachers’ names or their painful lessons. Foremost, was a husband and wife team, the Salachas. He taught the Polish lan- guage. She taught Math. They would both beat me for the slightest infraction. Then there was Professor Głąb. He would not beat me, instead preferring to pull my ears, which was just as bad. It’s a wonder I still have ears. For these teachers, punish- ment was a normal part of teaching, and they used it liberally to instill order in the
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