“Faith is in the heart of the believer”. An episode in the life of our School’s Principal, Dr. Joseph Katz – nicknamed Sheen on account of his shining pie bald head – drives the point home. During Sheen’s long life, I feared that making the story public might add insult to the injury we – his callous pupils – inflicted on him in his heyday. Recently, though, I received the obituary written about the late Dr Katz by my old bosom pal, “Pilkin” – originally answering to Chayim Rosenberg but currently known as Rabbi Loeb Zohar. When I finished reading the moving composition, it dawned on me that the story need no longer be regarded as privileged. I abandon my discretion willingly! Freedom of speech – as we all know – is the paramount privilege conferred on ordinary humans – including a mendicant professor - in our enlightened era.
The venerated Sheen had risen to the post of School Principal after twenty years of teaching experience in the Secondary School eventually placed in his charge. Though an all rounder, his special skill lay in the humanities. He taught history and literature like a sergeant major drilling his orderlies, forced his captive audience to learn lengthy and usually dull poems by heart; but, on the credit side, imparted to us the art of concise and well structured writing. Many a pupil was reduced to tears when “good old Sheen” finished dissecting a passage in his essay, marred by ill conceived sentences and poor grammar. Even Pilkin – tough and cool – used to stammer when Sheen tore to bits one of his masterpieces.
In the event, Sheen’s acid tongue had a beneficial effect: every pupil wrote well, striving to be spared the master’s bite and bark. Even so, I have doubts about the pedagogical merits of Sheen’s tyrannical approach. I must, at the same time, concede that it was in harmony with the philosophy of our school. Right from the day of its foundation, Tichon Ironi 1 (dubbed “T.A.1”) became the Mecca of successful primary school leavers. Only one out of five applicants was admitted. Once T.A.1’s walls closed on him, he was subjected to four years of rigorous work, which set him on the way to an academic or professional career. If he excelled, Sheen offered him a place on his teaching staff. The pay was poor but the posting commanded respect.
On his elevation to the post of Principal, Sheen had the right to stop teaching. A lesser man would have grabbed the opportunity. Administrative work was lighter than the reading and grading of endless arrays of poorly written assignments and essays. Sheen, though, was an idealist at heart. He knew that no other teacher had that special ability of coercing his “boys and girls” to write well. In this narrow area, he regarded himself – with some justification – the undisputed virtuoso. So, in the end, he continued to conduct two classes on Literature and Composition per week. Pilkin and I were enrolled in one of them and, although we learned a great deal from him, shared the general resentment of his despotism.
The ‘great venture of revenge’ was planned after a class in which Sheen reduced Pilkin into a quivering jelly by tearing into bits an essay on which my hapless friend had laboured for two nights. Usually, I should have managed to calm down the enraged Pilkin – literally the ‘little elephant’. On this occasion, alas, my services were unavailable. I, too, was smarting because Sheen had performed a post mortem on a piece of my own, ending his tirade with: “next time try to concentrate, Eli Berger; you can make sense – occasionally – when you put your mind to it!”
“I’d tar and feather the bastard!” yelled Pilkin as we made our way home.
“You’ve read too much Mark Twain!”
“I suppose you’d give the Potz a medal?”
“Don’t be silly; but a bucket of water would do!”
“A bucket of water?”
“Right over his bald head!”
A dreamy expression spread over Pilkin’s ruddy face, followed by a contemplative silence. Just before we reached the corner of the street on which I lived, he asked nonchalantly: “How about a few water bombs?”
“They’ll do! But how? I don’t want to be kicked out of school!”
“Don’t you worry: I have a plan!”
Like all great strategic feats, Pilkin’s was based on a simple maxim. “Know thy enemy” had led Hannibal to victory at Kana, Genghis Khan to his annihilation of the Persian armies and Napoleon to the routing of the allied troupes at Austerliz. In our case, the principle was easy to apply because Sheen was a man of set habits. Every morning he boarded the 7.15 a.m. bus in Bnei Brak, got out at Nahmani Street and took a leisurely ten minutes walk up the street. By 7.45 a.m. he reached the corner of Masor Street. Smiling benignly at the boys and girls who greeted him, he marched to his office on the ground floor of our building.
Pilkin’s plan utilised the terrain. Segregated on an elevated block of land, our school was hidden behind dense shrubs planted along its frontage. The spacious dwelling houses, that had occupied the adjacent blocks before the War, had been knocked down in the fifties to give way to graceless apartment blocks. Each morning, when Sheen proceeded to T.A.1’s gates, he walked along these blocks and, as he approached the school’s grounds, the shrubbery towered above him.
On the appointed day, Pilkin divided his army into three units. The first comprised a firing squad, hidden behind the shrubs. Each of its five marksmen had been supplied with a “water bomb” – a paper can filled to the brim. The sixth member of the firing squad was the timer. The second group consisted of boys and girls, placed as a “decoy” across Masor Street just opposite the camouflaged firing group. The third unit had just one trouper: Pilkin in person – acting as scout. He stood in the lobby of a corner house, visible to the “units” in Masor street but not to be seen by persons walking along Nahmani street.
When Pilkin spotted the approaching Sheen, he brushed his hair with his right hand. The members of the firing squad went into a crouching position, while the decoy group started to chat merrily. As Sheen turned into Masor street, Pilkin brushed his hair for the second time. All participants went into a stage of alert. When Sheen was well within the line of the firing squad, Pilkin brushed his hair vigorously. Instantly, the decoy group burst into a well-known song, praising at the top of their voices the beauty of the sunrise on Lake Galilee. Horrified, Sheen turned to suppress their enthusiasm. The torrent of complaints by the tenants of the neighbouring apartment blocks about the noisy conduct of T.A.1’s pupils during the early hours of the morning, had been a source of concern to the School’s authorities. Here was an instance of unruly behaviour that ought to be nipped in the bud!
As Sheen raised his arms to remonstrate with the chorus, his huge back, wide shoulders and smooth pate were straight in the line of the firing squad. Instantly, Pilkin waved his hand; the firing group rose to its feet and the timer hissed – intoning each word with his index finger: “ready, aim, fire!”
All five missiles found their target. One – later acclaimed by each marksman as his own trophy – landed in the very centre of Sheen’s pate, splashing his well starched collar. At the sight of such sacrilege, the decoy group ran across the street and, as prearranged, formed a protective shield around the dripping victim. The girls screamed that “it must have been the hooligans” of our rival school, the left wing orientated Tichon Ironi 2 (known as “T.A.2”); no other members of the human race would stoop to a trick as means as that! The boys raised the fists, swearing to raze that cursed institution to the ground. In the ensuing tumult the firing squad beat a safe retreat and emerged from the School’s gates to join the crowd surrounding Sheen. So did Pilkin, who walked over from the corner of Nahmani Street.
Forming a Phalanx of two protective lines, we chaperoned the drenched Sheen to his office. Flushed and downcast he sank dejectedly into his office chair, his secretary mopping him all over with a hand towel. His wet condition – I surmised – was not due in its entirety to the impact of the water bombs.
Two hours later, a number of the ringleaders from amongst the School’s pupils were summoned to Sheen’s office. Having regained his ordinary composure and donning dry clothes – rushed over from Bnei Brak by his caring wife – he asked us to convey his thanks to all the ‘nice boys and girls’ who had rushed to his defence. He then asked all of us to abandon any plans of vengeance. Those who, like himself, were staunch believers, ought to dwell on Deuteronomy 32:21, which proclaims that retribution is in God’s hands. It was morally wrong and hence improper for Man to take the law into his own hands! Shifting his glance in my direction, he added that the so called “free thinkers” – who reject religious commands at will – ought to recall Socrates’ views on retribution.
“Will you, Eli Berger, tell us what he says?”
“Socrates, Sir, argues that revenge is futile. It satisfies the lowest instincts: not the mind; and, in the long run, it leads to a vendetta which inflicts unwarranted pain and misery on everybody. In his opinion we must suppress the temptation to respond to violence with violence.”
“For once, I agree with the Greek philosopher! He was a Pagan, but, occasionally, he made sense!” nodded Sheen. “And Gandhi tells us that if everybody demanded and eye for an eye, the whole world would be blind. So please dismiss any thought of vengeance from your minds!”
“But, Sir, should this shameless attack on our School’s honour be allowed to pass without any reaction?” asked Pilkin sanctimoniously.
“Not necessarily” answered Sheen. “A physical reprisal must, of course, be ruled out. But there is room for a proper, non-violent, response. Between the Walls is distinguished neither by concise writing nor by good style or grammar. My views about your ‘Magazine’ are on record! All the same, a befitting reportage or leader in the next issue will do!”
“Very well, Sir” replied Pilkin – the Editor in Chief and heart and soul of the School’s rag.
A succinct description of the ambush, included in the next issue of Between the Walls, did not explicitly refer to T.A..2. The Editor did, however, raised a pertinent question. Who, except the inmates {read “imbeciles”} of a certain rival institution (whose true calibre was verified by the inclusion of “2” in its name) could ever contemplate a prank as childish as this? The reply by the Editor of our rival’s review, “Plain Talk”, came up with what appeared to me a pungent retort. Agreeing with our own assessment of the merits of the ambush, he wanted to know what had made the “brilliant writer” think that it had been perpetrated by the “gentlemanly scholars of the one and only liberal and cosmopolitan educational institution in the Land?” Had the “learned author” written his masterpiece under the effect of a mirage or was he in the grip of a fit of delirium tremens?
The ensuing battle of words spread over a few issues of the two worthy publications. After a while nobody, except the two rival editors, read the respective outbursts. The two fighting cocks, too, were getting bored. As soon as the basketball season opened, both rags directed their attention to what everybody considered more topical issues. A few weeks thereafter, the two editors started to greet each other again when they met on the street.
The great ambush was, occasionally, mentioned with a grin during our remaining years in T.A.1. In later years, when our classmates had their festive reunions, the topic was avoided. I, too, had little cause to think of it. During my years as an itinerant professor, in Singapore, Wellington, Melbourne and some European cities, I had to devote my time to matters of greater importance. There were, nevertheless, a few occasions on which the incident came back to me.
One took place in Wellington, where I taught a complex course devoted to problems in International Banking Law. As many of the students in my class came ill prepared and did not read their materials, I developed a penchant for tearing their arguments into shreds. By the middle of the term, three of them came to petition me, on behalf of the entire class, to tread more gently.
“By why don’t all of you read your stuff?” I grumbled. “You turn our tutorial system into a joke!”
“Many of us read everything you give us, Prof.,” remonstrated the fair, blonde haired and mellow voiced female member of the group. “But your manner is terrifying. We know the stuff but get tongue tied!”
I was about to retort angrily when, suddenly, the heavy-set figure of good old Sheen, dripping wet after the impact of the water bombs, hovered in front of my eyes. Could I, too, push student to such extremes by my intolerant and harsh manner?
“Do you agree?” I asked the remaining members of the delegation.
“We do, Sir,” said one of them while the others nodded.
“Thanks for telling me,” I said. “I’ll see what to do.”
Following an evening of reflections, I changed my tactics. In no time, I became a popular teacher loved by good and poor students alike. My novel approach did not entail a rise in scholastic standards. That much must be conceded. But it kept me out of the firing line of water bomb experts.
I recalled Sheen again some five years after I had left Wellington to take up a Chair in an Australian University. One afternoon, when I skimmed through a folder of snapshots, I found that the centre of one group photograph I had taken with my students was dominated by a single object: my own shining pate. It appeared just as bare – just a pathetic – as the bald head that had earned good old Sheen his nickname. Had nature avenged him? Had Chronus turned the tables on the unmannerly schoolboy – Eli Berger – of days gone by?
A few years later I moved back to my old University in Singapore. Shortly before my retirement, I had a reunion dinner with Pilkin – by then Rabbi Loeb Zohar – in Zermatt . In the course of our pleasant evening we talked a about the remote old times. Pilkin, who kept tabs on our former classmates, gave me news on many of them. Some had passed away, others had retired and just a handful had remained professionally active. Pilkin also had news about the few from amongst our teachers who were still around. I could not suppress a grin when he mentioned that our vivacious biology teacher, whom the male population of our form viewed with ill concealed admiration, had recently given a party to celebrate the birth of her first great grandson.
“And how is good old Sheen?” I ventured when there was a break in his flow. “I suppose he passed away long time ago.”
“For a man of his age, Dr. Joseph Katz is very well indeed!” Pilkin spoke testily.
“In a retirement home, surely?”
“Wrong again! Dr. Joseph Katz still lives in Bnei Brak. He stays with his granddaughter and her family.”
“A man of his age is bound to be a burden!”
“You’ll be surprised” countered Pilkin and, without any prompting on my part, gave me the news about our once dreaded Principal.
Sheen had retained his mental faculties. Although he had long left T.A..1, he was still a member of the working force. He gave private tuition, primarily in Composition and Literature, to secondary school students sent to him by former colleagues and disciples. To my surprise, he also gave tuition in Greek and Latin.
“Are these now on the curriculum?” I wanted to know.
“Not really; but there is always a handful of boys and girls – mainly from Mid European homes – who love to tackle them. Dr. Joseph Katz has made a name for himself in this field.”
“I suspected it was his secret hobby,” I muttered.
“It was,” nodded Pilkin. “He wanted to introduce an optional subject entitled “The Classic World”. Unfortunately, the municipal authorities blocked him. But do you remember how he encouraged us to read the Greek playwrights and historians?”
“He did. But he always sneered at the Greek philosophers!”
“To an ardent believer like him – by orientation ultra orthodox – their pragmatic analysis was too ungodly. All the same, he had a sound knowledge of their works.”
“How have you come to know him so well, Pilkin?”
Pilkin’s story brought to my mind Fortuna’s subtle manoeuvrings. On this occasion, her tool was a Rabbi Moishe Margolioth, who was so impressed with Pilkin’s performance as Tavyeh the Milkman, that he invited the young man to perform the same role on a stage in Brooklyn. Pilkin accepted and, in due course, became an established performer in the secondary theatres of New York. Broadway, though, remained out of his reached. Sensing that Pilkin was at a dead end, Rabbi Margolioth induced him to enrol in a Yeshiva. When Pilkin was ordained, Margolioth offered him a post in his own Schull in Manhattan. My friend’s meteoric rise started on that very day.
A few months after his ordination, Pilkin went back to Israel on a visit. One of his errands was to look up Rabbi Margolioth’s boyhood friend, who lived in Bnei Brak. Margolioth had not seen him for a few years but, all the same, was confident Pilkin would be warmly received. To Pilkin’s surprise, the gentleman in question turned out to be none other than Dr. Joseph Katz, alias Sheen. As was to expected Sheen had shrunk, lost his aggressive, overbearing, front and was stooped. His eyes, though, were bright and, after they had talked for a few moments, Pilkin concluded Sheen was still right on the ball. All in all, he had metamorphosed from a super efficient staff officer into a charming old man.
“Did he recognise you?”
“Margolioth had briefed him. So, he was not taken by surprise!”
“Does he remember the …”
“You wouldn’t expect me to talk about that?”
“Perhaps not,” I conceded. “Still, he may have adverted to it.”
“Well, he didn’t. We spent our time gossiping about his ‘former pupils’!”
“Did he mention me?” I asked eagerly.
“He did indeed. He knew all about your career. He was glad you brought your ship home!”
“Does he have fond memories of us – of the school as a whole?”
“He does, rather! He is convinced he had been well liked and respected by all of us. I thought it best to let him keep his illusions. They bring him comfort and – at his age – he might as well have it.” “Fair enough,” I muttered.
Following our reunion dinner, Pilkin and I corresponded sporadically. Usually, my letters were perfunctory: I had little to say, except that I was ageing fast. Pilkin, in contrast, wrote lengthy letters, with news about his family and friends. Sheen’s name cropped up from time to time. A few months after our dinner, Pilkin mentioned Sheen attended a celebration at T.A.1. Later, he met him in a function at the City Hall. Sheen was elegantly attired and, notwithstanding his age, looked spot and span. The news was less cheerful on the next occasion: Sheen had slipped in the bathroom and broken his hip. After his release from hospital, he withdrew into a retirement home. He sensed he had become a burden to his granddaughter’s family. Still, they visited him every week and, in any event, he adjusted well to his new environment. In due course, he became the residents’ spokesman.
For a while, Pilkin’s letters made no reference to Sheen. Then, one morning, the postman delivered a parcel with an Israeli stamp. In it was a volume entitled “A Pedagogue in Tel-Aviv – Memoirs of Dr. Joseph Katz (known to his pupils as Good Old Sheen)”. On the cover page, Pilkin had inscribed: “I though you might enjoy reading this. Have a good look at p. 289”.
Sad to say, I found Sheen’s opus magnum disappointing. Notwithstanding his precise style and lucid mode of expression, the subject was mundane. I knew that, as a treatment of secondary school education in Israel, it deserved laurels. I realised, further, that Sheen tried to present his case in a balanced and objective manner. All the same, I had travelled too far away – had distanced myself too much from the subject – to be enthralled by his insights. The truth be told, I found many of the anecdotes related by him trivial.
I was about to close the book and put it away, when I recalled Pilkin’s message. Resignedly, I turned to page 289 and, instantly, my eyes opened wide. In his neat, unadorned style, Sheen gave a plain description of our ambush as seen by himself. He had, obviously, believed that the offenders had been a bunch of rowdy pupils from T.A.2, whose main aim was to tarnish the honour of our own institution. Having fallen for our ruse, he had drawn his own conclusion from what had appeared to him our show of solidarity. His description of the protective Phalanx of boys and girls, who had escorted him to his office, was followed by an emotive epitaph:
Could there have been any clearer demonstration of loyalty and affection than the spontaneous intervention of my boys and girls? What except gratitude and regard could have induced them to shelter me at the risk of exposing themselves to an en encore of the hooligans’ cowardly pranks?
My pupils’ support vindicated my pedagogical manifesto. Obviously, they had seen through the lashes of my tongue and had appreciated that my only object in my Composition Classes was to prepare them for their professional careers. The realisation that my efforts had not been in vain was an adequate compensation for the shock of the childish attack! All in all, a shameless prank provided one of my most cherished memories!
I had to read the passage three times before its meaning dawned on me. So, in the end, Good Old Sheen had turned the tables on us. For years, all of those involved in the prank had pangs of conscience. It became an event not to be related to anybody outside the guilty circle. Sheen saw it through glasses with a different tint. Notwithstanding his dripping clothes and reduced appearance, the incident acquired a symbolical – heart rendering – significance.
For three years following my receipt of Sheen’s memoirs, I felt obliged to keep mum. Letting the cat out of the bag was – in the circumstances – unthinkable. However, a few weeks ago I received Pilkin’s latest letter, attaching a copy of his obituary of Dr. Joseph Katz. So, at long last, I am free to tell the tale – a tale which proves, beyond any reasonable doubt – that faith is in the heart of the believer.
Peter Berger
Singapore,
4 June, 2001.