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Authors: Jack Higgins
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finished, there was considerable shuffling. Mr Carter waited grimly, and gradually all heads were bowed. He kept his own eyes open, hands clasped before him and began to pray loudly, punctuating every few lines with that awful graveyard cough of his.
‘Oh, God,’ he intoned. ‘Make us like Thee in every way. Teach us how to go forth into the world in the image of Thine only begotten Son, Christ Jesus, our only burden love and Christian charity, all men our brothers…’
At this point he descended from the box with incredible speed, scattering boys like ninepins. Presumably they were used to these forays for there was not the instant panic I would have imagined.
I saw his hands rising and falling. Finally the crowd parted and a boy stumbled forth, arms raised to protect his head. A smallish boy, I noted. In fact, in all the time I was on his staff I never knew Carter to assault any of the older boys in a similar manner, although on occasion, he would simulate such an attack with much shouting and dramatic posturing. He cuffed the boy all the way to the door and tossed him out into the corridor, then returned to the lectern and glared at the entire assembly.
‘That lout.’ He ground his teeth together. That filthy beast out there,’ here he pointed, hand shaking, ‘is not fit for decent company.’
Everyone there seemed as mystified as I was. I never did find out what the wretched boy was supposed to have done. My own theory, after seeing several such incidents over a period of time, was that it was all a ploy on Carter’s part. He liked to imagine himself a holy terror. Such actions were deliberately calculated to enhance his image.
The rest of the staff seemed unconcerned, except Wally Oldroyd, and there was a kind of contempt on his face as Carter brushed past him on the way out.
It seems to me that one of the deficiencies of the teaching profession is its insistence that all its members are dedicated intellectuals who have voluntarily turned their backs on the world of industry and commerce, where they would undoubtedly have made their fortunes, to devote themselves to the service of youth.
I never met anyone like that at Khyber Street. Perhaps Wally Oldroyd, who did a solid professional job. The rest were shabby little men who would have been inadequate at anything they put their hands to. Khyber Street was their final resting place, the end of the line. There was simply nowhere else to go, which didn’t help their charges, most of whom were the product of the kind of home with which Charles Dickens would have been perfectly familiar. It was all very sad.
I felt sorry most of all for Mr Schwarz, who was just grateful for the chance to have a job, a job of any kind. He had been a teacher of music in a Munich Conservatoire for many years, but that was before the concentration camps. At Khyber Street he took each class for singing once a week, which meant that for most of the time he was expected to teach English and general subjects.
Considering that he spoke a kind of pidgin English, the effect can be imagined. He survived only because he had Class One, the youngest boys in the school. Anyone older and he would have been trampled into the floorboards. I spent a full day with him and learned nothing except how to fill in the register, enter up milk returns, school dinners and the like.
My visit with Johnson must have lasted for a similar period, but lives in my memory by reason of one incident only. When I accompanied him into Class Three, pandemonium reigned. Two or three boys struggled on the floor, there was a card school going on in the corner, everyone else seemed to be reading comics.
Johnson, who I learned later had only a year to go to retirement, showed not the slightest concern. He opened the register, glanced briefly about the room, then filled it in as prescribed, in an exquisite scarlet and blue copperplate, which must have endeared him to the headmaster’s heart for Mr Carter was keen on
‘Oh, God,’ he intoned. ‘Make us like Thee in every way. Teach us how to go forth into the world in the image of Thine only begotten Son, Christ Jesus, our only burden love and Christian charity, all men our brothers…’
At this point he descended from the box with incredible speed, scattering boys like ninepins. Presumably they were used to these forays for there was not the instant panic I would have imagined.
I saw his hands rising and falling. Finally the crowd parted and a boy stumbled forth, arms raised to protect his head. A smallish boy, I noted. In fact, in all the time I was on his staff I never knew Carter to assault any of the older boys in a similar manner, although on occasion, he would simulate such an attack with much shouting and dramatic posturing. He cuffed the boy all the way to the door and tossed him out into the corridor, then returned to the lectern and glared at the entire assembly.
‘That lout.’ He ground his teeth together. That filthy beast out there,’ here he pointed, hand shaking, ‘is not fit for decent company.’
Everyone there seemed as mystified as I was. I never did find out what the wretched boy was supposed to have done. My own theory, after seeing several such incidents over a period of time, was that it was all a ploy on Carter’s part. He liked to imagine himself a holy terror. Such actions were deliberately calculated to enhance his image.
The rest of the staff seemed unconcerned, except Wally Oldroyd, and there was a kind of contempt on his face as Carter brushed past him on the way out.
It seems to me that one of the deficiencies of the teaching profession is its insistence that all its members are dedicated intellectuals who have voluntarily turned their backs on the world of industry and commerce, where they would undoubtedly have made their fortunes, to devote themselves to the service of youth.
I never met anyone like that at Khyber Street. Perhaps Wally Oldroyd, who did a solid professional job. The rest were shabby little men who would have been inadequate at anything they put their hands to. Khyber Street was their final resting place, the end of the line. There was simply nowhere else to go, which didn’t help their charges, most of whom were the product of the kind of home with which Charles Dickens would have been perfectly familiar. It was all very sad.
I felt sorry most of all for Mr Schwarz, who was just grateful for the chance to have a job, a job of any kind. He had been a teacher of music in a Munich Conservatoire for many years, but that was before the concentration camps. At Khyber Street he took each class for singing once a week, which meant that for most of the time he was expected to teach English and general subjects.
Considering that he spoke a kind of pidgin English, the effect can be imagined. He survived only because he had Class One, the youngest boys in the school. Anyone older and he would have been trampled into the floorboards. I spent a full day with him and learned nothing except how to fill in the register, enter up milk returns, school dinners and the like.
My visit with Johnson must have lasted for a similar period, but lives in my memory by reason of one incident only. When I accompanied him into Class Three, pandemonium reigned. Two or three boys struggled on the floor, there was a card school going on in the corner, everyone else seemed to be reading comics.
Johnson, who I learned later had only a year to go to retirement, showed not the slightest concern. He opened the register, glanced briefly about the room, then filled it in as prescribed, in an exquisite scarlet and blue copperplate, which must have endeared him to the headmaster’s heart for Mr Carter was keen on
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