Opposite Sides by Susan Firman Page B

boy!”
    “ They’re not
lakes, sir. They’re ink blobs!”
    A stifled snigger crept
around the edges of room until it found a cupboard in which to
hide. The master was not amused. He looked for another
victim.
    “ Mr Resmel
have you anything to say to that?”
    “ No,
sir?”
    “ I’m glad to
hear that! Now, maybe you can answer that question of mine before I
was so rudely interrupted by Mr Smithfield here.”
    All silent eyes became
fixed on Hans as he desperately thought for an answer. Any answer.
Grab a word, any word; but answer.
    “ Gewerkschaftbewegung . ”
    “ WHAT?”
    The voice shot up to the
roof as ‘Moose-head’ spun round, creating a small whirlwind with
his gown. Hans looked at the master and bit his bottom lip. Mr
Moore was standing like a huge bird of prey, pushing back his arm
wings, glaring down at the boy, waiting for him to recoil and sink
downwards as if his body had been squashed into the hard wooden
bench seat on which the unfortunate victim was sitting. There was
silence. The boys in the room barely dared to breath as the master
waited for a response.
    Finally, Hans thought he
had better say something.
    “ Mr Moore,
sir?”
    “ I don’t like
the tone of your voice! Both your work and your behaviour I find
unacceptable. This time report to the Headmaster!”
    Hans was stunned and
remained seated. He did not think he had said anything to annoy the
master. It just seemed that Mr Moore could not tolerate him. It was
so unfair.
    “ Stand up
when I’m talking to you!”
    The master scribbled
something on a piece of paper, folded it and glued down the
edges.
    “ You’d better
do as he says,” whispered Robert. “I’ll look after your
books.”
    “ The door!”
The master pointed as he handed over his note. “Take this to the
headmaster. At once!”
    Hans opened the door and
began to walk through.
    “ You know
what to do, don’t you?”
    “ Huh?”
    “ Give him my
note. And you can tell him that you’ve been wasting both my time
and the rest of the students’. And, talking of time, sir, it’s time
you faced reality: either act like an Englishman, or go back to
where all you lot should be! We should have wiped out the lot of
you when we had the chance!”
    The master’s outburst had
unsettled him. So, that was the problem; he could not stop the hate
which had been built up in the war. Hans wondered how long Mr Moore
had been on the battlefield. Maybe too long, for the battlefield
had been brought into the classroom and the ex-sergeant Moore was
having difficulty realising the fighting was all over. Reluctantly,
and feeling victimised, Hans left the classroom and dawdled over to
the office, his hands thrust so deeply into his trouser pockets
that he could easily feel his pocket seams. He knew the way well
now, knew every paving stone and crack in the path, knew the exact
edge in the building where students had rubbed their hands as they
walked around the corner of the hallway that led up to the offices.
If only people would leave him alone. If only people could accept
him for himself and not throw all the blame for what had taken
place when he was only just a child. He needed time to sort out his
homesickness. Instead, hate was increasing it’s appetite and things
were getting worse.
    Mr Bowes-Heath read the
note. His face was serious.
    “We do appear to have a
problem here, Mr Resmel,” Mr Bowes-Heath said calmly.
    There was little emotion
in his commanding voice. His presence was one of authority that
demanded absolute obedience. Mr Bowes-Heath had also served at the
Front but his front-line experiences had been quite different to
those of Mr Moore’s. As one of the few surviving officers,
Second-lieutenant Bowes-Heath had met with some of those they had
been fighting with: battle weary men who were only too keen to
return home and leave the horrors of battle where such horrors
belong. Hans’ only choice now was to listen in silence, just as the
men in Mr Bowes-Heath’s