The Children's Story by James Clavell

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    the teacher was afraid.
    And the children were afraid. All except Johnny. He watched the classroom door with hate. He felt the hatred deep within his stomach. It gave him strength.
    It was two minutes to nine.
     
    The teacher glanced numbly from the door and stared at the flag which stood in a corner of the room. But she couldn’t see the flag today. She was blinded by her terror, not only for herself but mostly for them, her children. She had never had children of her own. She had never married.
    In the mists of her mind she saw the rows upon rows of children she had taught through her years. Their faces were legion. But she could distinguish no one particular face. Only the same face which varied but slightly. Always the same age or thereabouts. Seven. Perhaps a boy, perhaps a girl. And the face always open and ready for the knowledge that she was to give. The same face staring at her, open, waiting and full of trust.
    The children rustled, watching her, wondering what possessed her. They saw not the gray hair and the old eyes and the lined face and the well-worn clothes. They saw only their teacher and the twisting of her hands. Johnny looked away from the door and watched with the other children. He did not understand anything except that the teacher was afraid, and because she was afraid she was making them all worse and he wanted to shout that there was no need to fear. “Just because they’ve conquered us there’s no need for panic-fear,” Dad had said. “Don’t be afraid, Johnny. If you fear too much, you’ll be dead even though you’re alive.”
    The sound of footsteps approached and then stopped. The door opened.
    The children gasped. They had expected an ogre or giant or beast or witch or monster—like the outer-space monsters you think about when the lights are out and Momma and Daddy have kissed you good night and you’re frightened and you put your head under the cover and all at once you’re awake and it’s time for school. But instead of a monster, a beautiful young girl stood in the doorway. Her clothes were neat and clean, all olive green—even her shoes. But most important, she wore a lovely smile, and when she spoke, she spoke without the trace of an accent. The children found this very strange, for they were foreigners from a strange country far across the sea. They had all been told about them.
    “Good morning, children, I’m your new teacher,” the New Teacher said. Then she closed the door softly and walked to the teacher’s desk, and the children in the front row felt and smelled the perfume of her—clean and fresh and young—and as she passed Sandra who sat at the end of the first row she said, “Good morning, Sandra,” and Sandra flushed deeply and wondered, aghast, with all the other children, How did she know my name? and her heart raced in her chest and made it feel tight and very heavy.
    The teacher got up shakily. “I, er, I—good morning.” Her words were faltering. She, too, was trying to get over the shock. And nausea.
    “Hello, Miss Worden,” the New Teacher said. “I’m taking over your class now. You are to go to the principal’s office.”
    “Why? What’s going to happen to me? What’s going to happen to my children?” The words gushed from Miss Worden, and a lank piece of hair fell into her eyes. The children were agonized by the cut to her voice, and one or two of them felt on the edge of tears.
    “He just wants to talk to you, Miss Worden,” the New Teacher said gently. “You really must take better care of yourself. You shouldn’t be so upset.”
    Miss Worden saw the New Teacher’s smile but she wasn’t touched by its compassion. She tried to stop her knees from shaking. “Good-bye, children,” she said. The children made no reply. They were too terrified by the sound of her voice and the tears that wet her face. And because she was crying, some of the children cried, and Sandra fled to her.
    The New Teacher shut the door