Israel Cohen and Ali Ben
Ishmael were high school classmates and mortal enemies. Izzy occupied
the desk in front of Ali, at the back of the room, and was a thorn in
his side. Pollyanna Du Goodeur, a fresh-faced exchange teacher from
Venice, California, was their homeroom teacher and fair-haired,
freckle-faced Izzy Cohen was the apple of her eye. He was at the top
of the class, captain of the wrestling team, and editor of the
yearbook. One of only half a dozen Jews at Omar Khayyam Academy,
this pushy newcomer acted like he owned the place. When he wasn't in
the library, hogging all the books, or showing off his virtuosity
with the school orchestra, he was in the gym, flexing his abs.
Ali was slightly bigger and
rougher but Izzy was a black belt so Ali gave him a wide berth in the
schoolyard. He vented his spleen by trashed him to anyone who would
listen. He made sure Izzy was within hearing distance when he hurled
his favorite epithet ("son of a pig") but it rolled off
Izzy's back like a water droplet. The arrogant Yid obviously thought
he was too high and mighty to pay attention to a lowly "raghead."
So, one day, while the teacher was writing something on the
blackboard, the raghead decided to make the son of a pig aware of his
existence.
"Cut it out," Izzy
said, turning around.
Ali smirked.
Izzy sighed, shook his head,
and turned back to the front.
Ali slapped him in the back
of the head again.
Izzy turned around,
scowling. "I said cut it out!"
Ali laughed.
When Izzy turned his back
again, Ali slapped him in the head twice, forehand and backhand.
Then the bell rang.
Next day, the performance
was repeated, with increasing frequency and force. This went on, day
after day, week after week with annoying regularity. Since it was to
no avail, Izzy stopped turning around and telling Ali to stop. He
merely tried to anticipate the blows and deflect them with his
upraised hands. Occasionally he succeeded. Then, one scorchingly hot
summer afternoon, after an exhausting football practice, and enduring
a series of five stinging slaps, only one of which was partially
deflected, Izzy lost his cool.
"Miss, DuGoodeur, Izzy
hit me," Ali cried out, in pain and indignation.
Pollyanna Du Goodeur
couldn't believe her eyes. Blood was running from Ali's nose and
spilling onto his checkered headscarf. "Did you do that, Israel"
she asked her star pupil, incredulously.
"I'm sorry, Miss
DuGoodeur," Izzy said. "Ali slapped me in the head and I
lost my temper."
"I was just trying make
him put his hands down," Ali protested, his voice muffled by the
headscarf he was now holding to his nose. "I can't see the
blackboard."
"He's lying," Izzy
said, evenly. "He's been slapping me in the head for weeks. When
I ask him to stop he just smiles. I only put up my hands to protect
my head."
Pollyanna Du Goodeurbit her
lip in frustration. In her gut she knew the solution to this chicken
and egg dilemma but didn't want to rush to judgment. When she had
arrived at Omar Khayyam, a veteran teacher had told her to never
trust the word of an Arab student. But it was her job to combat
racism, not succumb to it. If Ali Ben Ishmael wasn't quite as
conscientious a student as Israel, who even tutored some of the
slower African students in his free time, it was because he hadn't
had advantages of a stable middle class upbringing. The poor
Palestinian toddler had been orphaned at the age of three. Both
parents were killed by an explosive device his mother had
accidentally triggered when she was strapping it to the body of Ali's
teenaged brother. No, Pollyanna Du Goodeur wouldn't let her emotions
color her judgment; she would let each student plead his case before
a higher tribunal.
"That doesn't sound
like you, Israel," Principal Moon said, quizzically. He tried
not to let his face betray his emotions. This might be the straw that
broke his back. In the wake the 9/11 disaster Kah Ki Moon had made a
midlife decision he had come to regret. The renowned brain surgeon
had taken a huge cut in income and prestige, hoping to bring peace to
the halls of Omar Khayyam Academy. It was a delusion. His lenient,
non-judgmental approach had merely caused the violence to escalate.
The schoolyard was a war zone. Several students had actually lost
their lives; and no one had been held accountable. Every "witness"
told a different (and contradictory) story, depending on his gang
affiliation. The students at Omar Khayyam didn't know the meaning of
the word integrity. Or industry. Or honor.
With one shining exception.
Israel Cohen was a tiny point of light at the end of Principal Moon's
long dark tunnel. The new arrival was not only a model student but
strong enough to withstand the slings and arrows of this nightmare
world. When Israel proved that he could hold his own in a fist fight,
even against superior numbers, the confrontations had become strictly
verbal. The troublemakers kept up their taunting but Israel refused
to retaliate. Until now.
"I was merely defending
myself, Mr. Moon. Ali has been slapping me in the back of the head
for weeks. I've tried to ignore it, but I can't concentrate on my
work. And I've developed a chronic headache..."
"A headache," Ali
interjected, with a derisive snort. "Poor baby! My grandmother
slaps me, maybe I should punch her in the face and break her
nose. If he's such a sissy, Mr. Moon, maybe he should transfer to a
Yeshiva. This is our school; he has no right to be here."
"My great grandfather
built this school," Izzy said, with turning. He was
directing his remarks at Principal Moon. "The members of my
family were attending Maimonides Torah Institute before Ali Ben
Ishmael was born."
"That's ancient
history," Ali shouted. "New York used to be New Amsterdam.
But you don't see the Dutch claiming it belongs to them. This is a
Muslim school; if he can't live with that, he should go back where he
came from."
"And where is that?"
Izzy said, turning to him.
"Poland! The big bad
wolf is dead, you can go home now, little piggy."
"Now, now, there's no
call for that kind of talk," Principal Moon said, sternly. "The
holocaust is nothing to joke about, young man. It was one of the
worst atrocities in human history."
"Worst fairytale,"
Ali muttered.
Pretending he hadn't heard,
Principal Moon rose from his deak, took Miss Du Goodeuraside aside
and lowered his voice. "Can't you separate them; move Israel to
another desk?"
"I've tried," Miss
Du Goodeur whispered. "But I had a revolt on my hands. The other
students refused to come to class, if they had to sit anywhere near
him."
Judge Moon heaved a sigh and
turned back to the two defendants. "Okay, gentlemen, it's time
to grow up and face reality. Regardless of what this building was in
the past, it is now a public school. And you are both entitled to
attend. So you're just going to have to learn to get along. Ali, if
Israel promises to never raise his hand to you again, will promise
never to raise your hand against him?"
"Only if he returns my
pencils."
"Your what?"
"He stole my pencils.
Now I have nothing to write with. And he doesn't even need them; he
just keeps them locked up in his desk."
Principal Moon frowned. "Is
that true, Israel?"
"I didn't steal his
pencils; I confiscated his weapons." Izzy stood up, turned
around and raised his shirt.
Principal Moon stifled a
gasp. Izzy's back was pitted with tiny bloody scabs; he looked like a
small pox survivor. Principal Moon turned to Ali. "Are you
responsible for that, young man?"
Ali didn't reply, merely
smirked.
Principal Moon made a
conscious effort to speak calmly. "Why on earth would you do
such a thing?"
"Because he's sitting
in my desk," Ali said, sulkily. "My older brother sat in
that desk. And my cousin Mohammed before him. It's a family
tradition. We all have our initials carved in it. Then this newcomer
waltzes in, in the middle of the term, and the teacher gives it to"
he pointed his forefinger at his classmate, thumb cocked, simulating
a handgun "him."
Miss Du Goodeur flushed.
"That's not completely true, Ali. I assigned Izzy to the last
desk in the row. But you said you didn't want him to sit behind you.
That you didn't trust him."
"And I was right,"
Ali shouted. "He stole all my pencils. He's a thief. And a
pig..."
"Alright, young man,
this name-calling has gone far enough," Principal Moon said,
sternly. He turned to Izzy and made him an offer he couldn't refuse.
"Will you return Ali's pencils, if he promises to only use them
to write with?"
"I did return one of
his pencils," Izzy said. "Weeks ago. And as soon as I
turned my back he stabbed me with it."
"Because he wouldn't
return the rest of them," Ali protested. "Confiscate,"
he snorted, breaking the clot in his nose. "What right has this
Jew got to confiscate anything?" he continued, as fresh blood
began to gush down his lightly bearded chin. "I've been going to
this school since kindergarten. He got here the day before yesterday.
And now he's trying to run the place. Editor of the yearbook,
self-appointed substitute teacher...next he'll want to take over your
job, Mr. Moon."
He's welcome to it,
Kah Ki Moon said to himself. He heaved a resigned sigh,
"Recrimination will get us nowhere, young man. Besides, there
are more urgent matters to attend to. You have to see the school
nurse." He turned to Izzy. "Can we agree to a truce while
Ali gets his nose attended to?"
Izzy nodded. "As long
as he doesn't bother me, I won't bother him."
"And you, Ali. Do you
agree to a truce?"
Ali scowled. "Only if
he returns my pencils."
"Oh, for goodness
sakes, we'll worry about that after you get your nose fix. Okay?"
Ali nodded, grudgingly.
Principal Moon smiled.
"Fine. Now you two scallywags get out of here and let me get
back to work." He turned to Miss Du Goodeur. "Please don't
leave, I'd like to talk to you for a minute."
Izzy and Ali turned to the
door. Izzy opened it and stood aside.
Ali didn't budge. "You
first."
Izzy heaved a sigh, and
walked out.
As soon as the door closed
behind them, Ali slapped Izzy on the back of the head, with all his
might.
As he surveyed the horror in
front of him, Kah Ki Moon felt like pulling out what was left of his
hair. Ali Ben Ishmael and Israel Cohen were sitting in two chairs,
placed several feet apart, facing his desk. Ali had two black eyes, a
broken nose, and a swollen lip. Israel had abrasions on the knuckles
of his left hand. Miss Du Goodeur had fled back to the classroom, in
tears.
"Alright, gentlemen, it
is time to take off the kid gloves," Principal Moon said,
frowning. "You are obviously determined not to live together in
peace, so I am forced to teach you a lesson you will not soon forget.
You aren't naughty children; you are young men on the threshold of
adulthood. To have any hope of succeeding in the real world, you will
have to learn that actions have consequences." He turned to Ali.
"Young man, you have a week's detention. Go back to your room."
When Ali was gone, Principal
Moon turned to the shining light that had gone dark, and softened his
tone. "I'm sorry, Israel, but you've left me no choice. You are
expelled from school."
To be continued (unfortunately).
William Marantz is author of
the mystery thriller Christmas Eve Can Kill You and short
story collection The Convert, both available at Amazon.com.
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