But the best things were our conversations with him. He told us about children in Europe, and we were astonished to learn that things often go no better for them than for us. Certainly, they have a lot more chocolate, but many fewer playgrounds and less free time. Their parents hit them, too (though somewhat less openly, resulting in fewer kisses). No, we should not envy them. Or maybe we should, in one regard, namely that child labor is prohibited. I find that good. In Europe parents must be able to feed their families without the help of their children.
Two days before his departure, Robert had his hair cut. He gave each of us a blond lock and said when we think of him, we should stroke it. Wherever he might be, he would feel our hands. A crazy fellow, but while writing these last lines, I took the little box out of the drawer and stroked the soft hair.
October 11 — School has started again. We have the same teachers as before. My old man seems to have forgotten that he’s forbidden me to go to school. Since our last argument, I try to keep out of his way.
I like our Arabic teacher and our history teacher better than all the others. Mr. Katib has been instructing us in Arabic for a year now. He is rather old and extremely funny. Very often he sits in a corner, reading a book, even while we’re taking an exam. He never goes into the staff room during recess; instead, he sits by himself under the big weeping willow in the schoolyard and reads. Once I crept close and watched him. He becomes wholly engrossed in his book; sometimes he cries, then he laughs out loud and slaps his thigh, so that anyone who sees him simply laughs along too. Mahmud says Mr. Katib has a good heart, and this is no exaggeration. He always gives us the best grades. Once he told us he had experienced difficulties in other schools for this reason. He enjoys teaching in our school because the principal is a decent man.
Our history teacher is a Palestinian. Mr. Maruf may be young, but he’s really good. He’s a tireless, interesting lecturer who gives tough exams. He is also the only teacher who bitches about all the Arab governments. If I weren’t going to be a journalist, becoming a teacher wouldn’t be bad at all.
October 12 — There was another coup today. School will be closed till next Monday. This is the second time schools have closed this year.
In Damascus coups like these generally start at dawn. We who live in the old quarter first get wind of what’s happening on the radio. Suddenly everything’s quiet; then brisk military music comes on, and then the new government’s communiqués — full of charges against the old government — are broadcast.
Uncle Salim just now told me that fifteen years ago, during the first coup, he believed what the new government promised. He rejoiced and celebrated until dawn. At the time of the second coup, he merely applauded. Since the third, all he can do is shake his head.
My father came home and talked about his fears. “The new government talks about war too much.”
I hate war and am afraid of it, too.
Nadia’s father is still a secret service man — perhaps higher up. What a traitor! As of today, he is in the employ of the opponents of yesterday’s government. How he can do this is completely beyond me.
October 18 — School is open. Our history teacher, Mr. Maruf, has vanished. Nobody knows whether he was imprisoned or if he fled. Soon we’ll get someone else. If only the bio-boxer would leave! I can’t stand this thug of a biology teacher; he forbids us to ask any questions and hits us, even though it’s prohibited. Sometimes I dream of getting up and telling him I think he’s dumb. Then he can thrash me, for all I care. But it’s only a dream. I haven’t yet dared say it.
At least our congenial Arabic teacher is still with us.
October 25 — Autumn is the season I like best. Damascus is at its most beautiful. Swallows fill the sky with their vivid cries, as if anxious to reap the last joys before setting out on their long journey south. The streets are full of peddlers, extolling their fall fruits. There aren’t as many tourists as in summer, and the few who are here seem to take a genuine interest in our everyday life.
Today an old lady looked through the door to our house, which is always open, and saw my mother preparing stuffed eggplants. She politely asked me what they were. I explained in dreadful English, and she asked if she might come a bit closer. My mother, embarrassed about her old dress, was afraid the woman wanted to photograph her. But the lady had no camera. I calmed my mother down, and the woman admired her skillful hands.
And I don’t have to help my father in the bakery so often in the fall. After harvesttime many farmers and agricultural workers, now unemployed, stream into the city in search of work. My father gets more applicants than he needs. I can properly concentrate on school, and once school is out, my time is my own. And Nadia’s!!!
October 28 — We’ve had chemistry for one year now. Today the old oddball teacher wanted to take us into the laboratory. News of this nearly triggered a disturbance. Everybody wanted to make a stink bomb, but nobody wanted to sit in the first row.
Before recess, the teacher called Mahmud, Josef, and me up to his desk. Since we all live near the school, he wanted one of us to rush home and get a hard-boiled egg for an experiment demonstrating a vacuum. Mahmud said his mother had no eggs, but if a potato would do, he could bring a splendid one. Josef, the old fox, said his family never ate eggs because all of them were allergic. I was trapped. My last grade in chemistry wasn’t exactly the best, and I wanted to make a good impression. I hurried home.
But when I asked my mother, she gaped at me, horrified. “What a strange teacher you have. Instead of books, he uses eggs for his lessons!”
I had a hard time explaining to her what a vacuum is. “Vacuum?” she repeated. “Eggs are for cooking; the teacher should make his vacuum with something else.” After a while she reluctantly gave me a small egg. She suspected I wanted to sell it and buy some cigarettes with the money.
The egg was as small as a pigeon’s. I boiled it, and by the time I reached the schoolyard, recess was over. We went into the lab, whose plentiful glassware and equipment give it a mysterious air. We squeezed ourselves into the last three rows, and the teacher paraded up and down like a peacock, as if enjoying our cowardice.
He told us something about a vacuum, peeled the egg, and tossed some cotton into a bottle with a long, wide neck; then he poured in some alcohol and ignited it. He explained that when he stoppered the bottle with the egg, and the fire had consumed all the oxygen, a vacuum would be created, causing the egg to be sucked into the bottle. “Without a vacuum, the egg would not go into the bottle,” he said, holding the egg over the neck. Unaware of what he was doing, he let the egg fall, and it smoothly slid through. The class howled.
“You don’t need a vacuum for that, just small eggs!” Isam called out.
The teacher was furious; he wanted to extract the egg and try a different flask, but the egg got wedged crosswise in the neck. He cursed and shook the bottle hard. The alcohol sprayed out, and suddenly the egg flew smack into the wall and fell down, smashed. The laboratory smelled like a tavern.
November 2 — Mahmud is incredibly brave. Today he dared ask the bio-boxer a question. (This fool doesn’t like us to ask him anything.) It concerned the difference between human sperm and eggs, and the biology teacher did not answer it. Instead, he took pains to show Mahmud what a bad student he was, and his speech ended in a reprimand.
“Do you have another question?” he sneered cynically.