History Lesson

Pete Philipps —

She was my first love. I was eight. She was my teacher, and normally that would be all there is to tell. But from the time a company of German soldiers had encamped in the park across from our apartment building—my former playground—normality was a thing of the past. And so a humdrum story of a third-grader’s crush on his teacher took on a life of its own.

It all began the day I climbed atop my front-row desk and threw my arms around Miss Berger, the prettiest teacher in the Jewish school of Prague. Another teacher might have disciplined me or sent me to the principal’s office. Not Miss Berger. She merely guided me back into my seat and continued with the lesson. 

A few days later I again threw my arms around Miss Berger. This time I planted a kiss on her cheek. Once the titters of the class died down, she asked me to stay after school. 

“I’m worried about you,” she said, perching on the edge of my desk. “Is anything wrong?”

I couldn’t confess my love. Or tell her that her perfume sometimes lingered with me long after the school day ended. Or that I begrudged sharing her with sixteen other boys and girls. Finally, the silence grew so heavy that I found my tongue long enough to promise not to misbehave again. 

Miss Berger returned to her desk, jotted something on a piece of notepaper, and slid it into an envelope, “Please give this to your parents,” she said, handing me the envelope. I walked all the way home in a state of fear. As it turned out, however, I needn’t have worried. Instead of summoning my parents to school, Miss Berger, for some reason, requested to visit them at home. 

The day she came I didn’t have to be told to go to my room. I kept my ear pressed to the door but couldn’t make out a word of the conversation. After what seemed like a long time, my mother opened the door of my room and said that Miss Berger was staying for coffee. It took my breath away.

We had hardly sat down when my mother ferreted out that Miss Berger was single and, like us, desperate to emigrate.  “In that case,” she said, “you must come for dinner Friday night.” Miss Berger accepted readily and started to cry.

“We are not religious,” my mother continued, “but we light the Sabbath candles and enjoy a little glass of wine.”  “Or maybe two glasses,” my father added, raising his coffee cup as though he were making a toast. Then he did something strange. Leaning close to Miss Berger, he said, “I see you play the violin.”

“A tell-tale sign,” she said, touching the callous under her chin and reddening. 

“It shows that you practice diligently.” 

“Do you also play the violin, Mr. Levy?”

“No. The piano. Perhaps one night you will bring your violin and we can play some duets.”

“I would like that very much.” 

“Ja, then we will play a little Mozart and a little Beethoven—”

“I am strictly an amateur—” 

“Never mind. So am I.”  

Miss Berger soon started to come for dinner most Friday nights, her violin in one hand and a bouquet of flowers in the other. Afterwards I watched enchanted as she and my father played duets. Before long I was clamoring for violin lessons.  

One day Miss Berger announced that she was taking a short skiing vacation. She was gone two miserable weeks. On her first night back, she breathlessly told us that she’d met the love of her life, a journalist named Jan, and that they planned to get married while there was still time. My father looked as if he’d broken a tooth.  My mother immediately invited her to bring Jan over for dinner. 

The evening Miss Berger brought Jan I felt the ground shift under my feet. Taller than my father, Jan patted me on the head and paid no further attention to me. Throughout dinner he leaned his head against Miss Berger and whispered in her ear. I had an urge to stick my fork in his belly. 

Time was now of the essence.  After a brief discussion, it was agreed to hold the wedding in our apartment, with a small party to follow. 

 I cried my eyes out throughout ceremony. As soon as it was over, Miss Berger, the name by which I will always think of her, came to the corner where I was crouching and gave me a huge hug. 

The following day I accompanied my parents to the railway station to see the newlyweds off on their honeymoon, their destination a secret. As the train was about to depart, I fastened my arms around Miss Berger with all my might. It took both of my parents to pry me loose.  “Miss Berger will be back again next week,” my mother assured me. 

But a week felt like an eternity.  And, as it turned out, I never saw or heard from Miss Berger again. 

Pete Philipps