The Diploma

1

Eleven years old, almost on the nose. Summer was rapidly gaining its place of honour in the town, the blue and the green and the lilac's violet the dominant colors in my life. My age was not what was worrying me. Neither was the summer of course, with the big vacation approaching fast. It was rather my mom's wrath at what she was going to discover once I dragged my bloodied figure back home. So I did everything possible to postpone the moment by climbing a few more roofs and watching in awe down every tin drainpipe I could locate. Two of them had new nests in them, no eggs there yet but my joy at the sight eliminated any fear of things to come.2

I hated it when they called me jid. The other kids and some of the teachers. I did not take any special pride in my being Jewish and I hated it when someone was rubbing my nose into it. I soaked in, kid fasion, extremely fast the communist rationale of no God and equality to all, and being Jewish in this small town lost somewhere in the north of Romania was just an accident. My history was the Romanian history, and my heroes the national poet born in my town, and King Stefan who once ruled the county I lived in. I knew the first one's poems by heart and the second one's history book chapter by heart too. A proud Romanian boy. 3

This time, as all the previous times, it happened with friends. We played "war" in the local public garden, my group was winning and someone got angry and called me jid. In a few minutes stones started flying and a few bleeding heads scattered to their respective homes. One of them was mine. None of us cried, tomorrow morning we will all be as good friends as ever. It was the going home, however, that was frightening. Finally I got no choice but to drag my body home. It was getting dark, and if I wanted to get out again after dinner for another round of playing, I had first to get home.4

My mom was busy in the kitchen, preparing dough for Saturday's sweet bread. I tried to sneak past her but the dog started yapping happily and she turned around to see me. I stopped, seeing her look at me, my eyes fixing a rusted nail somewhere on the wall and the dog wagging its butt of tail like it never saw me in three days. I expected everything, from a "your father will take care of you" to a serious spanking. Funny, not this time. I breathed with relief. She led me to a chair, took a towel and soaked it with water, then started cleaning the wound and then wiping away the dried blood. She didn't even ask what happened, it was not the first time that I returned bloodied back home from some street battle. But it was the first time that she seemed to take it easily, as if she didn't mind it at all. She just gave me a new shirt, asked me not to tell a thing to my dad, and went back to her chores.5

I was relieved. I knew my parents have been worried lately and I wondered whether this was the reason I got so easily off the hook this time. They have filled in forms for emigrating to Israel, and my father was afraid it will cost him his job. And the fears of an unexpected knock on the door in middle of the night... Securitatea... State Police... was wearing them down. None of which bothered me. The only worry I had was what will happen to our dog if we got permission to emigrate. The rest was grown ups worries. I ate my dinner and went out looking for my friends again, the hole in my head forgotten and new mischief in my mind. My mom just reminded me that next week the end of the school year's festivities will take place and I better keep out of trouble or she'll find this stick she kept threatening me with. It flashed for a moment in my mind - hey, this is the reason I got off so easily, she was so proud of my grades that she just didn't feel like punishing me... Just a flash, and off to the dark streets and to another few hours of playing. The plan for tonight being a raid of a dried apples stock in a dank cellar, where we hoped to get out with a nice booty of eight, ten apples each in our pockets.6

Monday arrived. I finished fourth grade with exceptional grades. Fourth grade, who cares? Well, I did, my parents did, and the whole town did. Food and clothing may have been scarce, but school was sacred and good end of year results, any grade, were considered a national treasure and were celebrated with pomp and fanfare music. I was number one all my previous three years, school wide. And every year the ceremony, the handshakes, the diploma of which three hung already at home above my bed. This was to be my fourth from this school. For my fifth year I was moving to another school, a mixed boys girls school, and I wanted to finish this year again as school's number one. I was. My teacher informed my parents that according to my grades that was the situation and they should expect my fourth diploma to be hung next to the other three.7

My father went to work as usual, he could not take a day off. But my mom was home and she was coming with me. Every previous year it was the same. The Sunday spent arranging her hair with those hot round iron pincers that curled her hair, following which she was binding the curls with colored small ribbons to fix them in place. Then on Monday she was dressing in her best of clothes, best of shoes. I was taking for once the second of my once a week bath, hating every moment of it but knowing it to be a necessity. Then, dressed in short blue trousers, white crisp shirt, short white socks, new shoes bought just for the occasion (and knowing they will give me blisters) and topping it all the freshly washed freshly ironed blood red pioneer necktie around my neck, the symbol of belonging, of excellence, my pride - we locked the door and went to the school. My mom carrying in her arms a freshly bought bouquet of white gladiolas, to offer the teachers once they will call me up to the stage for my diploma.8

We entered the big hall and looked around us, as always awed by the grandeur of the moment. The front rows were seats taken by all the important party hot shots and a few guests from out of town. Then the rest of the rows were taken by kids and parents, family members, friends. On the stage a long table with a green cover and about twenty chairs for the school teachers and some important guests that were supposed to deliver speeches for the occasion. And at floor level, at the right side of the stage, a few higher class pupils dressed in uniforms, with drums and trumpets and flags, ready for the occasion. We decided not to sit down, but rather wait standing up somewhere at the back of the hall, just to save me the embarrassment of having to crawl out between so many seated guests once I will be called up. My mom greeted a few faces, and was looking for my teacher, when the ceremony started without finding him. We knew, even the kids, that he had a drinking problem, yet it did not diminish any of his teaching skills. The kids loved him, I too. 9

All rose to the national anthem. The drums beating the cadence, the trumpets calling in triumph, I felt that all this ceremony was for me and me only, school's number one again. My mom proud at my side, the flowers clamped tightly to her chest. Then everybody but us two sat down. The speeches started, I never paid attention, all these long words, interminable sentences, I was impatient, waiting for my turn, embarrassed yet one head higher than my usual size. My teacher was on the stage, got there late. We tried to catch his attention but didn't succeed, he looked a bit weary, kind of lost in a world of his own. Drunk again, I thought to myself, feeling a wave of love for the man that was guiding me for four years now.10

It was coming. The speeches were over, a restless movement passed through the seated audience as the schoolmaster rose from his chair, the list in his hand, ready to start calling the names of the best. Some heads turned around to look at us, they knew who will be called first. Drums again. Then the trumpets again. I started going forward even without waiting for my name to be called. I knew I am number one. I stopped. A name was called and something unclear registered on my mind. This name was not my name. A second name. A third. Not mine. Not mine. Kids were pushing through the rows of chairs, passing me on their way towards the stage, getting on it, shaking hands and getting handed pieces of cardboard paper. I was frozen in place. Tears started gathering in my eyes... something was wrong, something was terribly wrong. The last name was called out. Not mine either. 11

I felt a shape storming past me, with unabatable, unabstainable fury. My mom's back rushing forward towards the front of the stage, stopping there for a moment and looking all those dignitaries accusingly in the face, and with one despising move throwing the flowers to the floor. Then she turned around without a word, took my hand and pulled my tearful shape out of the hall. At this moment, I fully realised for the first time in my life who I really was. I was a jid.12