Sheen's Cherished Memory
SHEEN’S CHERISHED MEMORY
“Faith is in the heart
of the believer”. An episode in the life of our School’s Principal, Dr. Joseph
Katz – nicknamed Sheen on account of his shining pie bald head – drives the
point home. During Sheen’s long life, I feared that making the story public
might add insult to the injury we – his callous pupils – inflicted on him in
his heyday. Recently, though, I received the obituary written about the late Dr
Katz by my old bosom pal, “Pilkin” –
originally answering to Chayim Rosenberg
but currently known as Rabbi Loeb Zohar.
When I finished reading the moving composition, it dawned on me that the story
need no longer be regarded as privileged. I abandon my discretion willingly!
Freedom of speech – as we all know – is the paramount privilege conferred on ordinary
humans – including a mendicant professor - in our enlightened era.
The
venerated Sheen had risen to the post of School Principal
after twenty years of teaching experience in the Secondary School eventually
placed in his charge. Though an all rounder, his special skill lay in the humanities. He
taught history and literature like a
sergeant major drilling his orderlies, forced his captive audience to learn
lengthy and usually dull poems by heart; but, on the credit side, imparted to
us the art of concise and well structured writing. Many a pupil was reduced to
tears when “good old Sheen” finished dissecting a passage in his essay, marred by
ill conceived sentences and poor grammar. Even Pilkin – tough and cool –
used to stammer when Sheen tore to bits
one of his masterpieces.
In the
event, Sheen’s acid tongue had a beneficial effect: every pupil wrote well,
striving to be spared the master’s bite and bark. Even so, I have doubts about
the pedagogical merits of Sheen’s
tyrannical approach. I must, at the same time, concede that it was in harmony with the philosophy of our school.
Right from the day of its foundation, Tichon Ironi 1 (dubbed “T.A.1”) became
the Mecca of successful primary school leavers. Only one out of five applicants
was admitted. Once T.A.1’s walls closed
on him, he was subjected to four years of rigorous work, which set him on the
way to an academic or professional career. If he excelled, Sheen offered him a
place on his teaching staff. The pay was poor but the posting commanded
respect.
On his elevation to the post of Principal, Sheen had
the right to stop teaching. A lesser man
would have grabbed the opportunity.
Administrative work was lighter than the reading and grading of endless arrays
of poorly written assignments and essays. Sheen, though, was an idealist at
heart. He knew that no other teacher had
that special ability of coercing his
“boys and girls” to write well. In this narrow area, he regarded himself – with
some justification – the undisputed virtuoso. So, in the end, he continued to
conduct two classes on Literature and Composition per week.
Pilkin and I were enrolled in one of them
and, although we learned a great deal from him, shared the general
resentment of his despotism.
The ‘great
venture of revenge’ was planned after a class in which Sheen reduced Pilkin
into a quivering jelly by tearing into bits an essay on which my hapless friend
had laboured for two nights. Usually, I should have managed to calm down the
enraged Pilkin – literally the ‘little elephant’. On this occasion, alas, my
services were unavailable. I, too, was smarting because Sheen had performed a
post mortem on a piece of my own, ending his tirade with: “next time try to
concentrate, Eli Berger; you can make sense – occasionally – when you put your
mind to it!”
“I’d tar and
feather the bastard!” yelled Pilkin as
we made our way home.
“You’ve read
too much Mark Twain!”
“I suppose
you’d give the Potz a medal?”
“Don’t be
silly; but a bucket of water would do!”
“A bucket of
water?”
“Right over
his bald head!”
A dreamy
expression spread over Pilkin’s ruddy face, followed by a contemplative
silence. Just before we reached the corner of the street on which I lived, he
asked nonchalantly: “How
about a few water bombs?”
“They’ll do!
But how? I don’t want to be kicked out of school!”
“Don’t you
worry: I have a plan!”
Like all great strategic
feats, Pilkin’s was based on a simple maxim. “Know thy enemy” had led Hannibal
to victory at Kana, Genghis Khan to his
annihilation of the Persian armies and Napoleon to the routing of the allied
troupes at Austerliz. In our case, the principle was easy to apply because
Sheen was a man of set habits. Every morning he boarded the
Pilkin’s plan utilised the
terrain. Segregated on an elevated block of land, our school was hidden behind dense shrubs planted along
its frontage. The spacious
dwelling houses, that had
occupied the adjacent blocks before the War,
had been knocked down in the fifties to give way to graceless apartment
blocks. Each morning, when Sheen proceeded to T.A.1’s gates, he walked along
these blocks and, as he approached the school’s grounds, the shrubbery towered
above him.
On the
appointed day, Pilkin divided his army into three units. The first comprised a
firing squad, hidden behind the shrubs. Each of its five marksmen had been
supplied with a “water bomb” – a paper can filled to the brim. The sixth member
of the firing squad was the timer. The second group consisted of boys and
girls, placed as a “decoy” across
When Pilkin
spotted the approaching Sheen, he brushed his hair with his right hand. The members of the firing squad went into a
crouching position, while the decoy group started to chat merrily. As Sheen
turned into
As Sheen
raised his arms to remonstrate with the chorus, his huge back, wide shoulders
and smooth pate were straight in the line of the firing squad. Instantly, Pilkin waved his hand; the firing group rose
to its feet and the timer hissed –
intoning each word with his index finger: “ready, aim, fire!”
All five
missiles found their target. One – later acclaimed by each marksman as his own
trophy – landed in the very centre of Sheen’s pate, splashing his well starched
collar. At the sight of such sacrilege, the decoy group ran across the street
and, as prearranged, formed a protective shield around the dripping victim. The
girls screamed that “it must have been
the hooligans” of our rival school, the left wing orientated Tichon Ironi 2 (known as “T.A.2”);
no other members of the human race would stoop to a trick as means as that! The
boys raised the fists, swearing to raze that cursed institution to the ground.
In the ensuing tumult the firing squad beat a safe retreat and emerged from the
School’s gates to join the crowd surrounding Sheen. So did Pilkin, who walked over
from the corner of Nahmani Street.
Forming a
Phalanx of two protective lines, we chaperoned the drenched Sheen to his office. Flushed and downcast he sank
dejectedly into his office chair, his
secretary mopping him all over with a hand towel. His wet condition – I
surmised – was not due in its entirety to the impact of the water bombs.
Two hours
later, a number of the ringleaders from amongst the School’s pupils were
summoned to Sheen’s office. Having regained his ordinary composure and
donning dry clothes – rushed over from
Bnei Brak by his caring wife – he asked
us to convey his thanks to all the ‘nice boys and girls’ who had rushed to his
defence. He then asked all of us to abandon any plans of vengeance. Those who,
like himself, were staunch believers, ought to dwell on Deuteronomy 32:21,
which proclaims that retribution is in
God’s hands. It was morally wrong and hence improper for Man to take the law
into his own hands! Shifting his glance in my direction, he added that the so
called “free thinkers” – who reject
religious commands at will – ought to recall Socrates’ views on retribution.
“Will you,
Eli Berger, tell us what he says?”
“Socrates,
Sir, argues that revenge is futile. It satisfies the lowest instincts: not the
mind; and, in the long run, it leads to a vendetta which inflicts unwarranted
pain and misery on everybody. In his opinion we must suppress the temptation to
respond to violence with violence.”
“For once, I
agree with the Greek philosopher! He was a Pagan, but, occasionally, he made
sense!” nodded Sheen. “And Gandhi tells us that if everybody demanded and eye
for an eye, the whole world would be blind.
So please dismiss any thought of vengeance from your minds!”
“But, Sir,
should this shameless attack on our School’s honour be allowed to pass without
any reaction?” asked Pilkin sanctimoniously.
“Not
necessarily” answered Sheen. “A physical reprisal must, of course, be ruled
out. But there is room for a proper, non-violent, response. Between the Walls is distinguished
neither by concise writing nor by good style or grammar. My views about your ‘Magazine’ are on record! All the same, a
befitting reportage or leader in the next issue will do!”
“Very well,
Sir” replied Pilkin – the Editor in Chief and heart and soul of the School’s
rag.
A succinct
description of the ambush, included in the next issue of Between the Walls, did not explicitly refer to T.A..2. The Editor
did, however, raised a pertinent question. Who, except the inmates {read
“imbeciles”} of a certain rival institution (whose true calibre was verified by the inclusion of “2” in its name)
could ever contemplate a prank as childish as this? The reply by the Editor of
our rival’s review, “Plain Talk”, came up with what appeared
to me a pungent retort. Agreeing with our own assessment of the merits of the
ambush, he wanted to know what had made the “brilliant writer” think that it had been perpetrated by
the “gentlemanly scholars of the one and
only liberal and cosmopolitan educational institution in the Land?” Had the
“learned author” written his masterpiece under the effect of a mirage or was he
in the grip of a fit of delirium tremens?
The ensuing
battle of words spread over a few issues of the two worthy publications. After
a while nobody, except the two rival editors, read the respective outbursts.
The two fighting cocks, too, were getting bored. As soon as the basketball
season opened, both rags directed their attention to what everybody considered
more topical issues. A few weeks thereafter, the two editors started to greet
each other again when they met on the street.
The great
ambush was, occasionally, mentioned with a grin during our remaining years in
T.A.1. In later years, when our classmates had their festive reunions, the
topic was avoided. I, too, had little cause to think of it. During my years as
an itinerant professor, in Singapore, Wellington, Melbourne and some European
cities, I had to devote my time to matters of greater importance. There were,
nevertheless, a few occasions on which
the incident came back to me.
One took
place in
“By why
don’t all of you read your stuff?” I grumbled. “You turn our tutorial system
into a joke!”
“Many of us
read everything you give us, Prof.,” remonstrated the fair, blonde haired and
mellow voiced female member of the group. “But your manner is terrifying. We
know the stuff but get tongue tied!”
I was about
to retort angrily when, suddenly, the heavy-set figure of good old Sheen,
dripping wet after the impact of the water bombs, hovered in front of my eyes.
Could I, too, push student to such extremes by my intolerant and harsh manner?
“Do you
agree?” I asked the remaining members of the delegation.
“We do, Sir,”
said one of them while the others nodded.
“Thanks for
telling me,” I said. “I’ll see what to do.”
Following an
evening of reflections, I changed my tactics. In no time, I became a popular
teacher loved by good and poor students alike. My novel approach did not
entail a
rise in scholastic standards.
That much must be conceded. But it kept me out of the firing line of water bomb
experts.
I
recalled Sheen again some five years after I had left Wellington to take
up a Chair in an Australian University.
One afternoon, when I skimmed through a folder of snapshots, I found that the centre of one group photograph I had
taken with my students was dominated by a single object: my own shining pate. It appeared just as bare – just a
pathetic – as the bald head that had
earned good old Sheen his nickname. Had nature avenged him? Had Chronus turned
the tables on the unmannerly schoolboy – Eli Berger – of days gone by?
A few years
later I moved back to my old University in
“And how is
good old Sheen?” I ventured when there was a break in his flow. “I suppose he passed
away long time ago.”
“For a man
of his age, Dr. Joseph Katz is very well indeed!” Pilkin spoke testily.
“In a
retirement home, surely?”
“Wrong
again! Dr. Joseph Katz still lives in Bnei Brak. He stays with his
granddaughter and her family.”
“A man of
his age is bound to be a burden!”
“You’ll be
surprised” countered Pilkin and, without any prompting on my part, gave me the
news about our once dreaded Principal.
Sheen had
retained his mental faculties. Although he had long left T.A..1, he was still a
member of the working force. He gave private tuition, primarily in Composition
and Literature, to secondary school students sent to him by former colleagues
and disciples. To my surprise, he also gave tuition in Greek and Latin.
“Are these
now on the curriculum?” I wanted to know.
“Not really;
but there is always a handful of boys and girls – mainly from Mid European homes
– who love to tackle them. Dr. Joseph Katz has made a name for himself in this
field.”
“I suspected
it was his secret hobby,” I muttered.
“It was,”
nodded Pilkin. “He wanted to introduce
an optional subject entitled “The Classic World”. Unfortunately, the
municipal authorities blocked him. But do you remember how he encouraged us to
read the Greek playwrights and historians?”
“He did. But
he always sneered at the Greek philosophers!”
“To an
ardent believer like him – by orientation ultra orthodox – their pragmatic
analysis was too ungodly. All the same,
he had a sound knowledge of their works.”
“How have you come to know him so well,
Pilkin?”
Pilkin’s
story brought to my mind Fortuna’s subtle manoeuvrings. On this occasion, her
tool was a Rabbi Moishe Margolioth, who was so impressed with Pilkin’s
performance as Tavyeh the Milkman, that
he invited the young man to perform the
same role on a stage in Brooklyn. Pilkin accepted and, in due course, became an
established performer in the secondary theatres of
A few months
after his ordination, Pilkin went back to
“Did he
recognise you?”
“Margolioth
had briefed him. So, he was not taken by surprise!”
“Does he
remember the …”
“You
wouldn’t expect me to talk about that?”
“Perhaps not,”
I conceded. “Still, he may have adverted to it.”
“Well, he
didn’t. We spent our time gossiping about his ‘former pupils’!”
“Did he
mention me?” I asked eagerly.
“He did
indeed. He knew all about your career. He was glad you brought your ship home!”
“Does he
have fond memories of us – of the school as a whole?”
“He does,
rather! He is convinced he had been well liked and respected by all of us. I
thought it best to let him keep his illusions. They bring him comfort and – at
his age – he might as well have it.”
“Fair enough,” I
muttered.
Following our reunion dinner, Pilkin and I
corresponded sporadically. Usually, my letters were perfunctory: I had little
to say, except that I was ageing fast. Pilkin, in contrast, wrote lengthy letters, with news about his
family and friends. Sheen’s name cropped up from time to time. A few months
after our dinner, Pilkin mentioned Sheen attended a celebration at T.A.1.
Later, he met him in a function at the City Hall. Sheen was elegantly attired
and, notwithstanding his age, looked spot and span. The news was less cheerful
on the next occasion: Sheen had slipped in the bathroom and broken his hip.
After his release from hospital, he withdrew into a retirement home. He sensed
he had become a burden to his granddaughter’s family. Still, they visited him every week and, in
any event, he adjusted well to his new environment. In due course, he became
the residents’ spokesman.
For a while,
Pilkin’s letters made no reference to Sheen. Then, one morning, the postman
delivered a parcel with an Israeli stamp. In it was a volume entitled “A
Pedagogue in Tel-Aviv – Memoirs of Dr. Joseph Katz (known to his pupils as Good
Old Sheen)”. On the cover page, Pilkin had inscribed: “I though you might enjoy
reading this. Have a good look at p. 289”.
Sad to say,
I found Sheen’s opus magnum disappointing. Notwithstanding his precise style and
lucid mode of expression, the subject was mundane. I knew that, as a treatment
of secondary school education in
I was about
to close the book and put it away, when I recalled Pilkin’s message.
Resignedly, I turned to page 289 and,
instantly, my eyes opened wide. In his neat, unadorned style, Sheen gave a
plain description of our ambush as seen by himself. He had, obviously, believed
that the offenders had been a bunch of rowdy pupils from T.A.2, whose main aim
was to tarnish the honour of our own institution. Having fallen for our ruse,
he had drawn his own conclusion from what had appeared to him our show of
solidarity. His description of the
protective Phalanx of boys and girls, who had escorted him to his office, was
followed by an emotive epitaph:
Could
there have been any clearer demonstration of loyalty and affection than the
spontaneous intervention of my boys and girls? What except gratitude and regard
could have induced them to shelter me at the risk of exposing themselves to an
en encore of the hooligans’ cowardly pranks?
My
pupils’ support vindicated my pedagogical manifesto. Obviously, they had seen
through the lashes of my tongue and had appreciated that my only object in my
Composition Classes was to prepare them for their professional careers. The
realisation that my efforts had not been in vain was an adequate compensation
for the shock of the childish attack!
All in all, a shameless prank provided one of my most cherished memories!
I had to
read the passage three times before its meaning dawned on me. So, in the end,
Good Old Sheen had turned the tables on us. For years, all of those involved in
the prank had pangs of conscience. It became an event not to be related to
anybody outside the guilty circle. Sheen saw it through glasses with a
different tint. Notwithstanding his dripping clothes and reduced appearance,
the incident acquired a symbolical – heart rendering – significance.
For three
years following my receipt of Sheen’s memoirs, I felt obliged to keep mum.
Letting the cat out of the bag was – in the circumstances – unthinkable.
However, a few weeks ago I received Pilkin’s latest letter, attaching a copy of
his obituary of Dr. Joseph Katz. So, at long last, I am free to tell the tale –
a tale which proves, beyond any reasonable doubt – that faith is in the heart
of the believer.
Peter Berger
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