Chapter 2 second quarter

Just as I collected my thoughts, the door opened and the children came in one after another.A few people glanced at me, and I smiled stiffly and awkwardly, not knowing how to respond. I watched as they picked their seats in the semicircle around me, and one or two children pulled notebooks and pens out of their schoolbags, but they didn't seem very enthusiastic.Most just slumped in their chairs and continued chatting in front of me, as if hoping the class would be postponed until they were done talking. "9B, sit down." The crisp sound of knuckles tapping on wood brought order back to the class.Sighs of reluctant resignation followed, and the students turned their attention to their teachers, some of whom hadn't noticed me until then, and stared at me.Maybe they're wondering what I'm going to wear out their patience with in this class.

"9B, that's enough." Mr. Wilkinson's stern gaze prevented them from raising any objections.After a while, he said to the class: "Today we are honored to have Mrs. Jones here as a guest. She is willing to contribute her precious time to tell you about her personal experience during World War II and the Holocaust, about..." Waves of panic hit my heart, I grabbed my chair, closed my eyes, and tried to calm down.For a moment I even felt dizzy. Mr. Wilkinson's words became clear again. "...so I expect each of you to spend the next forty minutes listening attentively and, ideally, thinking of..." He paused for effect, "Some worthwhile questions, before Mrs. Jones Ask her questions after her speech."

Students groaned at the requirement, and I realized few wanted to hear my story. I looked around at those young and fresh faces. The thirteen and fourteen-year-olds knew the pain, but they missed a favorite TV show, or the new game console was confiscated.I seem to be able to see my own childhood in their bright eyes, and see my youthful indifference to current affairs, let alone history. I remember being myself when even the news from the previous day felt like it didn't matter.How can I ask these children to be interested in what happened to me seventy years ago?Those events predate their parents' births, even their grandparents'.

I observed their clean faces, shiny hair, meticulously ironed clothes, half-folded stockings neatly, and polished leather shoes on their feet.They looked back at me too, some sullenly, others in the spirit of "hope over experience" and waited for me to speak. No doubt they wanted me to finish my story as soon as possible.I choose my words carefully and begin my story.

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