Part 2 of “The Golden Years’
Having watched Mom disappear around the corner I turned around with a sigh and made my way to school. It was only two blocks down the street and as I walked past the derelict building, I fished the sticky pieces of bread out of my trouser pockets and threw them into the gaping maw of what once had been its basement.
“Hey Robby”, a familiar voice cried and I stopped in my tracks.
It was Mickey, my best friend and I waited as he came hobbling up to me. Some nasty childhood disease had left him with a crippled right leg. He was not exactly lame but his leg didn’t work too well either so I always stayed close to him. Together we had beaten up all jerks stupid enough to joke about his leg. By now there were no more sneers, I thought grimly.
“Dumping your bread again?” he said with a knowing look in his eyes and I just grunted.
“Don’t! Keep it for the afternoon; let’s throw it to the gulls!”
“Too late”, I grinned as I showed my empty pockets.
One of our nastier little games was to board the ferry behind the Central Station. We would go to the upper deck and toss pieces of bread to the gulls. After two or three pieces, a whole screaming flock would be hovering over the slowly moving vessel, its deck packed with cyclists and pedestrians and the odd car.
We would throw more pieces of bread to the gulls and each time they swooped down to catch them, they would squirt shit on everyone below them.
Our school was one of those stately, 19th century buildings that had been built all over town after the education laws had been passed. Its three gables and its austere lines gave the building a stern and almost forbidding aura, as if the architect had wanted to emphasize that education was a serious business. It had a number of high-ceilinged classrooms, all with three high windows divided into a multitude of rectangular panes. Even in winter they gave us plenty of daylight, but cold air came rolling down from them like an invisible waterfall that made us shiver as it penetrated our thin clothes. In the opposite corner stood a large, coal burning stove and when fired up, it radiated enough heat to slowly cook the unfortunate souls sitting next to it.
The classroom had twelve wooden desks, each one seating two pupils. We were facing the teacher’s table, raised on a small platform in front of a large blackboard. A large map of Holland and a few pictures of the Alps decorated the white-washed walls and that was all there was to see in this most basic of classrooms.
We thronged through the echoing hall with its white-washed stairwells and hung our coats on a row of pegs just outside the classroom door. We noisily hurried to our desks, eleven boys and eight girls, and moments after the concierge rang the newly installed electric bell, our teacher came in. He was a rather short, thickset man in a rumpled brown suit who always wore a dark brown fedora that seemed to be glued to his head. He slammed the table with a ruler and the lessons began.
It was an easy morning; we started off with some writing, then some geography and before we knew it the bell rang for the mid-morning break. We all rushed out into the schoolyard, a place paved with concrete tiles and hemmed in between the school building and the fence of the marshalling yard. Actually it was not a fence at all but a long line of discarded railway sleepers set upright and pointed at the top. It looked like a fortification and I guess a tank would hardly have made a dent in it.
But we could run around in that yard and do all the kind of silly things that young boys do; climb the fence (until the teacher saw it), play tag or just buzz around and pinch the girls to make them squeal.
All too soon the bell summoned us inside again, this time for arithmetic, followed by history. The teacher was good at that. I loved the way he described those historical characters; he made them come alive, doing incredible things against the Spaniards, the French, the Germans…
The bell brought us all back from fighting the Spaniards during the siege of Haarlem in the late 16th century to the here and now. Class had ended and we stampeded out of the classroom, free for the rest of the day.
“Got any lunch?” Mickey asked.
“Nope; fed it to the rats”, I said as we walked down the narrow street. I could go to a neighbor for lunch but all I would get were some stale slices of white bread, plastered with margarine.
“Let’s go to the market and get something”, I suggested.
A quarter of an hour later the two of us were munching freshly baked rolls from a corner bakery while sitting in an unused market-stall, sheltered from the slowly falling drizzle by its tarpaulin roof.
“How did you get that money?” Mickey asked; I had paid 25 cents for our lunch.
“Every week I go around and collect old newspapers”, I told him. “There’s a guy around the corner there who pays 5 cents a kilo.”
“Ahh”, said Mickey and he took another bite.
We looked around when we had finished the rolls but the market was not an inviting sight. Normally the market was a place of bright colors and smells of fruit and fried fish and the air filled with the cries of hawkers, selling their wares. Now, the steady drizzle made everything look grey and drab and even the hissing pressure lamps in the fishmonger’s stalls did not radiate their normal golden hue. Somehow, they gave off a harsh, metallic light that mingled with the mottled daylight and turned the silver fishes dull grey and unappetizing. People were hurrying by, huddled under umbrellas or stooped forward with shawls around their heads, hardly glancing at two small boys sitting in that empty stall.
“Any ideas?” asked Mickey and I shook my head. Our normal domains were the market, the docks or the marshalling yard; there was always something fun to be found there. But the steady drizzle spoilt it all and mom’s warning about not getting dirty still rankled. Suddenly an idea popped up in my head.
“Let’s go and play Privateers in the attic!”
“Yeah”, shouted Mickey as he jumped down, gammy leg and all. “Let’s go!”
— To be continued —