The Prime Ministers: An Intimate Narrative of Israeli Leadership by Yehuda Avner Read Free Book Online Page A

England. Hogden had an aversion to anybody who was not of the Church of England. To him, there was only one path that led to the Almighty, and he was sure it did not pass through the synagogue or through Rome.
    “Nothing, sir,” I stammered, straightening myself up. “Nothing’s going on.”
    “Oh yes there is, sir,” blurted the bully. “Haffner’s terrorist boss, Begin, strung up our two sergeants and he’ll be hanging my dad next.”
    “Is that so, Haffner?” said Hogden in a voice brimming with scorn. “Would your Mr. Begin do a thing like that?”
    “No, sir.”
    Hogden carried a long cane which he would frequently use on his wall map to point out the vast extent of the British Empire’s dominions and colonies that stretched over an immense proportion of the globe. He handed me the cane, and smirked: “I want you to show the class on the map exactly where your Mr. Begin is carrying out his atrocities against our lads who are risking their lives to serve our country.” Turning toward the class, he asked, “Who’s risking their lives to serve our country, boys?”
    “Our lads, sir,”
    “Exactly! So, come on” – he had me by the collar and was frog-marching me to the map – “show us where your Palestine is.”
    Classmates sniggered and made faces.
    “Here, sir,” I stuttered, indicating the slender strip of territory on the eastern seaboard of the Mediterranean Sea.
    “Quite right! Are you a Zionist, Haffner? Does Haffner look like a Zionist, boys?”
    “Yes sir.”
    “What does he look like, boys?
    “A Zionist, sir.”
    “And your mother’s from Romania, is she not? Her English could do with a bit of a polish, I would think. What could Haffner’s mother’s English do with, boys?”
    “A bit of a polish, sir.”
    “So, tell us, are there lots of Zionists in Romania – terrorists, too, perhaps?”
    Like a zoologist bringing a reallive orangutan to his class, Mr. Hogden had me, the son of a native Zionist Romanian, as his exhibit. He knew of my mother’s origins because, to my everlasting mortification, she had once introduced herself to him in her heavily-accented English at a parents’ evening.
    “Now show us on the map exactly where your mother comes from,” he sneered.
    I had no idea where my mum came from, exactly. I knew about der heim – the old homestead, in a place called Negresht – but I didn’t have a clue where Negresht was.
    “Stop idling,” snapped Hogden. “You’re keeping the class waiting.” And to drive the point home he swished his cane this way and that over my head.
    To this day I cannot fully explain what happened next. All I know is that my humiliation and despair yielded unexpectedly to an irresistible surge of courage. “ Geh in drerd , sir,” I blurted out.
    “Gay in what?” hissed Hogden.
    “ Geh in drerd , sir,” I repeated intrepidly.
    “And what’s that supposed to mean?”
    “It’s the name of my mother’s village, sir.”
    “Is it? And where exactly is it? Show us on the map.”
    “Here, sir,” said I, pointing to the Carpathian Mountains.
    He peered over my shoulder: “I can’t see any Gay-in-something.”
    “No sir. It’s a small village, too small for this map.”
    Hogden gazed intently at the Carpathian Mountains. “What did you say the name was again?”
    “ Geh in drerd , sir.”
    The bigot stroked his chin and mused out loud, “Ah yes, of course. The name has a distinctive Latin ring to it, which is most characteristic of the Romanian language whose origins are largely Latin. What are the origins of the Romanian language, boys?”
    “Largely Latin, sir.”
    At which point the bell rang, causing Hogden to gather up his belongings and make his exit, causing me to feel a huge rush of jubilation. For I had just given this anti-Semite his comeuppance. “ Geh in drerd ” is Yiddish for “Go to hell,” and as far as I was concerned, I had feathered and tarred him good and proper.
    Perhaps it was because I had by this