To Nanochip:
Remember the reverence with which that strange little man [the archery teacher] beheld us whenever we went down there in the activity period? It was only we who were free to do whatever we liked. Everyone else had to go through the ridiculously easy motions of shooting an arrow at the target, and none was able to master it. Do you remember that time when the same man besought us to hasten to the principal’s chamber on some exigent business? We took pity on him and went, for it seemed as if the little man would lose his job if we did not. So we went to the principal’s office and wove an incredible tale about the Jews, which she readily swallowed; then she opened up the great tomes of knowledge that rested in her immense mind, and expatiated at some length on the Jews. We listened, you and I, in silence and with respect; and when it was time to go, we took leave of her and left, the task we were meant to fulfill on behalf of that miserable teacher of archery forgotten.
There were other strange characters in that little school where a few of us blossomed amidst the stultified masses, and cast glances of mutual respect at each other over the fields of empty heads between us. Betimes our intellects were challenged, our sense of curiosity stimulated. There were moments of light and learning just as there were moments of darkness and oppression. And though that little fallout shelter was no international school, though we emerged from it with little besides the scantest memories, it did manage, in some strange way, to shape our initial characters into something moderately respectable.
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