The alternative pastimes — gossiping, flirting, discussing each other's personalities, lolling around looking at magazines — were too tempting to resist. I recall one day sitting in the school library — I don't think anyone else was in it — researching a history project. What a pity, I remember thinking to myself, that I don't have more time for this fascinating and absorbing activity; if I stay in the library much longer I might miss out on chatting with my friends, or walking to the nearest tuckshop to buy sweets, or hearing some important new development in one of the many romantic relationships being conducted at the time, possibly even my own. So naturally I abandoned my researches and left the library. But this idle way of life troubled me even then. The protestant work ethic (by no means the exclusive preserve of Protestants), must have been instilled in me at a very early age. Or, more likely, there is a gene for it.
The subject I most enjoyed when we first arrived at the senior school was Latin. This may have had something to do with the Latin teacher, a sweet, kind, elderly man, who was a refugee from Nazi Germany. He was known as Rosie — short for Rosenberg. Rosie was an old-fashioned teacher — he had to be: you can't teach first-year Latin — amo, amas, amat — without throwing in a bit of non-progressive rote-learning. (This may be one reason why Latin was dropped by most state schools when they adopted progressive education.) Because of our similar backgrounds, or maybe simply because he had a German accent like my parents, I felt that there was a special rapport between Rosie and me.
At that time, I only had the vaguest awareness of the Holocaust or of anti-Semitism. My parents, wishing to protect me from the knowledge of human evil, had, as far as I remember, never mentioned it; nor had anyone at school. So I knew nothing of Rosie's story. But he must have known something of mine, and perhaps my feeling of affinity with him stemmed from what I sensed was a heightened interest in my doings, a covert attentiveness towards me in Latin lessons. We could have talked to each other in German, but we never did — a shadow, at that time, hung over the language.
Sadly, Rosie died soon after we took our O-level exams. As there was very little demand at the school for Latin, no one was appointed to replace him. So when I, and one other pupil, decided that we wanted to take A-level Latin, the headmaster conceived the idea of summoning the Latin master from Totnes grammar school once a week to instruct the two of us in the splendours of Virgil, Horace and Tacitus. This scheme worked brilliantly. I can't remember the man's name, but I remember what he looked like — tall, bony, dark and dour. And he was a formidable teacher. It was my first and only experience of rigorous, exacting teaching. Not to have done every scrap of one's homework would have been unthinkable. I thoroughly enjoyed two years of this stimulating grammar school approach.
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