This refrain caught up by Long Kunz was accompanied by intermittent beating of the desks with drum-like regularity.
In a moment the classroom was in a wild uproar. Whistling, catcalls, imitations of braying asses, of squealing pigs, of crowing cocks, of bleating sheep, of neighing horses filled the air. The boys scampered and jumped and flung inkstands at the blackboard and kicked at the chairs to Fritz’s rhythmic tune of “A poor little Jew with long whiskers!”
“Silence!”
It was the intimidating voice of Father Scher.
The youngsters, frightened by the sudden entrance of the schoolmaster, made a dash for their seats and in their mad rush capsized the benches that came down with resounding crashes.
“Order!” shouted the schoolmaster.
Father Scher stood at his desk, his right arm raised menacingly, his smooth face crimson with rage, his eyes fairly popping out of their sockets, his saucer-like skull-cap shoved to the back of his shaven head.
Ominous silence, terror in every countenance.
The priest’s eyes shifted from side to side, taking in the overturned benches, the scattered text-books, the ink-bespattered blackboard.
“Who started this?”