The story was received in silence. The emotions it aroused in Golda and her son were so profound, so violent that they were dazed. The tension was relieved by a giggle from Lotte, who knew that kings do not wear hats. Mendel sat staring at his picture, which, try as he would, he could not connect with the story.
Abramovich said: “I told you so, Mrs. Kühler. I told you something would come of it.” Already he was convinced that Mendel only had to go out into London to make the family’s fortune.
But Golda replied: “There’s time enough for that, and don’t go putting ideas into the boy’s head.”
There was no danger of that. Mendel’s was not the kind of head into which ideas are easily put. He was slow of comprehension, powerful in his instincts, and everything he perceived had to be referred to them. School was to him a perfectly extraneous experience. What he learned there was of so little use to any purpose of which he was conscious, and it could not be shared with his mother. To her schooling was the law of the land. A strange force took her boy from her every day and, as it were, imprisoned him. When he was fourteen he would be free. She must endure his captivity as she had learned to endure so much else.
When Mr. Jacobson had gone she said: “There have been boys like that, and a good boy never forgets his father and mother.”
Mendel looked puzzled and said: “When I drew a picture of teacher he caned me.”
“Caned you?” cried Golda, horrified.
“He often does.”
“Thrashed you!” cried Golda; “on the hands?”