JanBeek

I may have told you this story. In my sixth grade class, my teacher, Mrs Haas had one student a day, stay after school and clean up the classroom. No argument there. Many children disliked her. I understood that she wasn’t mean, but trying to instill lessons that weren’t in the school books. Discipline. Courage. Ethics. Morals. Civility. Kindness. Language. Compassion. And many other ideals. She was a slight woman. Maybe close to sixty years old. The year was 1970. I was 12. At age 10, I had been assigned duties at the school, by the teachers. I wasn’t asked. I was assigned. None of my peers were. I did the federal milk program at my school for three years. I ran the school concession stands, two of them, for three years. I hired and fired kids. I ran our class safety patrol in the sixth grade, crossing guard detail. Mrs Haas taught us the basics of French, German, Polish, Czechoslovakian or maybe it was Hungarian. In the sixth grade, you learn civics. Government, ours versus other countries. It was intense, and sometimes “brutal”. Sometimes, you were kept after school, especially with spelling. As a twin, my sister never stayed after school. That’s where the parent believes you have done something egregious. Never asking why, you just got punishment at home. Years later, my SAT scores came back and the difference between my sister and I was dramatic. My math and english scores were significantly higher than that of my sister’s.
One day, after cleaning erasers, I was about to empty the trash, when Mrs Haas removed her sweater. On her arm were a series of numbers. I kept that to myself until my tenth year reunion, and a group from my old grade school began talking about her.
In our sixth grade class, about six weeks before the end of school, Mrs Hass’ father died. She took about three weeks of bereavement. Then with three weeks until the end of school, our substitute and the school principal, Mr. Copeland informed us, that Mrs Haas had passed away. Years later, still haunted by what had happened, I was asking questions about it and not getting any answers. I realized, she wasn’t a circus clown or a biker chick, with a tattoo. She had been in a concentration camp, and only she and her father survived. Then I knew. She wanted her students to learn from the situation and never allow it to repeat. I am thankful for the woman she was. And I am probably the only survivor from my school to have learned the lessons.