Silence.
Breath, breath, breath.
Nobody talks, nobody moves, but for hands on pencils on papers.
Intimidating peace. Warm isolation, but cold company.
Me? I’m done. My miserable comrades still toil away at their pages and pages. What are we doing? Taking the SAT. Basically, trying to get into college. It’s near the end, and the last section in the test is the math, before the final test break. So I know that’s what everyone else around me is doing. Ha-ha, suckers. I’m done fast. I’m a speedy math test taker. Math is my best subject. It’s the subject about which I’m most proud.
I clink the clay slabs together in my pocket. My older brother, Farrah, who took this test five years ago, gave me these soon afterwards, when I turned 13. They seem to have given me luck on anything I’ve taken/accomplished so far. I’ve never questioned their power.
Father gave these to me at my barmitzvah. They were passed down to him from his father, who got it from his older brother, who got it from his father… And so on down the male line of Kusroviches. He instructed me not to decipher their meaning until the worst of youth is over, because before then I won’t understand what it means.
But now I understand their meaning. Now, I get it. Anaeb Marcel Kusrovich, it’s your turn. Do not decipher these until the worst of your own youth is over.
I remember seeing them once, twice, maybe even a few other times. I knew not to decipher it but I couldn’t help but think sometimes. The words were in Russian, yes, but their meaning so garbled and nonsensical that I just stopped trying.
When the worst of my youth is over. I’ll turn 18 in a few short weeks. My youth is coming to an end.
I could look at them and not tell my brother or my father…
A proctor zooms by my desk, whispering.
Is that a clacking noise coming from your pocket? I’d prefer that clacking be a little quieter, if not completely gone. Okay?
Her voice is soothing, and sweet, even in whisper form, and her request is highly ironic since her heels make a clicking sound as she scoots through the aisles of test-taking kids. She’s obviously a new teacher in this school because I’d never seen her, other than being my proctor, and almost none of The Hebrew Academy’s teachers have changed in the past 25 or so years, so the school says. Not to mention, she was speaking clear and fluid English, when most of the time you got yelled at if you spoke English. You were supposed to speak either Hebrew or Russian while in school, even though the big tests were in English.
She goes. Her heels click louder than my clay slabs, so I don’t know who the hell she thought she was kidding.
Waiting.
All I’m doing. Waiting.
My hands furtively fiddle with the clay in my pocket. The slabs are so old that I feel like I’m getting clay dust on my fingers.
Okay. The Mathematics section of the SAT is now completed. You may take a 5 minute test break in which you may talk or use the restrooms, but do not talk about the test.
Relief! I stand. My arms are raised above me, reaching towards the heavens that brought me power through my shards.
I sauntered over to my proctor.
May I open the clay shards I have in my pocket that were making the clacking noise from before? I asked in perfect Russian.
No, she replies, also in Russian. Then she switches to English. I know you wouldn’t, but for all any administrator walking around here knows, you could have written some helpful test material on the slabs. Maybe after the test?
Are you a new teacher here? I ask, puzzled. You aren’t supposed to speak English in this school…
She laughs.
I’m not a teacher here at all. I’m actually a college kid who just needed a weekend job, and they had a proctoring position here open, so here I am. I know Russian, but it’s really rusty so I figured it’d be easier for you if I spoke English.
This explains why she looks so young. There are no teachers in The Hebrew Academy who are younger than 40, right now.
You should meet my brother. He’s at the Community College around here. He loves teaching people new things, especially languages, I say.
You have an older brother at the Community College? Oh, I go there too! Her cry is incredulous. What’s his name?
Farrah. Farrah Kusrovich. You know him? I ask hopefully. I love meeting people who know Farrah. It’s always fun, because they all say I look exactly like him and have many of his mannerisms in common.
Farrah? For real? You’re Farrah’s younger brother? I was wondering why you looked so familiar! My God, I love that guy! Around campus, everyone knows Farrah. He’s silly, but he’s also the person on campus that you really don’t want to mess with because his vocabulary is enough to shoot down anybody. Not to mention, he’s sharp as a tack and witty, too. He doesn’t need a gun to protect himself, you know?
I nod, and I’m grinning. Everyone who knows Farrah loves him. He’s clever, and he’s hilarious, and he’s really got it all together. He might not be the sharpest tool in the shed, hence his going to community college, but he’s pretty awesome, his own SAT scores notwithstanding.
Oh, the time, the time! I better start the test again… She raps a hand on her desk until all is quiet, and turns away from me. Okay, it’s time for you to begin your tests again. Please sit down and turn to the next section of the test, the Reading.
Without another word, I sit down and open my test again.
Man. What’s Farrah going to say about this? I have to get her name.
~
Okay, guys! Please close your test booklets and put your pencils down. The SAT 2009 has been concluded! You may be released.
After a brief cheering period, my peers stand and leave, chattering hurriedly in Russian, some slipping in a few words of English. They’ll get it later…
The young proctor appears again by my desk.
Pull out those slabs of yours. I want to see them.
I hastily withdraw them from my pockets, clay dust clouding my hands, spotting my jacket, and ending up on the floor.
Farrah gave these to me at my barmitzvah. He told me not to decipher them until the worst of my youth is over, I explained.
Well, the SAT is a pretty damn big deal, she replies. Perhaps you could put them together now and see what happens.
The room is empty.
I go over to the teacher’s desk and put the slabs on the table. Everything on the desk is written in Spanish, so this must be a Spanish room.
Clink, clink, pic, pic.
Constantly rearranging the 5 slabs until they are in an order which makes sense.
The tablets themselves are pretty bland in color, clay-colored, but then again, their color must have worn off with the generations.
Read the Russian, she implores. I certainly can’t.
Frankly, neither can I. Of course, the text is faded away from all the generations of fingers creasing its surfaces.
I drop my head on the desk.
Never fear, never fear. Just get a piece of paper–here you go. Copy what you think you see so you can keep track of where you are.
It would be so helpful if she too knew how to read Russian.
Without another word I grab a pen and squint at the cyrillic script before me.
Man, and man.
Falling through, but rising up.
Thoughts are but words unspoken.
Feelings are but shouts unheard.
Knowledge comes from the soul and not from the ear.
Ah, oh holy love, the productive cooperation, the partnership and co-work.
What the hell…? I ask.
Having trouble reading? she says.
I ignore her and continue copying.
Put the pieces together.
Soul and worth, strength, oh holy love, are partners.
Stay by me, friend.
But stop me, too.
Keep me bound.
Set me free.
The missions of the eyes are the ambitions of the hands and feet.
Go, sons, brothers.
Go, for I have finished.
We have only just begun.
I put the pen down.
That’s it? she asks.
Yes, that’s it, I reply.
Read it to me, she says. I listen to her, and read.
These are all of the world’s little ironies put together on clay slabs, she says. What do you think? “Soul and worth, strength, oh holy love, are partners?” “The missions of the eyes”–hmm, goals you can see–”are the ambitions of the hands and feet…” But you normally associate ambition with the heart, or even the mind. Why the hands?
I stop.
What’s your name? I ask her.
Nataly. Nataly Colton, she says.
Thank you, Nataly, for everything. You’ve given me the keys to this puzzle. I understand the message my brother and my bloodline are trying to send me.
What does it say? she asks.
I ignore her and keep going.
I promise to pass this to my sons, too. In these tablets seem to be the key of wisdom for a man’s sight. But I am a man. I now have this sight and I can pass it on.
I’m going to go home now, Nataly. Nice meeting you, and I’ll tell Farrah when he comes home that I met you, and that you helped me decipher the slabs. Farewell. I collect my clay slabs, jumbling their order once again.
But, Anaeb… she calls after me. What did it say?
You heard the inscription, Nataly. Knowledge comes from the soul–here I wink–and not from the ear.
I turned around, put the clay back in my pockets, and through The Hebrew Academy’s ancient, now-empty hallways, I left.
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