sighed for some Polish-Jewish town. Another would switch from broken Spanish to equally poor Yiddish or sing some songs that her friends had forgotten.
The guests were affectionate, kind, and made me feel like the most beautiful boy in the block. Jewish mothers who loved their children, although they believed that none were better than their own. They never tired of talking about Evita’s shainkeit (beauty), or Rebecca’s artistic talents, or Lazarito’s intelligence.
Each one had conceived a genius, a new Einstein who would master mathematics and physics. If they were girls, they were as beautiful as Elizabeth Taylor or Marilyn Monroe. “Both are now Jewish,” my Aunt Adela proudly said. “Don’t you dare mention it!”
Doña Eva responded. “Don’t you realize they’re more promiscuous than hens?”
If the afternoon teas were marvelous, my experience at the Hebrew School was nothing like it. It wasn’t really an institution because it had only one moréh or teacher who told us stories about the Jewish Bible in an old room next to the synagogue. Our moréh was named Pablo Koplovich, a man with graceful features, a crooked smile, and the worst breath in the world.
Ruth, his wife, was also a teacher, a blonde and graceful woman, somewhat submissive, of whom I barely have any memories. She would tragically die in an accident in Guatemala. Attending these classes was an 12
odyssey because they were held at the Israelite Center, located at Paseo Colón7.
I never knew if it was due to different geographical origins, my incipient speech impediment, heightened shyness, or some unknown reason that made me the target of mockery. Jacob, to my moréh, the dumb kid who struggled to learn Hebrew and didn’t understand the moral lessons of his biblical talks. When they ridiculed me, the other children burst into laughter like flatulent hyenas. This had no name at that time, now it’s known as bullying, and the consequences were, yesterday as well as today, terrible. I hated going to this school and being with these little monsters, no different from the demons I saw in my bedroom.
To avoid them, many afternoons I would stay on a bench in Morazán Park. Other times, I pretended to be sick. Unfortunately, I couldn’t stay in bed every day, and when I ran out of colds and diarrhea, I begged Elena not to send me.
Samuelito, a fat, white, and ugly classmate, sla-pped me; Tuqui, his cousin, pushed me. Abrahamcito, a small bully, touched my face; Johnny, a freckled, skinny redhead, imitated me. The worst of them all was Mono Rubio, who pursued me relentlessly and 7 Paseo Colón is an important street in San José, Costa Rica, belonging to Avenida Central. It starts to the east of La Sabana at 42nd Street and ends northeast of Hospital San Juan de Dios at 14th Street, where it becomes a pedestrian walkway. It is the main artery in the western part of the city and, along with Avenida Segunda, is a strategic route for crossing San José. It is part of and the western beginning of the South Interamerican Highway (Route 2).