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Chapter One, page 14
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tortured
beyond recognition, eyes gouged out, fingernails pulled off, faces
smashed by fierce blows. I closed the book quickly but thanked my teachers
anyway.
When I got home, I hid the book on the tallest shelf I could find, so that
I
would never again have to see what happens to revolutionary young men and
women with convictions.
The very first day of sixth grade, I met Marta, a short, toothy girl with
bright eyes and freckles, who quickly became my friend. Like me, she took
school
seriously and always carried a book with her. Marta lived with her grandmother,
Carmelina, a kind old woman who taught piano and French to a select group
of
children. To study with Marta’s grandmother was a privilege, a sign
that you were
ambitious and smart enough to garner the attention of the most educated
woman in the neighborhood. Before the revolution she had gone to school
abroad, in France and the United States, where she had majored in philosophy.
She knew history and geography and geometry as intimately as she knew the
contours of her house.
I already knew of Carmelina’s reputation, and I liked Marta a great
deal, so I
immediately told her that I wanted to do my homework with her. Kathy, who
was my oldest friend, also came along. A partnership was forged. Every day
after
school, we would go home and shower quickly and then rush to Marta’s
dining
room, where, at the head of a long wooden table with thick, carved legs,
her
grandmother awaited. First we would do our homework with her guidance, then
review the day’s lessons. She would push us to think critically, to
go beyond the
chapter at hand. We would stay at that table until Carmelina was certain
that, for
that day at least, we understood the world as she saw it. She would often
finish
the evening by playing the piano as we sat on the posh but faded couches
of her
living room and looked at the paintings of English hunting parties on the
walls.
My grades improved so dramatically that I could entertain thoughts of going
to the country’s top university preparatory school, the Vocational
School
Vladimir Ilich Lenin. There were three girls who had a good chance that year.
I
was one of them; the other two were Kathy, whose sister already attended
the
school, and Marta, whose parents everyone said were members of the militia,
the
