Gratefully I turned my back on the children's waiting eyes and printed slowly: I REMEMBER THE HOME I heard the sudden intake of breath that worked itself downward from Miriam to Talitha and then the rapid whisper that informed Abie and Martha. I heard Esther's muffled cry and I turned slowly around and leaned against the desk. 'There are so many beautiful things to remember about the Home,' I said into the strained silence. 'So many wonderful things. And even the sad memories are better than forgetting, because the Home was good. Tell me what you remember about the Home.' 'We can't!' Joel and Matt were on their feet simultaneously. 'Why can't we?' Dorcas cried. 'Why can't we?' 'It's bad!' Esther cried. 'It's evil!' 'It ain't either!' Abie shrilled, astonishingly. 'It ain't either!' 'We shouldn't.' Miriam's trembling hands brushed her heavy' hair upward. 'It's forbidden.' 'Sit down,' I said gently. 'The day I arrived at Bendo Mr. Diemus told me to teach you what I had to teach you. I have to teach you that remembering the Home is good.' 'Then why don't the grownups think so?' Matt asked slowly. 'They tell us not to talk about it. We shouldn't disobey our parents.' 'I know,' I admitted. 'And I would never ask you children to go against your parents' wishes, unless I felt that it is very important. If you'd rather they didn't know about it at first, keep it as our secret. Mr. Diemus told me not to bother them with explanations or reasons. I'll make it right with your parents when the time comes.' I paused to swallow and blink away a vision of me leaving town in a cloud of dust, barely ahead of a posse of irate parents. ''Now, everyone, busy,' I said briskly. ''I Remember the Home.'' There was a moment heavy with decision and I held my breath, wondering which way the balance would dip. And then-surely it must have been because they wanted so to speak and affirm the wonder of what had been that they capitulated so easily. Heads bent and pencils scurried. And Martha sat, her head bowed on her desk with sorrow. 'I don't know enough words,' she mourned. 'How do you write 'toolas'?' And Abie laboriously erased a hole through his paper and ticked his pencil again. 'Why don't you and Abie make some pictures?' I suggested. 'Make a little story with pictures and we can staple them together like a real book.' I looked over the silent busy group and let myself relax, feeling weakness flood into my knees. I scrubbed the dampness from my palms with Kleenex and sat back in my chair. Slowly I became conscious of a new atmosphere in my classroom. An intolerable strain was gone, an unconscious holding back of the children, a wariness, a watchfulness, a guilty feeling of desiring what was forbidden. A prayer of thanksgiving began to well up inside me. It changed hastily to a plea for mercy as I began to visualize what might happen to me when the parents found out what I was doing. How long must this containment and denial have gone on? This concealment and this carefully nourished fear? From what Karen had told me it must be well over fifty years-long enough to mark indelibly three generations. And here I was with my fine little hatchet trying to set a little world afire! On which very mixed metaphor I stiffened my weak knees and got up from my chair. I walked unnoticed up and down the aisles, stepping aside as Joel went blindly to the shelf for more paper, leaning over Miriam to marvel that she had taken out her Crayolas and part of her writing was with colors, part with pencil-and the colors spoke to something in me that the pencil couldn't reach, though I'd never seen the forms the colors took. The children had gone home, happy and excited, chattering and laughing, until they reached the edge of the school grounds. There, smiles died and laughter stopped and faces and feet grew heavy again. All but Esther's. Hers had never been light. I sighed and turned to the papers. Here was Abie's little book. I thumbed through it and drew a deep breath and went back through it slowly again. A second grader drawing this? Six pages-six finished adult-looking pages. Crayolas achieving effects I'd never seen before-pictures that told a story loudly and clearly. Stars blazing in a black sky, with the slender needle of a ship, like a mote in the darkness. The vasty green cloud-shrouded arc of earth against the blackness. A pink tinge of beginning friction along the ship's belly. I put my finger to the glow. I could almost feel the heat. Inside the ship, suffering and pain, heroic striving, crumpled bodies and seared faces. A baby dead in its mother's arms. Then a swarm of tinier needles erupting from the womb of the ship. And the last shriek of incandescence as the ship volatilized against the thickening drag of the air. I leaned my head on my hands and closed my eyes. All this, all this in the memory of an eight-year-old? All. this in the feelings of an eight-year-old? Because Abie knew-he knew how this felt. He knew the heat and strivings and the dying and fleeing. No wonder Abie whispered and leaned. Racial memory was truly a two-sided coin. I felt a pang of misgivings. Maybe I was wrong to let him remember so vividly. Maybe I shouldn't have let him . . . I turned to Martha's papers. They were delicate, almost spidery drawings of some fuzzy little animal (toolas?) that apparently built a hanging hammocky nest and gathered fruit in a huge leaf basket and had a bird for a friend. A truly out-of-this-world bird. Much of her story escaped me because first graders-if anyone at all-produce symbolic art and, since her frame of reference and mine were so different, there was much that I couldn't interpret. But her whole booklet was joyous and light. And now, the stories… I lifted my head and blinked into the twilight. I had finished all the papers except Esther's. It was her cramped writing, swimming in darkness, that made me realize that the day was gone and that I was shivering in a shadowy room with the fire in the old-fashioned heater gone out. Slowly I shuffled the papers into my desk drawer, hesitated and took out Esther's. I would finish at home. I shrugged into my coat and wandered home, my thoughts intent on the papers I had read. And suddenly I wanted to cry-to cry for the wonders that had been and were no more. For the heritage of attainment and achievement these children had but couldn't use. For the dream-come-true of what they were capable of doing but weren't permitted to do. For the homesick yearning that filled every line they had written-these unhappy exiles, three generations removed from any physical knowledge of the Home. I stopped on the bridge and leaned against the railing in the half dark. Suddenly I felt a welling homesickness. That was what the world should be like-what it could be like if only- if only… But my tears for the Home were as hidden as the emotions of Mrs. Diemus when she looked up uncuriously as I came through the kitchen door. 'Good evening,' she said. 'I've kept your supper warm.' 'Thank you.' I shivered convulsively. 'It is getting cold.' I sat on the edge of my bed that night, letting the memory of the kids' papers wash over me, trying to fill in around the bits and snippets that they had told of the Home. And then I began to wonder. All of them who wrote about the actual Home had been so happy with their memories. From Timmy and his 'Shinny ship as high as a montin and faster than two jets,' and Dorcas' wandering tenses as though yesterday and today were one: 'The flowers were like lights. At night it isn't dark becas they shine so bright and when the moon came up the breeos sing and the music was so you can see it like rain falling around only happyer'; up to Miriam's wistful 'On Gathering Day there was a big party. Everybody came dressed in beautiful clothes with flahmen in the girls' hair. Flahmen are flowers but they're good to eat. And if a girl felt her heart sing for a boy they ate a flahmen together and started two-ing.' Then, if all these memories were so happy, why the rigid suppression of them by grownups? Why the pall of unhappiness over everyone? You can't mourn forever for a wrecked ship. Why a hidey hole for disobedient children? Why the misery and frustration when, if they could do half of what I didn't fully understand from Joel and Matt's highly technical papers, they could make Bendo an Eden? I reached for Esther's paper. I had put it on the bottom on purpose. I dreaded reading it. She had sat with
