Even so, she demanded complete silence during all the showings (anyone who broke this rule got sent to the principal’s office), and so—afterwards—the youngsters usually unleashed their pent-up energy by poking fun at the “stupid” movie, or hitting each other, or throwing spitballs.
And this film—with its helmet-wearing cartoon turtle and Disney-like song—had been designed for decidedly younger audiences than junior high age…
There was a turtle by the name of Bert
And Bert the turtle was very alert
When danger threatened him, he never got hurt
He knew just what to do …
He’d duck! And cover …
Even so, the response to today’s film had been different. After all, it hadn’t just been Bert the Turtle; it had also featured that sonorous, portentous narrator warning students to: “Always remember—the flash from an atomic bomb can come at any time!”
Mrs. Hahn crossed the polished wooden floor, its boards creaking with her every step, to the front of the classroom, where she turned to face her students.
Four dozen wide eyes stared back at her.
Perhaps the movie had been a little intense, she thought. It had certainly unsettled her. This wasn’t a normal film day, with students instructed on good hygiene, or healthy eating habits, or acceptable lunchroom behavior. Or even one of the more disturbing documentaries, such as those about the animals that lived in the wilds of Africa, or the many fish that swam in the sea, or the tiny turtles making their way across an endless D-Day-esque beach, very few surviving the predators along the way… Life and death was the underlying theme of many such educational films.
However, watching a panther track a gazelle, or a shark swallow a blowfish, was much more removed—and, from an adolescent standpoint, far more entertaining—than seeing a boy dive for his life and a mother sacrifice hers.
“Are there any questions?” Mrs. Hahn asked the class, making her voice sound matter-of-fact, hoping to take the onus out of the moment.
When no one responded, she added, “Or comments?” For if any student was truly disturbed, better to deal with it now, rather than receive an angry phone call in the middle of the night from some parent whose child couldn’t sleep—or whose Johnny or Jane had awoken from a dream of a blinding atomic-bomb flash.
“Yeah,” came a sullen voice from the back of the classroom. Harold Johnson, a dark-haired boy with piercing brown eyes in an acned pie-plate face, sat slouched at his wooden desk. He was bigger than the others—only because he’d been held back twice. “That ‘duck and cover’ is a bunch of junk,” he said.
Mrs. Hahn raised her chin and looked down her nose at him. “What our film today tells us happens to be very good advice, Harold—lifesaving advice. So you’d be wise to remember it.”
“Oh yeah?” he shot back. “If the Rooskies send one over, there ain’t gonna be nothin’ left to duck and cover under!”
A wave of nervous laughter rolled across the classroom.
“Isn’t going to be anything left,” the teacher said, correcting him tersely.
“There sure ain’t,” the boy replied with a nod.
Why must this boy always be difficult? He refused to do any studying and yet was always there with a smart-aleck opinion. She was going to pass him this year, no matter what.
“You know that flash of bright light?” he asked with a smirk, then went on before she could respond. “By the time you see it, you’re already dead! Fried to a crisp. Ain’t no time to duck and cover.”
“Harold …”
“Okay, so maybe you do have time. But then what happens after a kid ‘duck-and-covers,’ huh? How come the movie don’t go into that?”
“Doesn’t go into that, Harold.”
“Sure don’t! Everybody’s still lyin’ on the ground, when we see ’em last. That’s ’cause …” And Harold looked around at several girls seated near him, their eyes glued to him. With a delivery worthy of a Chiller Theater host, Harold finished his thought: “… they’re all corpses.”
Laughter, squeals, and assorted sounds of dismay and delight rocked the room.
“Harold!” Mrs. Hahn said sharply. “Everyone!” The classroom quieted. “That’s quite enough.”
But the boy ignored her and looked around at his classmates. “Hey, I oughta know,” he told them, jerking a thumb back at his chest. “My pop was at Nagasaki right after they dropped the big one—the A-bomb!”
Another wave: this time ooo’s and aahh’s, rippled across the class.
Squinting, leaning forward, like a kid telling a ghost story around a campfire, Harold said, “The lucky ones were the ones what got killed. The not lucky ones? All their hair fell out!”
“Harold!”
But Harold had that what-are-you-gonna-do, flunk-me? attitude. “It’ll happen to you, too! If the bomb drops … radiation sickness! Your skin peels off from the heat—just like a snake— then ya start pukin’ your guts up…”
Seated across from the boy, Susan, a frail girl with red hair and homemade haphazardly-cut bangs, began to cry. And the rest of the children looked as frightened as school bus passengers after a sudden stop.
“Harold, stop it!” Mrs. Hahn commanded, stomping one foot.
“You asked for comments, Miz Hahn. I thought you wanted, uh, discussion.”
She swallowed. “That’s true. I do … commend you for your class participation, Harold. But you seem to have forgotten the lessons of last week’s film—Manners in Public.”
Harold just shrugged.
Composing herself, Mrs. Hahn told the class as firmly as she could, “There are not going to be any Russian bombs.”
Mary Ann Stein raised her hand; the perfect little brunette, a straight-A student, asked (when she had been recognized by her teacher, of course), “Then why did you show us this picture, Mrs. Hahn?”
Mary Ann was not being a smart-aleck—the girl was clearly shaken by the film and her classmate’s comments.
“Even as unlikely as a Russian attack might be—” Mrs. Hahn began.
But Harold burst back in: “Last week the Rooskies shot a rocket an’ hit the moon. Hey—don’t kid yourself … we’re next.” He paused, then added, “An’ now they got that fat boy, Krew-chef, comin’ to town to spy
