From 1896 to 1906 I went to Königsberg’s central school. It was no fun. Both the interior and the exterior of it were that of a Prussian military building made of yellowed red bricks and couched among age-old barns and small, dilapidated gabled houses. The young prisoners’ eyes could rest on a fire department station, where firefighters were constantly practicing on ladders, and the 200-year-old main town park with its green trees.
The teachers, most of them reserve officers, were to the kids, who were just yet coming out of mommy’s soft lap into the so-called real life, more than their fathers and just a little less than God Almighty. Sure, we gave many of them nicknames, but, apart from that, none of us would ever doubt that they were infallible, all-knowing, untouchable, and examples to us all.
The teachers are indelibly etched in my mind. Even fifty years later I could paint each of them, including the hats and the clothes they wore. In first grade we had Herr Assmann—young, sturdy, fresh from teacher training, always holding in his hand a yellow cane whose upper end was curved like a sword’s grip. I remember very well how painfully many a child’s hand burned.
In second grade we had Herr Klein – a middle-aged man, always well dressed, who taught us calligraphy.
In the classroom hung a big painting that portrayed harvest chariots coming to the barn, carrying farmer girls and men holding pitchforks. This is the only picture I ever saw in the classrooms, apart from the main hall. There hung paintings by arts teacher Dörsting, which portrayed Greek athletic competitions.
In the following year we had Herr Riechert, a little old man, who constantly sniffed tobacco and whose eyes ran. I don’t know anything about him except that it was his last year and he left the school with a medal in recognition for his service.
In the following year we had Professor Karschuk, our class teacher. He taught French, had lived in France for many years and was as nimbly adorned and preppy as a Frenchman.
In the following year our teacher was Professor Vogel. He looked like a farmer and behaved accordingly, with a good sense of humor. He taught the natural sciences. Vogel was a piece of nature himself and didn’t know how to teach. Before giving the marks he would make each student assess himself or herself. “I think I deserve a B,” I said to him.
“Kork,” (this is what he called me) “you deserve an F, I shall give you a D, and you will get a B. Be careful you don’t die of megalomania.”
“Kids,” he would sometimes say, “no one has learned anything. Why do you anger me so? And today of all days, when my mother has promised me my favorite dish, pig foot with sauerkraut.” To each science lesson he’d bring a lot of still-soiled leaves, roots, and flowers and put them on his desk, which made him look like a greengrocer. He would then play around with these objects and forget about his students.
In seventh grade we had Professor Ivanovius. He was fat and pot-bellied; his belly rubbed down from his pants, his clothes had refused any contact with an iron, and he owned only a single suit. As far as I know, he had no jacket. He was our Hans Christian Andersen. He traveled a lot—only on the map, however, since he lacked money, and he did so only in the spring or summer. And although he never had any money in his old-fashioned wallet, he took all who were around him along on his trips.