Third Grade

by Jeff Ingber

Edna Frommer, a diminutive figure with silvered hair pulled into a neat bun and delicate wire-rimmed glasses suspended on the tip of her nose, stands with regal posture at the front of the classroom. Behind her, a blackboard adorned with colorful, handcrafted Halloween decorations on each side dominates the front wall. To her left, a weathered, wooden desk holds lesson plans, a rotary phone, and a tidy stack of books.

Clutching a stick of white chalk, Mrs. Frommer faces six rows of neatly arranged desks, each with a glossy laminated top and attached, molded plastic chair occupied by an eight- or nine-year-old. On this special assembly day, most of the boys, including me, are decked out in crisply pressed, white dress shirts; dark pants; and carefully secured, red clip-on ties. The girls wear white blouses decorated with dainty, red bowknots; dark, knee-length skirts; ankle socks; and polished, black patent leather shoes (or a close variation of this ensemble).

“As we've learned,” Mrs. Frommer announces, “you can think of multiplication as a way of repeating addition. So, for example, three times four means adding three four times. Today, we’re going to practice how to multiply by ten. The trick is to remember that it's as simple as adding a zero to the end—”

Abruptly, an ear-piercing siren blares from speakers in the high corners of the room. The immediate grimace on Mrs. Frommer’s lined face is quickly replaced by a reassuring, albeit somewhat plastic, smile. “Children,” she croons, “it’s time for duck and cover. I think you all know what to do by now.”

Indeed, we do, courtesy of a turtle. More specifically, a crude black-and-white film featuring Bert the Turtle. Our hero Bert is attacked by a monkey perched on a tree and holding a stick of dynamite at the end of a string. Bert adeptly ducks into his shell in the nick of time as the charge goes off and destroys the monkey.

Of course, what was exciting and mysterious in early September has by mid-October grown routine and annoying. Each of us swiftly pushes our chair back and scampers down under our desk, contorting into a crouched position with heads tucked between our arms. In the ensuing stillness, the only sound is the light tap-tap of Mrs. Frommer’s T-strap brown pumps as she orbits the classroom checking our adherence to the fire drill rules. Finally, after a couple of minutes that seem an eternity, a series of short blares signals the end of the drill.

Once we return to our seats, Mrs. Frommer reclaims her position in front of the blackboard. Wearing a crimson cardigan paired with a string of pearls and an American flag brooch, she appears the antithesis of our godless Communist nemeses.

“Children,” she begins, “I want to assure you that this drill is only what we call a ‘precautionary measure.’ To show you how to protect yourself if there were ever a big explosion nearby. But there’s no reason to believe that will happen.”

Facing what must be an array of skeptical expressions, including my own, she adds, although with less conviction, “No reason at all.”

Mrs. Frommer is the fount of wisdom and knowledge. But this last statement sparks doubt within me, conjuring memories of whispered conversations between my parents about a year earlier during some crisis involving Cuba and the Soviet Union.

“Are there any questions?” she asks. Fred Goldsmith, the class’s resident wiseass who sits in the row in front of me, shoots up his hand. After being acknowledged, he declares, “My father says that this ‘duck and cover’ thing is super dumb.”

Mrs. Frommer, normally a bastion of civility and kindness, death-glares at Fred. “That’s not a question. And you're being quite rude!”

A heavy silence settles over the room. Hearing a loud, compelling voice within me, I muster the courage to raise my hand.

“Yes, Jeffrey.”

“Mrs. Frommer, do you really think that hiding under our desks would protect us from a nuclear explosion?”

She pinches her lips together in a contemplative pout. Her voice robbed from its throat, several seconds pass. “When I was your age,” Mrs. Frommer begins again, “there was a world war raging. A dreadful one called ‘the Great War.’ People said it would end all wars, but it only led to more of them. We heard about bloody battles all the time in school, but they were taking place far away, and we didn’t have to worry about them reaching us.”

She exhales that memory, adding in a hushed tone, “We didn’t have to live in constant fear.”

Mrs. Frommer walks to her desk and leans heavily against it as if it were her only anchor. “I'm sorry that you boys and girls have to worry about a nuclear attack.” She sighs deeply. “The world is so different now. And it certainly won't go back to what it was. It will never be the same. Never.”

Our collective disbelief has turned to fright. Sensing this, Mrs. Frommer instructs, in a cracking voice, “But remember one thing, boys and girls.”

She gazes at the fluorescent lights glowing overhead. “Light conquers darkness. Always.”

*****

On a crisp Friday afternoon, late in the following month, a somber Mrs. Frommer dismisses the class early, without explanation, and sternly instructs us to head straight home. On the walk to my apartment building, I encounter a number of men and women hugging each other and crying, or meandering with vacant stares. Is the nuclear attack about to begin? If so, why aren't we sheltering under our desks? And why do all these adults seem so unprepared? Didn’t they do their drills?

Upon entering my apartment, I find my mom, teary-eyed and sullen, glued to an armchair in front of our TV. I begin to speak, but she shushes me. On the screen, instead of her usual soap opera, is an image of the CBS newsroom with rotary telephones and wire machines as the backdrop.

Within moments a man appears on the screen. He's famous enough that I know his name: Walter Cronkite. After plopping glasses with thick, black frames on his nose, Cronkite takes a long gulp of breath and begins to speak with a grave tone. “From Dallas, Texas, the flash apparently official. President Kennedy died at 1 p.m. Central Standard time.” As he yanks off his glasses, Mom shrieks, “Oh my God! No! It can’t be!” I stand next to her paralyzed, a tremor running down my spine.

Initially avoiding looking directly into the camera, Cronkite slips his glasses back on. “Vice President Johnson,” he announces in a quivering voice, “has left the hospital in Dallas—”

Her face etched with a mixture of sorrow and fear, Mom hustles over and shuts off the TV. Then she grabs my shoulders and pulls me to her for a fierce hug.

When Mom relinquishes her grip, I ask, “Why would someone shoot the President?”

“There are bad people out there. Very bad people.”

“Will they shoot us too?” I stammer.

She murmurs, “I dunno what's going to happen to this country.” Shaking her head, Mom adds, “If they can kill the President, they can kill anyone.”

Having arrived at that dreadful place where all negative thoughts collect, I blurt out, “Will they drop a nuclear bomb on us ’cause the President isn't here anymore?”

Mom stares at me with unfocused eyes. Then, like Walter Cronkite, she regains composure. “No,” she replies calmly. “Absolutely not.”

“But the world is different now, right?”

“I suppose,” she concedes. Mom kisses my forehead. “But everything will be okay. Trust me.”

I turn her assurance over in my mind, struggling to find solace. “Because light always conquers darkness, right?” I ask.

She bobs her head up and down. “Yes, and because there are a lot more good people than bad people.”

*****

On a glorious late Tuesday afternoon, during the last week of school, I return to our apartment from playing stickball in the park to find my sister, Esther, seated at the kitchen table with her Queens College friend Lenore. In Esther’s hands is the New York Post, its headline blaring, “Three Civil Rights Workers Missing in Mississippi.” Underneath the headline are photos of three young men, two white and one black.

Esther glances at me with eyes that are dark hollows, then turns back to Lenore. Her voice quivers as she says, “I sat next to Andrew in Anthropology. He was so sweet. Explained stuff to me that I didn’t understand. Gave me his notes if I missed a class.”

“You introduced me to him once,” Lenore replies. “He was really cute, too.”

Esther drops the newspaper onto the tabletop. Her eyes widen. “Did you know Andrew was an actor? He was doing off-Broadway while going to school.”

I know this is serious adult talk. I know I should go to my room and close the door. But I'm a moon caught in Jupiter’s orbit, helpless to leave. So, instead, I walk up to my sister, startling her. “What happened?” I demand.

Esther mumbles, “It’s nothing.”

A roaring fills my ears. “No, I wanna know!”

With a resigned expression, Esther grasps my forearm. “Something bad might have happened to a boy we know.”

“Was he killed?”

A heavy silence emerges, stretching on until I break it. “Did the same bad people who killed President Kennedy do this?”

Esther shakes her head emphatically. “No, these are different bad people. Ones who hate black people.”

“And anyone who wants to help them,” Lenore adds.

“But there are a lot more good people than bad people, right?”

Esther glances down at the photos of the three men and then presses her lips into a faint smile. “Yes,” Esther replies. “Of course.”

“But, still, the world is different now?” I persist.

A crease forms between Esther’s brows. “What do you mean?”

“When bad things happen, the world changes. It’s never the same anymore. That’s what Mrs. Frommer says.”

Esther sighs. “I hadn’t thought of it that way, but I suppose it’s true.”

“When will good things happen?”

The two women exchange amused glances. Then my sister leans in and plants a kiss on my cheek. “They happen all the time. Like just now in this room. And when they do, the world changes, too.”

BIO: Jeff Ingber is the author of books, short stories, and screenplays, for which he has won numerous awards. His first screenplay was the basis for the 2019 film entitled “Crypto,” starring Kurt Russell. One of his novels, entitled “Shattered Lives,” was made into a documentary film by MacTavish Productions. He’s had his short stories published in various journals and magazines. You can learn more about his works at jeffingber.com.