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conscious of what was happening. They organized for political action. The most popular groups were the Betar, on the right, under the leadership of Å» abotynski, and the labor-oriented Hapoel, on the left. Each had a small headquarters, where its members gathered occasionally to discuss the events of the day and to play ping-pong.
    The goal of both groups was the establishment of a Jewish state in Palestine, but although each year one or two young people managedto emigrate to Palestine to join the
kibbutzim
, for the great majority it was only a dream. As far as the older generation was concerned, the traditional greeting “Next year in Jerusalem” was just a greeting and not even a dream. Their roots were in Poland and they knew that, for better or worse, their remaining years were going to be spent there. A few families with relatives in America had emigrated before World War I, when it was relatively easy, but by the 1930s the immigration quotas had been drastically cut, the cost of travel in any case was beyond the reach of most, and for all practical purposes America was no longer a real alternative.
    At the time I didn’t get involved in any of this, and only went to the Hapoel or Betar to play ping-pong.
    September came, and I began my freshman year at the gymnasium. I was very excited about putting on my new blue uniform with gold buttons and matching hat, and I marched off to my first class. Most of the kids knew that I had received the highest score in the entrance exams, and the prestige that went with that helped to compensate for the indignities I had to suffer as a Jew. My lessons with Mr. Hubel had proved useful, and except for physical education I got straight A’s in every subject. I especially loved Latin, and soon was able to read and even converse in Latin with my teacher. That first year I studied hard and continued to read a great deal.
    A few months after the term started, Bienkiewicz, the Polish landowner’s son, began making trouble. Since I was not as strong and athletic as the average boy my age, Bienkiewicz used to pick on me to bully. During recess he would push me into a corner and press me against the wall with his back, hit my ribs with his elbows, and make fun of me. He was taller than I, so I was afraid to fight him, especially since I suspected the other Polish kids would gang up on me if I did. I was too embarrassed to tell the teachers or my parents about it, and so I suffered in silence. Since I offeredno resistance, Bienkiewicz was soon bullying me as a matter of routine, and scarcely gave me a moment’s peace. It got so bad I dreaded going to school in the morning. Mother sensed that something was wrong, but I was ashamed to tell her about it.
    This went on for some weeks, and I grew desperate. Chaim Ajzen urged me to fight Bienkiewicz even if it meant getting beaten up. I was afraid of that, but I was still more fearful of being expelled from the gymnasium. No matter what happened, the authorities would never blame Bienkiewicz because of his father’s position, and they might well be just as happy to have an excuse for getting rid of a Jew. However, Bienkiewicz’s tormenting got worse and worse, until at last one day when he cornered me yet again and wouldn’t let me go, I shouted, “Enough! I challenge you to a fight.”
    All the kids around us immediately picked it up and started chanting, “Fight! Fight! Fight!” Such issues were usually settled after gym class in the game room, and we all crowded in there. My coach was Chaim Ajzen. He explained to me that Bienkiewicz was actually very clumsy, and that I should have no problem with him: “Just feint with your left and punch his face with your right.” I was scared before the fight, but once the kids had surrounded us and begun urging us on, I calmed down. I was determined now to pay Bienkiewicz back for all I’d suffered from him.
    I quickly discovered that Chaim was