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oranges and apricots so that they would pass Shmuel through to his senior year. The headmaster knew, however, that he could not permit a Jew to graduate from Ikrtsk.
    â€œThe headmaster was puzzled. Shmuel had learned and survived all the tricks. Though puny, he was fast, and attempts to surprise him with sword and pistol always failed. Then the headmaster realized that he had only to arrange a sabre match between Shmuel and Lugo, the Captain of the Ikrtsk Cadets—a three-hundred-pound muscle, a stayback forty-five years of age who had never graduated because he could not learn to spell Novaya Zemlya.”
    Katrina was delighted: she could easily spell Novaya Zemlya; in fact, she could spell anything.
    â€œThis was truly clever. Why? you may ask. I’ll tell you why. Because ... the best prisons are those that prisoners make for themselves. When they tried (outside of the rules) to get Grandfather Shmuel, he knew just what to do. But when the danger fell within the expectations of his daily life, it was another story.
    â€œShmuel began to feel helpless even in the face of these bovine vermin who were so stupid that, for example, they went running after the moon when it appeared to settle behind a small hill, hoping to capture it and sell it to the Czar.
    â€œThe match was scheduled for early June, when in the Ikrtsk District the color-laden landscape was wavy with heat and the fields were covered with roses. In contradiction of nature, the swamps around the academy were warm and brown and dotted with orchids.
    â€œNormally, the sabre fighters were allowed armor.”
    â€œWhat is armor?” asked Katrina.
    â€œArmor is like the shell of a turtle, but people wear it. Do you understand?”
    Katrina understood.
    â€œHowever, Grandfather found himself in only his muslin shorts, with a heavy sabre in his hands. The headmaster said, And now the Jew Shmuel will fight our dear Lugo. But first, Shmuel will approach Lugo and bend on one knee to apologize for striking a Christian.’
    â€œLugo lay in all his armor, reclining upon the floor of the academy’s great hall, into which the summer morning light came streaming. Grandfather approached and asked for forgiveness. It took a minute for this to penetrate the many bony layers of Lugos bullet-shaped head, but when it finally got to wherever it was going, one of his eyes flared red and Grandfather could see a tiny circular flame, like a continuous breaker at the beach, winding around the eyeball. Finally, Lugo grunted assent. Grandfather had not learned the many hard lessons of those years for nothing, and although he could not extricate himself by an act of cleverness, he was still not ready to be consumed in such an unequal contest. After all, they had never before given him access to a sabre, and the one they had just presented to him did not even have a handguard.
    â€œHe began to feel great rage. He knew that if he did not do something soon, Lugo would cut him to pieces in the wink of an eye. He wanted to escape, but the ranks of cadets were tight around the rim of the hall. He had to upset their lines so that he could run through them. He began to scream and he lifted his sabre. With an echoing cry, he attacked Lugo, who had not had time either to get up or to put on his bullet-shaped helmet of Mongolian design. Grandfather growled like an animal and brought his sword down on the flat, banging Lugo’s head like a great gong. The sword broke, the ranks of cadets broke, and although Lugo was dazed he began to get very angry. This was obvious, because his teeth were clenched so hard that they started to break apart and fall out of his mouth.
    â€œShmuel found his rage dissipating in the face of tremendous fear. Not only was he standing barefoot and half naked with a broken sabre in front of a hog-muscled giant, but the rest of the cadets wanted to kill him. He ran out the door, every single Ikrtsk cadet in pursuit. Everyone knew that an