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 Miss Stoldig searched the room, looking for the boy… Why, it’s Mitchell! Surprised because he never voluntarily raised his hand, standing, she walked to the front of her desk. One of the quiet boys, he was a hard learner and she did like him. “Mitchell,” she asked, “you have a question?”

“Uh, yes, Ma’am… eh-um,” clearing his throat again.

She waited for him to go on… “Mitchell, no one’s going to bite you. Why don’t you stand up so we can all see you.”

Standing, fidgeting nervously with the pencil in the grove of his desk, he glanced at Frank, who encouragingly nodded his head, then, looking at some point behind and above his teacher’s head, “Uh, Miss Stoldig…”

Patiently, “Yes, Mitchell?”

“Miss Stoldig, uh, eh-um… What’s the difference between, uh…”

Evansville, Wisconsin

January 15, 1944

He looked at Frank again, brought his face forward, closed his eyes and, “What’s the difference between, uh…” suddenly speaking quickly, the words jumbling together: “What’d girls use when they gott’a ‘go’?”

It took a moment for all to understand what he’d asked, then all slouching bodies straightened.

Miss Stoldig’s head jerked upward. Her pale complexion became even paler and spots approximating the color of her neckerchief suddenly appeared on both cheeks.

Encouraged because he hadn’t been struck by lightning, his eyes still closed, though, “Miss, Stoldig,” he asked, “what is the difference between a boy and a girl?”

All eyes snapped to Mitchell… Then to Miss Stoldig.

There, I’ve said it! Opening his eyes, looking expectantly at his teacher, he sat down.

Eunice Stoldig swallowed loudly, an audible gulp that could actually be heard by the boys in the front row.

She had waited all of her teaching career for a child to ask this question and, thankfully, none had, until then.

A spinster, with the exception of one brief, all but hands-off relationship with a man when she was 22, she had never been intimate with a man. Of course she knew her body, or the basic workings of her body, but had only the slightest idea of what a man’s “private part” looked like or, truly, how it functioned. Though she did have two younger brothers, her puritanical parents had sent the young Eunice from the room whenever they’d bathed, changed or dressed the boys. But once, when he was one year old, out of curiosity, she’d lowered Stanley’s diaper, looked at and even touched his strange looking penis, then feeling sinful, she’d replaced the diaper and fled the room.

What do I do now? I am a teacher, after all, and this is a legitimate question! Why shouldn’t they know the difference in their God-given bodies?

The boys of the fifth grade strained forward in their seats, watching her, waiting to see what their teacher was going to say, what she was going to do.

They don’t know if I’m going to answer Mitchell or punish him for asking. Well, I am a teacher, after all!

“Mitchell,” she said, “that is a very good question and I am going to answer it.” Crossing behind her desk, she went to the blackboard.

Mitchell looked about the room. Each boy catching his eye nodded at him, a few even gave him the thumbs-up sign.

Trying to regain her composure, Miss Stoldig took three deep breaths, picked up the chalk and turned back to the class. “Class, I will illustrate the difference between a man and a woman.” Turning back to the blackboard she took another deep breath and drew a snowman-like stick figure with breasts that appeared to sag with little dots on the bottoms for nipples, a dot for the navel and a small upward line between the snowman-like stick figure’s legs… then quickly erased it and redrew the snowman-like stick figure with two small circles on either side of the snowman-like stick figure’s chest with a dot within each of the circles, a dot for a navel and, once again, a small upward line between the snowman-like stick figure’s legs. She then drew another snowman-like stick figure with three dots upon its snowman-like abdomen representing a man’s nipples and navel with a small, very small, downward line between the snowman-like stick figure’s legs.

“Well, class,” turning from the blackboard, she faced the boys, “this is the difference between a man and a woman.” Facing the board again, using the stick of chalk as a marker, “Women have…” pointing to the dot within a circle, “breasts, and this…” swallowing, pointing to the small upward line between the snowman-like, female stick figure’s legs, taking another deep breath, the flesh on her throat moving up and down, “…is called the, umm, vulva.”

“What’d she say?” Frank whispered to the boy in front of him who shrugged his shoulders who whispered to the boy in front of him, “What’d she say?” Who said, “I d’know.”

“And this, class,” tapping the stick of chalk on the small, very small downward line between the snowman-like, male stick figures legs so hard that it broke in half, “is called…” She stopped, looked at the clock on the wall, Oh, God! then checked it with her wristwatch. “This is called the, uh,” all but whispering, “penis. And that is the difference between a man and a…” The bell rang. Thank you, Jesus! “…woman. Class dismissed!”

The boys did not move.

Her back to the room again, “Class dismissed!” she repeated as, wiping the blackboard with an eraser in one hand, Eunice Stoldig wiped her moist forehead with the tails of her neckerchief with the other.

Rising hesitantly, the boys file out of the room.

“See,” Frank said, “like I told’j’ya, girls got nothin’!”

“Yeah,” Mitchell agreed. “That’s for sure!”

The Education

His hands moving in angry gestures, “I can’t believe she did that! She think we’re a bunch’a stupid kids or somethin’?”

“I d’know, Fr…”

“An’ when’j’ya ever, ever hear her mumble?”

‘Never! I nev…”

“An’ what the hell’d she call ‘it’ anyway?”

“I don’t…”

“Mitch, I wanna know what a girl’s pisser looks like!”

“Yeah, me…”

“Know what I’ve a mind t’do?” Without waiting for Mitchell to ask, “I’ve a mind to talk to Skorp.”

“Oh, no! You don’t wanna do that, Frankie!”

“I know, he’s a, uh, schmuck, but he’s the oldest guy here.”

“Yeah! The schmuck’s been put back twice.”

“Mitch, who gives a shit how many times the schmuck’s been put back? An’ what’s the difference anyhow? If anyone here knows ’bout girls an’ girls pissers it’ll be Scorp… the schmuck.”

“Yeah, but he’s so big’n’ugly, an’ I know he hates me.”

“Listen,” squeezing his shoulder, “if you’re that ’fraid’a Scorp, guess I’ll just have to go alone.”

Catching the challenge, “No, I’ll go! But I think there’s gotta be a better way than talkin’ to that Polack turd.”

“Knew you’d do it.” Rising from his cot, heading out the door, “Come on, let’s go!”

“Huh? Now? You mean now? Okay, hold up!”

Hunching his head in his collar, shoving his hands deeply into his pockets, Mitchell reluctantly followed

Frank out of the junior dormitory, past The Whyet House and through the door of the senior dormitory.

                                                                                      ****

“Hey, who let you little shits in?”

“Hey, Corbitt,” Frank snapped back. “Why don’t you take a long walk on a short pier! Where’s Skorp’s place?”

“Smart-ass, wop!” Corbitt said good-naturedly. “Right past the stairs,” jerking his thumb upward, “on the left.”

“Yeah, thanks, Corbitt.” Poking Mitchell in the ribs with his elbow, “Come on.”

The door was closed. Chamber doors were never supposed to be closed, but William “Skorp” Skorupski, at age fifteen, was the oldest student officer at Baylor, and rank and age apparently had their privilege.

Looking at Mitchell, Frank knocked on the door.

Coming from within, “Oh, shit!” there was a rustle of bedding then, “Yeah?”

“Skorp, it’s Frank Rizzo an’ Mitch Lipensky, an’ we wanna talk to you ’bout somethin’.”

“Shit! What the hell ya want? Okay, hol’ it a minute.”

The boys head the squeak of bedsprings. They felt the vibration of heavy footsteps, the sound of a dresser drawer being slammed shut, more footsteps, then the door was yanked open.

“Well, well, well! If it ain’t two little dicks from the Baby Corps.”

Big for his age, looking closer to eighteen than fifteen, William Skorupski had limpid blue eyes and straight, longer than regulation, light blonde hair. The pale flesh of his squat face was covered with angry pimples and flat red scars where the pimples had been squeezed and ruptured. He was wearing a sweat-stained T-shirt and white boxer shorts. Caught in the act of masturbation, there was a pronounced, cylindrical bulge along the fly of his shorts and a noticeable yellow stain under the fly.

“So, Rizzo, I see you’re still hangin’ ’round with the Jew.” Pinching Mitchell’s cheek, “How’ya doin’, kikie?”

Slapping the older boy’s hand away before Mitchell could react, “Listen, Scorp,” Frank said, “we didn’t come here to get your permission for Mitch’n’me to be pals! An’ I don’t like no one callin’ my pal a Jew or kike, or anything like that.” Smiling at Mitchell, “Only I can do that! Ain’t that right, Mitch?”

Seizing Frank by the shirt, Skorupski pulled him to within an inch of his face. “Ya smart-ass dago, son-of’a…” Grabbing hold of the younger boy’s hand, “…bitch!” Skorupski’s voice rose two octaves because, hanging loosely within his boxer shorts, making them easy to grab, “’ey, Frankie, le’go my balls!”