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father didn’t know how to relate to Adolf.
    “That boy has no human manners,” he would say. “A tree will grow from a tall boy like that, not a human being.”
    “You mustn’t talk that way,” her mother scolded.
    “Short people know their place in the world; the big ones always get confused.”
    “I refuse to listen,” said her mother, blocking her ears.
    That was the way her father used to joke. Sometimes he would describe people grotesquely, but he would then retract the descriptions and excuse himself. Her mother knew his little weaknesses but still didn’t let him get away with it.
    “Ida, you’re terrible.”
    “Why?”
    “Not even one generalization?”
    “Generalizations are worse than prejudices.”
    “You’re right. I give in.”
    This was one of her father’s ways of teasing that Blanca liked to hear.
    Spring came, and Blanca’s mother felt better. Her father would take her easy chair out into the garden, wrap her in a blanket, and sit by her side. Her weakness wasn’t evident in their home. The house was spotless, aired out, and filled with her gentle spirit. Blanca would return from school and tell her mother every detail about her day. Her mother would listen intently, to avoid missing anything. In the evening they would all sit and talk. But sometimes a frightening billow of sobs would burst forth from Blanca. Her mother would rush over to her and comfort her.
    So the spring passed. Blanca’s mother continued to feel better, and in the evening she would water the garden and take pleasure in the flowers and the lilac bushes that adorned their small yard.
    “Mama,” Blanca would call.
    “What, dear?”
    “Let me give you a kiss.”
    “What’s the matter?”
    “Nothing.”
    That spring Blanca was very sensitive, and every movement alarmed her.

8
    EVEN BEFORE THE end of the school year, Adolf was told that he couldn’t stay in high school. Dr. Klein and Dr. Weiss demanded his expulsion. The pleas of the assistant principal and some of the other teachers were to no avail. The decision to expel Adolf passed by a single vote. The announcement was sent to him in writing, and Adolf, in his fury, burned all his mathematics and Latin books in the school yard, shouting out loud, “Death to Klein! Death to Weiss! Long live freedom!”
    Blanca returned from school in tears. Her pupil, whom she had tried so hard to help, had failed. Her mother tried in vain to console her.
    “Klein and Weiss were cruel to him,” Blanca said angrily, still weeping.
    The next day Blanca met Adolf at school. His face was furious and closed. Students surrounded him and tried to cheer him up, but Adolf rejected their efforts.
    “I’m not upset,” he said. “The ones who failed me will pay the price.”
    “I’m sorry, Adolf,” Blanca said, trying to take some of the blame on herself.
    “You’re not to blame. It’s Klein and Weiss,” he said drily.
    Adolf’s face was frightening, but Blanca didn’t leave his side.
    “I don’t like pity,” he said repeatedly. “I’ve declared war, and I won’t be deterred.” That was clear in his appearance. The skin of his face was taut, and his lips were set in a firm line—which was exactly what Blanca found so enchanting.
    “Good God,” she said when she got home. “Why are good people hurt? Why are they made to fail? People ought to be judged favorably, to bring out the good in them. So what if someone has trouble with mathematics or Latin? Is that a reason to expel him from school? What harm did he do?”
    The school year ended, and Adolf was not among those who received report cards. His absence was conspicuous, because no boy in the school was as tall or as broad as he was. The excellent grades that sparkled on Blanca’s report card didn’t make her as happy as they had in the past. It seemed to her that they had come at Adolf’s expense.
    “In mathematics there are those who are good and those who are better,” said her father