The verdant forest was teeming with life in the warm spring months. The ghostly distant mountains grumbled and groaned as the sun coerced them into relinquishing their stores of hard earned water. The rivers grew mighty, the streams drew breath, and smaller channels and brooks appeared, as the water wove and wound where it would.

The doe bit gently on her fawn's tail as it tried to escape her watchful eye by jerkily climbing over a fallen tree. Not a week born yet, and the tireless offspring consumed her to exhaustion on a daily basis. A sweet burden to suffer, but a burden nonetheless.

Having eaten their fill in a secluded meadow, they now ambled toward the quietest place she could find to drink up for the day, before repeating the entire process later on, in newer, safer areas. She tried her best to instill in the newborn that staying on the move was paramount to survival.

They quickly sped around a wolf den when that sickly sweet musk pierced their senses, and sent their hearts racing. Discarding the worn trails and galloping into lush foliage, the little one kept up as best it could. Nothing loped behind them in pursuit, however, and as they arrived at their destination, she could relax.

The fawn was in love with the world, the colors, the sights, but more than anything, the smells. It searched every nook, it sniffed every cranny, and licked every bulb and bud. Mildly irritated with him now, mother nudged the little one onward until its hooves splashed noisily into a small streamlet. He got the idea fairly quick, and began to drink deep as she stood over him.

Her nostrils flared in sudden alarm as a snapping sound, followed by an eerie hiss, issued from a wall of brush far and away. Her head snapped around instinctively, her eyes locking with another creature's before she saw no more.

The arrow entered the doe's skull clean and made a mess of it afterward. She collapsed into the brook and splashed her fawn, soaking it as it drank. Shaking the beads of water off, it began to bleat as the frightful smell of blood assaulted its nose. Crunching noises from behind sent it skittering off alone into the wild vegetation, in a blind panic. The dice had been cast for this one, and the outcome was vague and indifferent.

The father stayed his son, as he coiled up and prepared to bolt after the fawn. There was much more pressing work to be done. He drew a sharp flint knife from a buckskin pouch and handed it to the boy, pointing sternly at the fallen doe. The father watched as the boy took a deep breath and began the long process of butchering the carcass. He only had to intervene once, when the boy was near to spoiling a large portion of meat by severing the wrong tissue, but he thought he may have stopped himself in time without his guidance. It filled him with pride to watch his son's skills develop. With a flourish of his knife, he finished and began to cleanse his bloodied arms in the nearby water.

They wrapped and packed the meat as best they could, leaving the most hearty portions for themselves. It would be a day or more before they would get back to their home. Back to his mate, and his daughter, but life was hard, and lessons must be taught early, so that they persist for a lifetime of harsh endeavors.

They built a large fire in a clearing to celebrate the boy's first kill. His father skewered the most succulent meat and handed it over to him. He tousled his long hair fondly, watching him grin wide as the fat crackled and spit, the flames licking higher to taste the boy's prize.

After racking the doeskin to dry, they began to create a camp for the night as best they could, but a blustery, unseasonably chill wind ran through the forest, defeating their best efforts to create a shelter. With the light running out, and exhaustion setting in, they huddled near the fire under a few blankets and drifted off to sleep, well fed and content with that day's hunting.

As the night progressed, the winds grew more severe. The fire fought bravely, but little by little it was whittled down to a sparking mass of embers that died a merciless death to the roaring gusts. The last of the coals fluttered out into the night and dispersed rapidly under the bright full moon.

The pack moved silently through the glade. Each paw rising and setting again as light as possible. The leader smelled the scents from far and long on this fortuitous night, predator and prey, mingled together. It was a daring play, but game had been scarce and the pups were hungry. They watched from afar as the fire died, making their prey blind, filling their noses with smoke.

They increased their pace and began to lope aggressively toward the huddled forms, jaws open, tongues dripping, as a delirium of bloodlust and hunger washed away every other sensation.

A howl rises in the night, joined by two, three, four more. The dice were cast again. It was a day for many lessons.

I watched as the whip cracked across his back. Dark skin split open, red blood spilled out.

“Don’t make eye contact,” I softly warned. The whip descended again. More blood.

“I will kill him. As soon as my wounds heal, I will kill him.” The words were a vow.

“Malawi, you are fortunate that he does not speak our language or you would not survive. Now hush, lest you make his anger worse.”

Malawi fell silent .

“Mr. Johnson, please stop,” I pleaded. “He is new to the plantation and did not understand. He begs your forgiveness and promises to avoid the forbidden area in the future.”

Crack.

“Mr. Johnson, the owner paid much money for Malawi. He will not be happy if he can’t work.” Or if he dies, I thought. “I will work with Malawi and make sure that he understands. I will help him learn English. Then he will be worth even more to the Master.”

I don’t know if it was my words or if Mr. Johnson tired of his sport, but he stopped whipping Malawi and rode away. I untied the bloodied man from the post and helped him back to the cabin we shared.

As the women tended to his wounds, I told Malawi of my promise to Mr. Johnson.

“I will teach you what you need to know,” I promised him. “You will need to listen, and to do as I say. If not, then we will both feel the whip.”

I watched his face and felt my heart sink. Malawi was a strong man, a warrior. In Africa he had been a leader of men. Now, he wasn’t considered a man. He wasn’t even considered human.

“I will listen to you,” he said. “I will play your game. But only for a while.”

I started by teaching him English. Malawi was a quick study, as smart as he was strong. Within a month he had mastered the basics. By the third month he had a better grasp of the language than the slaves who had been born on the plantation. Yet around the Master, he feigned ignorance.

We were working the tobacco fields one day when my curiosity got the best of me.

“Tell me, Malawi. Why do you hide your knowledge? The Master would be impressed if he knew how quickly you learned.”

He picked a tobacco worm off a plant, crushed it between his fingers and dropped it to the ground. Then he looked at me.

“I will not stay here forever. Until then, it is better that they think me slow. A smart man is feared while a stupid man is merely ridiculed.”

After English, Malawi insisted on learning everything I could teach him. He learned about the plantation, the members of the Master’s household, the layout of his house. When we had exhausted the plantation, he moved on to learning the local geography. Since I often traveled with the Master, I was able to teach him much about the state they called Georgia.

I watched as the scars on Malawi’s back faded. But despite my teaching, his spirit did not forget.

One day he came to me with a different question.

“What do you know of the North?”

“Shhhh…..” I looked around to see if anybody had overheard. Mr. Johnson could not speak our language, but other slaves were willing to trade information for an extra portion. I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw we were alone.

“The North is often talked about by the Master,” I said. “It is a much-hated place where slavery is forbidden. There is fear that the North may try to forbid it in Georgia, too.” I thought more about what I’d heard. “It is also very cold.”

“How does one get to the North?” he asked.

“I know only rumors…”

He grabbed my arm. Hard.

“Tell me,” he demanded. At that moment, I saw the warrior Malawi.

“If you are not white, there is only one way to get to the North. It is called the Underground Railroad. It is long and it is dangerous. If you are caught, you will probably die.”

I spent the next two weeks teaching Malawi what happened to runaway slaves. I told him of the dogs and of the noose. But I could not dissuade him.

Finally, I taught him how to contact the Conductor. Then I taught him no more.

A few weeks later I awoke to find that Malawi was gone. The Master was furious that such a valuable slave had been allowed to escape. I finally saw the wisdom of Malawi; nobody believed that such a dim-witted individual had done more than wander away to visit a woman on a nearby plantation. By the time they organized a serious search, he had disappeared into the Underground Railroad.

I did not have the spirit or the strength of Malawi, so I stayed on the plantation. But I often wondered if I had done my student any favors by teaching him of the world beyond.

One day my Master sent me into town on an errand. While there, an elderly woman dropped a package in front of me. She spoke softly to me as I picked it up.

“A friend sends word that the North is indeed cold.”

The student had surpassed the teacher.

So he was the one.

Every year there was one child in each class that became the one you thought about when you went home. The one you would remember for the rest of your life. The one you would form a special bond with that went beyond teacher and student but stopped short of mother and child, though just as enduring. And here he was, standing at my desk rather than playing at recess with his fourth grade class.

I contemplated the young face looking at me and sat back in my chair, ignoring the sudden twinge of indigestion. Here was a problem, no mistaking it. The compassionate look in Jeremy’s eyes was reinforced by his serious expression. It was that compassion that had really caught my attention during this first month of the new school year.

Actually, Jeremy had piqued my interest even before I met him. In preparing to meet my new classroom, I had read through the end-of-year notes on each child from their third grade teachers. Amid the standard warnings and complaints, the note from Jeremy’s teacher stood out for its simplicity. “Quiet. Perhaps too quiet.”

Well, what teacher would have a problem with a quiet boy? Myself, I’d be grateful for any quite child I could get in my classroom! I’d meant to follow up with Jeremy’s previous teacher, but in the late August rush of gathering school supplies and finishing lesson plans, it had slid to the back of my mind. It wasn’t till I had a chance to observe Jeremy for a couple days that I recalled that cryptic end-of-year note. I was surprised to find myself in uneasy agreement. Jeremy was a bit too quiet.

At first, it didn’t seem that odd that Jeremy didn’t laugh along with the other kids. When Alan surprised the class by accidentally belching during his book report, Jeremy didn’t even grin. So I began to watch Jeremy more closely. And odd incidents began to pile up.

I noticed that, like other children, Jeremy winced at the sound of chalk squealing on the chalkboard. However, Jeremy winced before each squeal. And the time he put his hand out to steady the books on a neighboring desk. A few seconds before Lynne Percy bumped into it. A long string of similar “timing” irregularities culminated this morning in a real show stopper.

Randy Ellis had just gotten a hall pass from me and was headed toward the door to take a bathroom break. As he neared the door, a voice yelled, “Wait!” Randy stopped and turned to stare at Jeremy, as we all did. I’d never seen Jeremy lose his composure before. He fumbled for a pencil and then waved it in the air. “Uh, is this your pencil, Randy?”

Randy gave me a puzzled look. At my silence, he started to answer Jeremy, “No, that isn’t my…” when the classroom door slammed open, the glass shattering as it crashed against the wall. Two teenage boys fell into the room, clutching and pummeling one another.

The class was instant chaos. Even though I had to force the boys apart and call down to the office for help, I was very aware Jeremy had quietly retaken his seat. Handing the teenagers over to the Principal, I was relieved to find it was recess time. Nearing the age of retirement, I find these exciting moments are particularly tiring. Shakily, I sent the children to the playground to release their pent up excitement. Except Jeremy. He had stayed behind.

I straightened in my chair. “I see something’s on your mind, but first let me ask you a question.” While talking, I had slowly opened my desk drawer and let my fingers slid inside.

“Please don’t.”

My hand stopped. “Don’t what, Jeremy?”

“Please don’t close the drawer on your hand.”

Even though I had expected this, my heart began thumping wildly. “Why would I do that?”

“So I would stop you. To show I knew it was going to happen.”

I took my hand from the drawer. “Thank you for stopping Randy. He could have been hurt badly.”

“A broken nose. I almost didn’t see it in time.”

“How far ahead do you… see?”

“Sometimes 15 minutes and sometimes just a few…” Jeremy stopped speaking and simply stood there. I was just about to speak, when Ms. Collins, the administrative assistant, entered the room.

“Sorry to interrupt, but Principal Blair would like to speak to you about the earlier incident.” She nodded meaningfully at the broken glass and left.

I pulled myself up from the chair, kicking off another bout of indigestion. “Ahh! I might have hurt my shoulder in that ruckus, Jeremy. It’s starting to ache.” I reached over and hugged him. “Sorry Jeremy. I need to go. We’ll talk later. And thank you for trusting me. It’s no wonder you’re so quiet.” As we left the room, I asked “Aren’t you worried I’ll tell your secret?”

He looked at me with those compassionate eyes and said, “No ma’am, you won’t tell. And I just wanted you to know that even if we kids don’t ever say it, we love you. And we won’t ever forget you.”

I watched for a moment as he walked slowly onto the playground and murmured, “Definitely the one. And I’ll never forget you Jeremy.” I rubbed my aching shoulder and headed toward the office.

"This is called the Mozambique Drill," I explained, raising the pistol and firing off three rounds at the target. "Two quick taps to the center mass — the heart — and then a headshot, just to be sure ...."

"This is the Filipino grip," I said, demonstrating with the combat knife. "In close quarters, this technique gives you easy access to the main arteries here, here, and here ...."

"In a pinch, a length of fishing filament can be used as a garrote," I instructed, removing a spool of it from my bag. "Piano wire works well, but guitar strings are more portable ...."

Twenty years ago, if you had told me I would someday be training a protégé in the art and science of assassination, I'd have thought you were smoking hashish. Me, take on an student? Pass on the invaluable skills that took me a lifetime to master? What benefit could this possibly have for me?

As I grew older, however, and inched closer to inevitable retirement, I realized that I didn't want the encyclopedia of knowledge inside my head to die with me. For whatever reason, I was overtaken with a powerful desire to share this vast font of expertise with another, in the same way that one would bequeath a beautiful painting or precious stone for others to enjoy rather than take it with them to their grave.

And so I met Marco, my apprentice. He was a tall man, quick and athletic, with nimble hands and fine features. He wanted to learn the assassin's art and make enough money to buy an island somewhere in the Pacific. He was followed everywhere by his assistant, a hulking boy named Jorge, who stood silent as a signpost, watching as I trained his master in the art of killing.

"It is tempting for the assassin to confront his target," I told Marco in one of his first lessons. "To taunt him, to look him in the eye before pulling the trigger ... the idea holds a satisfying allure. In practice, however, this is the stuff of an amateur. A true master is one whose target never even knows he is there. Like the shinobi of feudal Japan, stealth and surprise are among the chief weapons you should employ. Strike from the shadows, without sound, without warning."

"The assassin's weapon is a tool," I said at a later time. "Whether a shotgun or a grenade or an icepick, your weapon is nothing more than a device to accomplish a task, the same as a measuring tape, or a clothes iron, or a ladder. There is an appropriate tool for every job, and once a tool becomes useless, it should be discarded."

It took time and patience, but eventually, the student honed his skills. It wasn't always easy — after one particularly challenging hand-to-hand combat lesson, Marco bellowed that he would never get it right, and took his anger out on Jorge with a blow to the head that knocked the boy for a loop. Another time, he showed up at a training session drunk, and I pummeled him with a club for his insolence. Over time, however, the apprentice's talents became more and more apparent. I knew that the time would soon come for the training to end, and for the protégé to go off and make his way in the world.

"Master," Marco finally said to me one evening. "I believe that I am ready."

"Are you?"

"Yes ... yes I am," he said. "Tomorrow I will go and find my first paid assignment. The complexity of the job does not matter. Whether I am to kill a warlord or a diplomat, a drug baron or a head-of-state ... whether by gun or bomb, by knife or poison ... I am prepared. You have taught me well. I have mastered the assassin's art. I have learned the lessons."

"Including," Marco said, drawing a pistol and pointing it at my face, "the most important lesson of all."

I looked at him calmly, not rising from my chair.

"You foolish old man," Marco taunted, laughing at me. "You have spent countless hours teaching me to kill, and now I will repay you by killing you. You are a tool, a device that was useful to me in my training, but which has now outlived its usefulness ... and will be discarded. Why on Earth would I want to keep you alive? I am more valuable to my future employers if I am anonymous, and you're just one more person who knows my face, who knows my name. Better not to leave any loose ends."

"That is not the most important lesson of all," I said.

There was a popping sound, and the acrid odor of gunsmoke filled the air. Marco frowned, looking down as a dark stain blossomed on the front of his shirt. His face registered confusion ... surprise ... horror. Without another word, he collapsed.

Behind him, an hulking figure stood, his face impassive, a wisp of smoke curling from the gun in his hands.

"Strike from the shadows," the figure whispered. "Without sound, without warning."

"You have done well," I said. "You have learned much, and you are ready to begin your career as an assassin."

"I will make you proud," Jorge replied. He put the gun in his pocket, gathered up his belongings, and disappeared into the night.

"You're doing it wrong," I said. "Completely wrong. You look ridiculous, Dave. Like a rookie."

I was leaning against the fence with my large hands in my pockets, scuffing my sneakers idly in the dirt as I watched a tall, freckled boy shake another, smaller boy by his collar.

"Give it to me!" the freckled boy — that was Dave — shouted over and over. "Give it to me! Give it to me!" The smaller boy was shaken around like a rag doll, his glasses bouncing around on the end of his nose.

"Stop," I said, interrupting the attack. I sauntered forward, pushed Dave aside, and grabbed the boy by his ankle. He gave a startled squawk as I hauled him off his feet and held him upside-down above the ground with one hand.

"Give me your lunch money!" I roared, shaking him up and down. Assorted coins spilled out of his pockets with a merry jingle. Dave rushed to scoop them up.

"You see?" I said to Dave as the smaller boy ran away crying. "If you're going to be an effective bully, you're going to have to start remembering the principles."

"The principal!" Dave bleated, looking around in panic. "Where?"

"Not the principal, you moron," I said, smacking him upside the head. "The principles. The basic principles of bullying. As long as you remember the principles, you'll know how to react in any and all possible situations."

"Take this guy, for example," I said, snatching a passing geek by the sleeve of his shirt. He uttered a helpless wail as I forced him into a headlock and began performing a noogie, that classic schoolyard bully's torture technique that involves the brisk rubbing of one's knuckles against a nerd's scalp.

"The first principle of bullying states that when you see a scrawny dweeb like this one, you should immediately administer a noogie, a purple nurple, or a wet willie," I explained. "Go ahead, you try it."

I shoved the geek over to Dave, who attempted a feeble headlock. The other boy wriggled free and ran away.

"Pathetic," I said. "You're hopeless."

"He's telling a teacher!" Dave said. "Mrs. Flanderson is coming over!"

"Relax," I said, adopting my most casual facial expression. "The second principle of bullying states that when confronted by an authority figure, deny everything."

"Benjamin says that you hurt his head," Mrs. Flanderson said, staring down her hideous beak-like nose at me. "Is this true?"

"Good heavens, no," I replied without hesitation. "Dave and I were just standing here discussing this morning's wonderful geography lesson."

She glared down at me, the old crone. "I might not have caught you this time," she said. "But I'll be watching."

Once her back was to us, I turned my attention to a couple of young girls who were skipping by, clutching High School Musical lunchboxes. I tripped one of them, and she went sprawling in the dirt.

"The third principle of bullying," I declared, wrenching her lunchbox open and removing a Twinkie, "states that you should always steal things from kids who are smaller than you. Lunch money, of course, but also snacks, baseball caps, and bicycles." I laughed cruelly as the little girls fled in terror.

A couple of mouth-breathers from the math club walked past, trying to avoid eye contact, and Dave's arm shot out. He grabbed a fat kid's knapsack and began rummaging through it. At last he produced a comic book, holding the prize triumphantly for me to see.

"Now you're getting the hang of it," I said, smiling approvingly.

"Give that back," the fat kid said in his lispy, dorky voice. "Give that back right now."

"Scram," I said. "Get lost before I perform a little amateur dentistry on you."

"Give it back!" the kid shrieked, and then he socked Dave right in the nose. Really hard. Dave went down, his nose bleeding, and I gasped in surprise.

The fat kid snatched up his comic book ... then came after me. I yelped in horror as he grabbed a handful of my shirt and cocked his fist back. I didn't want a bloody nose. I had no idea how to react. There was nothing in the bully rulebook to prepare me for this scenario, no principle or guideline to follow.

This had never happened before, you see. They aren't supposed to retaliate. That simply isn't the way it's done.

"Wait, wait," I whined. "Wait, don't hit me. I'm sorry. It won't happen again."

"Sir," the fat kid said. "It won't happen again, sir."

"It won't happen again, sir," I said, whimpering now. "Please don't hurt me."

He smirked, then released my collar. By this time a small crowd had gathered, and they all laughed at my humiliation. The fat kid and his friends walked away, chuckling at their victory, while Dave sat up and wiped his nose with his sleeve.

"You failed bully training," I said with disgust, reaching into my pocket. I pulled out my battered, handwritten copy of The Principles of Bullying, passed down to me by Spike Horowitz, just as it was bequeathed to him by Mikey Andrews the year before. I thumbed through it.

"I'll need to add a new chapter," I said, scratching my head. "We need to figure out the appropriate way to respond when one of them fights back. Any ideas?"

“I would like to thank you ladies for joining me tonight. As all of you know, this is a seminar for newly-wed women. Its official title is A Year of Firsts – How to enjoy your first year of marriage.”

I paused, looking at the women surrounding me. Their ages spanned from 21 to 57 but they all had one thing in a common; an untrained man.

“As I said, that’s the seminar’s official title. I prefer the working title – I Caught Him - Is it too late to throw him back?”

I watched as the emotions flitted across my students’ faces. Shock, annoyance, laughter, confusion – they weren’t too sure what to think. Well, tonight would change that.

Before they could respond or walk out, I continued on.

“I don’t look at myself as a traditional teacher. Rather, I will be facilitating an open and direct discussion. Does anybody have a question to get us started?”

I wasn’t surprised when nobody spoke up. After all, who wants to confess that they don’t know what to do with their beloved soul mate?

“OK, I’ll start. One of the first things I learned in my marriage is what cold ceramic feels like on a naked bottom.” The room erupted in laughter. “I know it is shocking, but I stumbled through the first twenty years of my life without learning that useful piece of information. My husband was kind enough to teach it to me on my honeymoon. Does anybody have anything to add to this?”

A hand went up in the back of the room. “I do. I want to know how the room can be 75 degrees while the toilet remains at -20!”

“I cured my husband of that,” a gorgeous blonde in the back chimed in.

“How did you do that?” This question came from an older woman in the front.

“Easy. I played up the blonde thing. The day after it happened, I took the toilet seat off. I explained to my husband that I wanted to make life easier for him and that I found I enjoyed the cool, refreshing feeling of the toilet au natural.”

“How did that cure him? Sounds like you were just giving in!”

“Oh, he was very appreciative. After dinner, he grabbed his newspaper and went for his nightly visit. When he came out, he didn’t say a word. He got in the car, drove to the hardware store and bought a new toilet seat. That was three months ago and it hasn’t been left in the upright position once.”

“What a brilliant strategy! And she accomplished her goal without nagging. Does anybody else have any questions? How about sharing any innovative solutions?”

Hands shot up all around the room. I pointed to a mousy looking woman in her late 30s.

“My husband used to leave his dirty underwear in the bathroom. If I didn’t pick it up, it would stay there for days.”

“And how did you handle that?” I asked.

“I bought a puppy. The puppy just loves his underwear. Of course, a responsible pet owner would never let her puppy chew on something so unsanitary. I would always take them away, wash them, fold them and put them back in his drawer where they belonged.”

“I don’t get it. Seems like all you got out of the deal was a puppy you had to break of a bad habit,” someone commented.

Mousy-woman smiled, and it transformed her face. “You see, my husband is a personal trainer. Imagine his horror when he had to go to the gym in underwear dotted with puppy chew holes. I’m afraid my manly-man was a little embarrassed when he had to explain in the locker room that his wife’s two-pound Pomeranian puppy ate his briefs. All of them. He bought new underwear and not a single pair has been left on the floor since.”

The room dissolved in laughter at the picture she had created. Questions, suggestions and techniques were tossed around by the women.

“How do you stop him from snoring?”

“How do you explain that not all laundry goes in the same load?”

"How did you get him to do laundry?"

“Has anybody ever successfully explained the concept of – ”

“I have a great technique for – ”

“The toilet paper issue! Which way is right?”

I stood in the front of the room and watched as the laughter – and sometimes tears – flowed. All too soon it was time for the evening to end.

“Ladies, we have 10 more minutes, so please start to wrap it up.”

I watched as purses opened and contact information was exchanged. Some typed into their Blackberrys, others scribbled on the back of field trip forms. They had come together out of a desire to make their marriages work while preserving their sanity. Most would succeed; a few wouldn’t. But regardless of what happened in their relationships, they had learned something else here tonight.

Friendship.

I watched them leave, knowing that what I’d taught them wouldn’t be forgotten.

The younger woman sat huddled on the sofa, nursing her cup of tea. Tears formed silent rivers down her cheeks.

“I don’t know what to do, Grams.”

The older woman’s heart ached at the despair etched in her granddaughter’s face. Yet her compassion warred with another emotion that she couldn’t quite define.

“It’s all so horrible. I can’t believe that he cheated on me. My life is over.”

Grams continued to sip her tea in silence.

“Grams, what am I going to do? My life is ruined and there’s nothing I can do about it. I might as well die.”

The other emotion came into focus. Annoyance.

“Lisa, would you please get something from the bookcase for me? A photo album, second shelf down, first one on the left.”

She watched as her granddaughter pulled the old album from the shelf and held it out to her. Grams shook her head.

“No, I want you to look at it.”

“Grams, I’m really not in the mood – ”

“I know. But I’d appreciate it if you would.”

As Lisa opened the cover on the yellowed pages and faded pictures, Grams felt a familiar pain. She closed her eyes; she didn’t need to see the pictures to remember.

Lisa casually flipped through the first few pages, uninterested in old pictures of strangers. Then she paused.

“This person looks familiar…” she said softly. She looked sharply at her grandmother. “Is this you?”

Grams nodded.

“With Grandpa?”

“No.”

“Great-uncle Marcus?”

“No. That’s Johnny. My first husband.”

Lisa looked closer at the picture. “I didn’t know you had a first husband. And it looks like you’re pregnant. Is he Aunt Judy’s father?”

“No.”

“OK Grams, I’m confused. Are you telling me that I have an aunt or uncle I don’t know about?”

She took a deep breath and opened her eyes. Lisa was startled by the pain she saw there.

“Johnny and I were high-school sweethearts. We got married in the spring of 1941 and I didn’t think life could get any better. That picture was taken the next spring. We were so excited about the baby.”

“What happened? Did you get divorced?”

“Only your generation would think that. No, Pearl Harbor happened and Johnny went to war.”

Understanding crossed Lisa’s face. “He was shot?”

Grams closed her eyes, letting the old pain wash over her. It hurt, but Lisa needed to see this, needed to learn.

“He never made it that far. His troop carrier was torpedoed and he was lost at sea.”

“The baby?”

“I loved Johnny more than you can ever imagine.”

“Grams, what happened to the baby?”

“The shock was too much. I lost the baby. Johnny Junior. Your uncle.” She met Lisa’s eyes. “I didn’t know how I was going to go on. I wanted to die.”

Lisa flinched slightly as her words echoed back to her. She returned to the scrap book. A few pages later, she pointed to another picture.

“Is this Grandpa?” Lisa asked.

Grams nodded.

“How did you forget Johnny?”

“You never forget. You can only learn to live with the pain.”

The aged paper rustled softly as page after page of the older woman’s life turned.

“Here you are with Grandpa, Aunt Judy and Dad. You look so happy.”

“No.”

“You weren’t happy?”

“No, that isn’t your dad. That’s Elizabeth. She was a blue baby.”

“Blue baby?”

“You can’t tell from the pictures, but her hands, feet and lips are blue. She was born with a congenital heart defect. But she was the sweetest baby, rarely cried and had the prettiest smile.” Grams smiled at the memory. “Medicine wasn’t as advanced as it is now. We were blessed with her for eleven wonderful months.”

“Grams, how terrible! Johnny, then Johnny Jr., then Elizabeth?” Lisa sounded shocked, and more than a little horrified.

Grams said nothing, closing her eyes and letting the memories flow.

“And here you are again. Aunt Judy couldn’t be more than a couple of years older. But you’re smiling. And Grandpa is smiling. And you’re pregnant again. Weren’t you scared?” Lisa didn’t wait for an answer as the pages continued to turn.

“Here you are with Great-grandma. I barely remember her funeral. Dad said she died of breast cancer. That couldn’t have been easy to deal with.” The pages turned faster.

“And here’s Grandpa at the nursing home. It’s not fair. You lost Johnny to the war, then Grandpa to Alzheimer’s.”

Grams sat silently as Lisa lost herself in the album, talking softly. It was strange, after all these years, to see her life through her granddaughter’s eyes.

She opened her eyes when the room became quiet. Lisa again had tears running silently down her cheeks.

“Grams, I don’t know how you did it. How you survived so much sorrow.” She paused. “That’s why you showed me this, isn’t it?”

Lisa’s gaze dropped to the album and she sat there, studying it. After a few minutes, she stood up and placed it back on the shelf. She turned to face her grandmother.

“Bob cheated on me. People will talk. We might work it out. We might get divorced.” She pulled herself up a little taller.

“But my life is not ruined. I will survive. I don’t know how - but I have an excellent teacher.”

She gave the older woman a hug.

“I love you, Grams.”

Patience is the secret. The young ones come and ask me to teach them. They want the rush, the blood, the thrill. They don't want to hear about patience. OneEar no more than the others.

He came to me all puppy eager.

“Teach me to kill, OldOne,” he said. “I want to taste blood.”

I cuffed him and turned away, but he wouldn't give up. Where ever I went, OneEar was there, begging me to teach him. I was tempted to change his name to NoEar,. But, if patience is the first lesson, persistence is the second. I took him with me on my next hunt.

“Walk quietly,” I instructed him. We loped away through the heavy forest. I could hear him panting behind me. When he turned his head to look at a squirrel he tripped. I turned to stare at him trying not to laugh while he tried to look like it was some other pup that had made all that noise. The squirrel did laugh and OneEar growled.

“Later,” I said, “Unless you are better at climbing trees than walking quietly?” I didn't wait for a reply but continued on. OneEar followed; this time he watched his path.

We arrived at the edge of a pond. I lay down and waited. I didn't have to wait long.

“Now what?” said OneEar after drinking his fill, “Let's hunt!”

“We are hunting.”

“Hunting what?”

“Frogs.”

“Yech!” said OneEar, “Let's go hunt deer.”

“Catch me a frog, and we will look for deer.”

OneEar yelped with glee and pounced into the water. He sent up great splashes of water and mud as he lunged one way and another. Green frogs hopped and swam in all directions, but he couldn't catch a single one. He stopped still in the water with green weeds draped across his face. Mud dripped from his fur.

I let my tongue hang out and laughed a little. OneEar looked at his reflection and laughed with me. He walked out of the water and shook mud and water and weeds all over me. Then he lay down on the bank and watched me.

I waited for him to speak, but he stayed silent. The water stilled. As the mud settled one green head after another appeared. I could feel the young one quivering, but still he waited. A breeze blew tiny footprints across the water. Birds called from the tree behind us. Flies appeared and settled on our backs. Still he waited.

First one frog than another climbed out of the pond. They were on their own hunt, eating the flies that were biting at us. A huge fat green frog hopped up almost to OneEar's nose. With a snap the pup jumped on the bullfrog and snapped it up. I barked with approval as he stood with the frog's legs flailing on either side of his mouth.

“How does it taste?” I asked.

“Green,” said OneEar, “And cold.”

“It is still food,” I said, “Eat him, you will need the strength for the deer.”

OneEar shook his head and with a snap and gulp the frog was gone. I laughed at his expression. I was sure he was trying to feel whether that frog was swimming around in his stomach.

“Deer,” said OneEar.

“Follow very quietly,” I said as I led the way along the shore of the pond. I led the way to the meadow where the deer would come out to eat at dusk. I made a point of checking the wind and picking a place that would be downwind, but protected our backs. Once again I lay down and waited. OneEar lay down beside me, once more quivering with excitement.

The sun was warm. I could feel the pup fighting drowsiness. The flies found us and drowsiness was replaced by twitches as he almost snapped at his tormentors. Squirrels rustled about in the bushes behind us while a small bird almost landed on his nose. The shadows grew longer, the flies thicker and still we waited.

The light had become so dim that we could hardly see across the meadow when the deer appeared. One then another paced cautiously into the dusk. Yet deer are not frogs to walk up and place themselves into our mouths. I watched to see what OneEar would do. I did not have long to wait. A fat doe followed the grass to our side of the field. The pup lunged out at her.

If she had been a frog he would have caught her. Instead she bounded away and he gave chase. He growled and snapped and tumbled through that field but didn't touch so much as a hair of one of those deer.

Finally he came over and lay down beside me again, panting and laughing.

“I think,” he said, “I need to hunt more frogs.”

I nipped him gently. “Let's go home.”

“Can we catch some frogs on the way?”

I laughed and howled my approval.

I watched as he worked his way across the lawn, hugging the shadows. The kid was good; too bad he wasn’t as good as he thought. He’d be a great agent someday – if he lived long enough.

When he’d made it to the mansion undetected, I followed him.

“What took you so long?” he whispered. He smiled and the moonlight flashed off his overly-white teeth. I fought the urge to wipe the arrogant smile off his face. We had a mission to accomplish.

“You’re off your A-game, pops," he continued. "You can be the spotter tonight.”

He wasn’t ready. A good teacher would have stopped him.

Pops.

“Sure kid, go ahead.”

I hid a smile as he pulled a grappling hook out of his bag. This could be interesting.

He started to swing the hook like a cowboy roping a steer. Unfortunately, he forgot about Lesson 14 – Rope Safety. I stepped back as the line slowly slipped through his fingers and the hook swung in wider and wider circles. Intent on his target, he didn’t notice the change.

He seemed to hit his rhythm right before the grappling hook connected with the tree behind him.

The dull thud of metal connecting with wood was echoed by his grunt of pain and surprise. He casually walked over and pried it out of the trunk.

He tried it again without the fancy swing. This time, the hook sailed gracefully up three stories and caught on the chimney. He gave a hard jerk to set it, then started his climb.

He recovered nicely from his setback and scaled the rope in perfect form, reaching the third floor with ease. In seconds he had pried the window open and entered.

Too bad that he hadn’t memorized the layout of the old mansion.

A soft splash of water confirmed that he’d successfully climbed into the bathroom via the toilet. I tracked his progress by the sound of his athletic shoes squeaking across the tile floor.

So did the dog.

The deep voice of an angry Rottweiler greeted him at the bathroom door. The barks were punctuated by shoe squeaks as he ran back to the window. I heard another splash and a soft curse as he used the toilet as a springboard to escape the attacking canine. He made it out the window inches ahead of an impressive pair of teeth, scrambling up the rope to the roof. Penlight, lockpick, latex gloves – items showered down on me as he searched his pockets. I pulled an item out of my bag.

“Looking for these?” I asked, holding up a box of dog treats.

I tossed them up to him, then stepped back to watch the show.

As I expected, he tucked the treats into his jacket and climbed over the edge of the roof. Suspended outside the bathroom window, he tossed in one small treat. Claws scrabbled over the tile as the dog chased it across the floor. Dog distracted, he swung himself back through the window.

Too bad that the kid forgot about Lesson 23, where he learned that dogs don’t stop at just one treat. His reflexes were no match for the Rottweiler. The sound of tearing fabric told me when the Rottie’s nose found the pocket.

He emerged from the window a minute later and I winced as he slid down the rope without gloves. His torn jacket, shirt and pants spoke of the Rottweiler’s enthusiasm. A soft squishing noise drifted through the night with every step he took. His shoulders were slumped – and his arrogant smile was gone.

“I blew the mission,” he whispered. “We’ll have to try again tomorrow.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Nobody could sleep through that.”

“You have much to learn, grasshopper.” He obviously didn’t understand the classic quote, but he nodded anyway. “Come.”

He followed as I walked up to the front door of the mansion, turned the knob and walked inside. A huge, dark form rushed us.

“Bruno, sit.” The dog sat down and I gave him a treat.

“Down.” He flopped onto his belly and waited for his reward.

“Good boy. Bruno, stay.”

I left him in the stay position and started up the stairs to the scientist’s study.

The kid grabbed my arm. “What are you doing? The police have to be on their way by now. We need to get out of here.”

“Watch and learn.”

The kid hovered nervously around me as I proceeded to the library, found the report and scanned it with my portable scanner. I gave Bruno another treat to release him from his stay and calmly walked out the front door. He remained silent until we were in the car and several blocks away.

“How’d you do it?” he asked.

“If you’d read the briefing, you’d know that the scientist is deaf and uses a cochlear implant at work. At home, he doesn’t bother. Bruno is a highly-trained service dog, not a guard dog, which means he was temperament tested to rule out aggressive behavior and will respond to any command if you give it assertively. As for the front door…this is a small town in the Midwest. Nobody locks their doors at night.”

He was silent for a moment before he responded. “I’m impressed.”

“Not too bad for a Pops, huh?”

“Yeah, sorry about that, Sir.”

I smiled into the darkness. Maybe there was hope for the kid yet.

It was just past midday when Miss Darya Ivanova approached me in the dining hall, eyes wide and pleading: barely had I taken my first mouthful of the watery, putrid soup in front of me when I discovered I was to be a teacher once more. With the latest delivery of supplies to the zona came another delivery of prisoners: forty women and children shivering and terrified in the autumn air. The women were put straight to work felling trees and other such tasks required before the taiga winter closes us in for good, the children delivered into the care of Darya Ivanova and her assistants. One of the new children, a girl of twelve, had a remarkable ability, I was told: “You simply must take her in! She spends her whole day sitting, moving her fingers in the air as if she sat at a piano. Please, Miss von Hesse, you must!”

“Very well. Have her brought to me in the evening,” I smiled and the young woman darted off.

I met my new student that night, having cleared the arrangement with the commander (an arrogant, vain man by the name of Morozov who prided himself on the camp’s musical and theatrical prowess). It was through his blessing I had saved my precious fingers from hard labour and freezing conditions, and it was into the same level of privilege Darya Ivanova hoped her new charge would enter.

The girl stood in the shadow of the doorway, stooped and tense, watching me practice; had I not looked up when turning the page I wouldn’t have noticed her. “Come in, dear, come in!” I called but she hesitated as if deciding what to do. With heavy steps she made her way down the hall to the tiny stage upon which sat the camp’s prized piano. “Now, liebling, come up here, don’t be frightened,” I coaxed. “Why don’t you tell me your name?”

The girl stood beside me, fidgeting in her ill-constructed dress. “Olena,” she replied, not looking up, “Olena Semyonovna Bereza.”

“Alright, Olena,” I smiled, trying to catch her eye, “Miss Darya has told me quite a lot about you; why don’t you show me what you can do?”

Without a word the girl sat herself on the stool and placed her long fingers on the keys. With a sharp intake of breath, she launched into a fierce Chopin prelude: her body was rigid and her technique a little rough, but what she produced from such an unorthodox method was nothing but pure magic! Every little nuance, every tender moment she skilfully drew from the keyboard with a maturity and sensibility that belied her years; it is no exaggeration to say she was the first pianist in my entire career to truly take my breath away. As she approached the final cadence, the last tones hanging, lingering desolately in the air I struggled to control the tears pricking my eyes from spilling; though she might be a genius, in my new role such display of emotion would never do.

“Your musicality is simply beautiful, my dear,” I said, trying keep my voice firm, “but we have a lot to work on with your technique. Now Olena, I want you to relax. Let your shoulders drop. Ease all the tension out . . .”

She fixed me with a hard look. “No.”

“No?! Why ever not?”

She didn’t reply, but from the anger in her expression and the fact no men arrived in the latest consignment – no fathers, no brothers – I understood her resentment. “Olena, when you are in my classroom, I want you to remember that here you are safe. No one is watching here, no one can hurt you. Outside is the camp, outside life is hard and full of sorrow, my dear, but this is a sanctuary,” I moved behind her, pressing my hands lightly on her shoulders, persisting though she flinched, “and whilst you are in here you are under my instruction, and if you don’t release your shoulders you will hurt yourself and you will never be able to play again.” She spun around, facing me with a look of terror. “Now,” I pulled a manuscript from my bag, the handwritten pages long since yellow and mouldy, “why don’t we start with some drills?”

“Why is this room heated?” she blurted loudly, catching me off guard.

“Because Mr. Morozov cares about his musicians.”

“But everyone else has to work in the filth and the cold and suffer with no heating. Why should you have it better than everyone else?”

Had this been another time, another place, such impudence would have warranted the cane; instead, I lifted my blouse from my skirt, showing her the bruises and scabs that streaked from my waist to my spine and she gasped. “This is what privilege earns you. When we play and sing we lift everyone out of their miserable, wretched lives and we transport them to a place of beauty where we are all free. But when the music stops and the others see our roomy sleeping quarters, the extra rations we receive . . . well, Olena, need is a powerful emotion when one has nothing; we pay too.” I felt her fingers trace the long scratch marks and the hostility melt from the room. “Now, my dear, shall we try those drills?”