An Encounter with Hitler

"You've missed half the lesson, but no matter, there is still time enough to give you feedback on the essay you submitted last week." Mr. Robertson's voice rang out loud and clear, and I became aware that my presence had been detected in spite of the size of the room and my pathetic attempts at secrecy had failed. Bring on the humiliation, I thought warily. I cursed the bath I had taken the night before, and my decision to proceed to bed without taking the trouble to untangle my mane. Who knew brushing your hair could take that long.

Gesturing to a seat at the very front, Hitler, as we third years lovingly called him, began shuffling through a pile of assignments on his desk. While I made a little prayer imploring God to make my pathetic assignment invisible, it appeared Hitler was having some trouble locating the scruffy sheet of paper he wanted.

"I may have lost it", he said frowning, while I tried my best to appear dismayed. I could hardly believe my luck. Oh, how he loved to torture us. For he hadn't lost it. Finally, he emerged from behind his desk clutching in his grubby little hands my dreaded assignment.

"And now class, without further ado, I will read to the essay of my star student." This received a general laugh. I could feel my heart in my throat now. For we were all afraid of Hitler. Not so much of his person, colossal though he was, more so of his crippling feedback. Just last week, he had reduced a girl to tears with his skeptics on her work before a good fifty students. All hope dead, I frantically searched around for an escape route, but it was too late.

"And that, class, is an A-Grade essay", Hitler finished. I just sat there, my mouth slightly open. That was the closest I have ever come to getting a heart attack. At the onset of every sentence, I had dreaded one of his sarcastic comments, but none had come. He had, every now and then, made some constructive criticism, but neither insult nor mockery. The bell went off, and it felt like for the first time I walked out of his classroom unscathed, with every last ounce of my dignity. No A will ever mean so much to me as that one.

I now think I know what he had been trying to do all that time. Dispelling our fears as writers by way of increasing them. Odd man, that Hitler, I mean Mr. Robertson.