She continued to clutch the Bible as if it were a protective armor, but it was, in fact, her weapon. Everything we learned about apartheid in those early years, we learned in the name of God. We were never allowed to argue with, or question, God, the Bible, or Mrs. Duminee. Even at the age of ten, I knew that her words were dark and ugly, but I also knew better than to contradict her. I sat chewing on the back of my dark green Venus No. 2 pencil, watching her mouth move, and thinking of all the things I was not supposed to say out loud. I wanted to ask, “Did God really say that?” But I didn’t. I wanted to tell her, “Mrs Duminee, my mother said that Afrikaners like you, who support the apartheid regime, twist the word of God to suit your beliefs.” But of course I didn’t. I kept my silence.

    Each morning our class, like all the other classes, started with a prayer and a Bible story. I was the only Jewish child in the class, in the entire school, for that matter — because my brother was still too young for school. So I had no choice but to join in with the rest of the class. We lowered our heads but I kept my eyes open, as Mrs. Duminee began to pray in Afrikaans, “Liewe Jesus…” The prayer always ended with her thanking God for making us white. I wanted to ask, “Didn’t God make the black people too?” But I knew that if I asked that, I would surely get my knuckles rapped with the wooden ruler...