"Vere Isch Jur Schneekers, Ju Loeffers?"

Long before I got to highschool I got a lot of clues about what to expect. I had agents who told me about who to avoid, what to avoid. It was useless advice in part because the only way to skirt these situations was to move to another school district and it was certain that equal if not similar unpleasantries would be waiting. Kids are in no position to influence their parents to pack up all the furniture and look for a new roof over silly fears about teachers and older students with notorious reputations. At junior-high we were developing (unconsciously) a tolerance to discomfort.

It wasn't like we were condemned to matriculate to the bowels of hell. There were a lot of pluses to be considered. They outweighed small sufferings given by minor tyrants and from increased workloads. In fact, I think we were quite excited about being identified with bigger kids. We would enter their circle of power. Actually, they would be leaving it to become neophytes in the post-school world. That was good for us; we would replace them someday and little kids would come to be in awe of us — if we survived.

There was an unsavory element in junior-high that seemed to elude those in charge. These guys were bullies who cornered little kids and extorted money (gimmie a dime) or grabbed their lunch. They might occasionally give their victim a punch on the arm as a reminder that these were serious demands. They had a gang of unidentified thugs in reserve and that kept their unwilling clients terrified and quiet. Fortunately, high school overwhelmed them and that type withdrew as soon as the law allowed them to quit. We would meet that ilk again in the wider world. They would be captains of industry and others trained to take our money away from us.

When I went to junior-high I was informed that two of the faculty sported wooden legs. They limped so they were easily identified. It was said that brave kids would sneak up behind them and stick tacks in the lumber. They had their pants on so the brave had to be perceptive as well. When these men hobbled by I would look for tacks stuck to their trousers. When I got older I discounted the whole tale and had doubts about the prosthetics, too.

An older kid told me there was a gym teacher in high school named Dr. Zwarg. He was a German and he had a quote that should have been in Bartletts. "Vere isch jur schneekers, ju loeffers?"

Phys Ed was treated like a major at Germantown High School. Four days a weeek we went down to the gym and were marked for our competence on apparatus designed to make us fit. The work got more strenuous as we moved to each next grade. We were tested on parallel bars, rings, ropes, mats, horses and bars nailed to the wall. For dessert we did calisthenics and were graded for quality as well as strength. Dr. Zwarg, the head of the department, had five assistants who did all the dirty work. He would appear from time to time to exhort the students to physical excellence and berate the weak. He would observe them from a hiding place, then draw attention from the entire class to them and their miserable shape and publicly wish them to be banned to other activities. His contempt was exhibited only occasionally. We viewed him as the toughest man in the world.

Legend enveloped him. He represented Germany in the Olympics (ca 1912 or thereabouts). He invented the Iron Cross, now fairly common on the flying rings. In 1948 only three people could do it and he, at sixty, was one of them.

He rewarded those who did well. He coached the gym team and took the best ones to Europe to show them off.

Our view of gym teachers was molded unfairly in junior-high. One was a gambler on off hours. He smoked cigarettes out in the street when he didn't have class. He read the racing form. The other was a recreation worker at the boys' club in the evenings. They both cursed incessantly at their little charges. They were monsters.

At highschool all of the gym teachers had academic credentials and they were good. Dr. Zwarg, their chief, was a specialist. He probably had a gold medal from Olympus to underscore his credentials.

Loafers would be segregated from the prepared crowd. Those who forgot their sneakers or wore illegal shirts would join those who forgot their kit and they would be collectively punished in the yard with a harangue from the good doctor and he supervised laps around the schoolyard until the end of the period.

One day, Dr. Zwarg emerged from his office to gather up the unprepared. I was among them. He led us into the yard and addressed us in a stern voice. He was the Oberlehrer; we were so much scum. "Loafers," he began, "you are a disgrace." A dog in a yard in back of where he was standing bayed. A coincidence. The boss continued, identifying us as bums. The dog waited until Dr. Zwarg paused. He bayed again. A third wave of castigation fell upon the damned. The dog in the yard punctuated it with a howl. We were aware of it. Wry smiles were evident; he didn't notice. He was busy. The Obermeister was in form to reduce this rabble into humiliation. "You should be ashamed," he barked (excuse the expression). A cue! The dog raised his pitch with the speaker. They were competing. Oowooo! It wasn't subtle. Doctor Zwarg recognised insolance. Ours? The dog's? "Shut up!" Oowooo! Laughter. Things might get out of control. He'd correct that. "Two laps," Oowooo! "Five!" It was hysterical. Oowooo! He was hysterical and he upped the punishment "Ten!," Oowooo! This was unbelievable. This was an auction of the absurd. We ran around the track alternately responding to the German's commands and dog's howling. "You run until class is over." Oowooo! Everything has limits and the boss retreated to the building, reappearing just once to see that there was no slacking. Oowooo!

That's the way it was. He retired from the scene, exasperated! (no doubt).

Every June the phys-ed department had a day to show-off the whole student body at once. The public was invited but stood outside the fence that protected the world from the students in the yard. The event was choreographed by those who probably watched a lot of Busby Berkley movies. The girls, in blue jumpers or whatever they're called, went through dainty feminine dance-like exercises accompanied by music played close to the 78 RPM on a cheap P.A. system. The boys did calisthenics, squats, push-ups, knee-bends, toe-touching, sit-ups, other tortures. They did it as one. A thousand chins touching asphalt, a thousand spines curved to the same degree, a thousand throats doing remedial counts — one, two, three, four. The Oberleiter pontificated and fools would be punished. Orders crackled over the cheap P.A. The dutiful charges went through paces between speeches given by the faculty.

We hated June Day. Communists had June Day in May. They called it May Day. Girls' colleges had June Day in May too. They danced around May-poles. We had May Day in June and called it June Day. We weren't going to be associated with Commies and girls. On the plus side June Day cancelled morning classes and everyone went to the yard for the exhibition of physical fitness that proved the scrawny and the fat were an improved lot. It also proved that Doctor Zwarg and his minions were in control.

Some kids were truants. Some kids cut class. I never played hookey and I think that the only time I "cut" was the June Day festivities in 1950.

I viewed the event as an awesome pageant in 1948. I was a freshman and freshmen are impressed. They should be. If they're not, they'll be robots later on. In 1949 the awesome was reduced to a more difinable dimension: a ho-hum condition that was part of the curriculum — like assembly. By the third time around June Day came to feel like an exposure to a one too many Mummers Parade. (That's what critics observe as organised drunks strutting their off-key stuff every New Years Day on Broad Street in Philadelphia.)

My memory might be good but I don't remember who companioned with me that day. We stole away from the yard and observed the robots in gym suits, two thousand of them in the school-yard from our hidden perch in the fire-tower. We puffed cigarettes. We had ventriloquists answer when our names were called. And, we were escapees. We cheated.

From our third floor hideout we viewed all of the other kids working. We heard the speeches. We reduced ourselves to some lesser state of dignity that was insulting to those who pulled their share.

"Red Rover, Red Rover, come over Red Rover"

Reverse the plot. Two thousand kids looking out

of windows and Ronnie and the other loafers are

in the yard. "One, two, three, four" Push ups,

knee-bends, grunts. Justice that wasn't to be.

We couldn't leave the day to those who deserved it. Mrs. Wallace, Vice Principal, was addressing the crowd. She praised them. She didn't have to do push-ups or squats or flighty ballets. She honored the teachers, Oberlehrer Zwarg and his associates. She looked beyond those who were supposed to be in the yard and at the women on the other side of the fence. Count them! Daddies were at work but a lot of mothers left their drudgery to watch the awesome pageant. "I'm so glad to see so many mothers here," Mrs. Wallace cooed.

It was irresistable. From ground level, I might have appreciated hearing the response to that from someone else up in the fire tower. "....so many mothers here" was a trigger and I shouted rudely from my secret place "Yoour mootheer's heere." It fell into the yard like a bomb.

In those days before being rude would be a norm, this kind of thing got gasps instead of guffaws. Immediately the janitorial staff, Dan Dunn and his helper, known to us as Sharky, charged into the school. Dan was a junk yard dog in an ill-fitting suit. All of the kids feared him. Sharky was cool, but he had to make a living.

Sixteen year olds run faster than fifty year olds. We had the advantages of space, of health (from all those push-ups and squats and knee bends and the laps we ran when we were bad), and of anonymity. We didn't deserve our success because we had tilted against civilisation. We escaped. And the few who knew we were in the tower protected us. There's a collision between loyalty and morality, isn't there? To this day I'll defend the former. Obfuscation has its place.

It was one of those bad days presaged before I got to high-school. "Vere isch yur schneekers, ju loeffer?" I was unprepared and had to stand out in the hall eyeing tiles on the wall. A few other bums were there too and conversations were prohibited. The Oberleiter appeared. He glanced at the day's losers and singled out me.

"You!"

Maybe I would be turned into an example for all. Like those weak kids, or the fat ones who he would occasionally rail for their inability. "Follow me."

I trailed behind him, expecting to be led to the principal's den for a session that would be uncomfortable. Wait! We were going somewhere else. We left the building: the school grounds. We walked down Germantown Avenue to a food market. He pushed a pushcart toward me and I followed him up and down aisles. He was shopping.

It was ridiculous. It was better than an alternative like I had imagined. Oddly, this precursor of Schwarzenegger was pulling anything but health food from the shelves. Lots of hard candy was dumped into the basket. And chocolate, sugar, coffee, soap!

What's for dinner?

Doctor Zwarg probably noted how puzzled I looked. The stone face of the Obermeister disappeared for a while. He looked at me and then at the basket of sweets and coffee and soap bars. He pointed at them and told me he would mail them to relatives in ruined Germany. We had recently conquered it and the spoils were divided between the Allies. He sighed. Most of his packages, all going to the Soviet zone and about half to both the French and the American sectors would be stolen by the authorities. He said the British were the only ones who didn't take any.

Despite the pilferage he continued to ship this stuff hoping things might improve under the occupying masters. Whatever got through was used for barter, more valuable than money, I'm told. Slim chance, he noted. I nodded weakly. Dialogue was difficult with him but I told him that I hoped things would get better. He replied with a hopeless sounding "mmmf!" Sad!

He spent a lot of money at the register. I think that he made those trips often, maybe with the arrival of each paycheck. Teachers didn't make a lot of money in the forties. Even kids knew that.

Leopold Franz Zwarg lived to almost a hundred years. Long after he retired from teaching kids to be strong and fit, he still appeared at gymnastic competitions, often as a judge. Stiff as a ram-rod at ninty, I'm told, he watched and marked the efforts of those who might want to be as good as he was. They wouldn't be unless they had time to help the miserable.

What a guy.