Clearly this question had been rising through Andy for a little while, like a bubble of methane in dense mud.

Raj suddenly ran to the front of the class, picked up some chalk, and drew a thick swastika on the blackboard just as the bell rang for nine. On the way back to his desk he tried, as unobtrusively as he could, to push a big mobile world map a little way in front of it. As he got to his seat, Greenberg entered and sat at his desk.

He took attendance, stammering and making that corkscrew gesture with his finger, which, after Raj’s performance, caused a few of the boys to snicker. Becoming aware that there was something awry in the atmosphere of the room, Greenberg narrowed his eyes suspiciously. It was as he got up to read through the day’s announcements that he saw it. He pushed the map out of the way and for a moment remained completely still. He looked back at the class then, the boys frozen and staring into the graffiti-scored lids of their desks. His face began to twitch oddly, and he swallowed a few times as if something were caught in his throat.

“Do—do you know—” His ragged voice snapped and he began again. “Do—do you know—know how disgusting this is to me?” He was leaning over his desk, gripping its edges as if he could hardly hold himself upright, staring at the class with horror and anguish of an intensity none of the boys had ever seen before in an adult face. “Do—do you know”—his voice rose to a scream—“what—what this is? Disgusting. Obscene. Who—who did this?” Coming around his desk, he looked as if he were ready to savage anyone who moved. “Who did this?”

Plump Mr. Freeman came in, looking astonished. He had clearly heard Greenberg shouting from his classroom across the corridor.

“Mr. Greenberg?” he called timidly.

Greenberg fixed on Freeman as if no one were beyond suspicion.

Seeing the swastika, Freeman turned to the class. “Shame!” was all he could think to say.

Greenberg slammed his hand down on his desk. “Who did this?”

Stinky Harris, the alternate whipping boy, looked up, catching Greenberg’s eye as he glanced at Raj. Greenberg strode over to Raj and snatched up his right hand. It was covered in chalk.

“Did—did you do this?”

Raj nodded.

Greenberg, holding his chalky hand almost tenderly, examined Raj for a long moment. Calmly, then, he turned back to his colleague. “Thank—thank you, Mr. Freeman, for your assistance.”

“Shame,” Freeman said again, casting a reproachful glance at Raj before he left.

Greenberg quietly told Raj to erase the board. Raj, rigid, his head tucked into his shoulders, did this as Greenberg read out the rest of the notices. Without another word, he sent them to their classes.

Big Boobs Bellamy was a beefy woman in her early forties with a thick Yorkshire accent. She cut her graying hair mannishly short, wore bright red lipstick, and though she looked formidable was actually a pushover. She loved poetry and would often cry as she read poems aloud to the class. Raj was her favorite. A number of boys were looking at Raj, who was staring blankly out the window. They had heard already about what happened with Greenberg.