The German Girl

Three things worried Paul Gilverstein as he stepped off his school bus that blustery March afternoon in 1958:

1. Balancing his ninth grade history textbook in front of his pants so no one would see his erection.

2. How hungry he was.

3. The hot, jumpy feeling that filled his chest after bumping into the German girl, Anne Von Richler.

The girl-herd formed on the left side of the street, the boys moved toward the right curb, both groups walking up the slight hill toward their houses on the neat suburban block.

Mitchell, so cool with his swept back haircut like Kookie Byrnes in 77 Sunset

Strip, walked beside Paul. “You know about her father, right?”

Anne’s blond, curly hair bounced like silken cotton candy.

Dr. von Richler was a pediatrician at the local hospital, but the scuttlebutt among the ninth graders was that he’d been a Nazi who’d come over to this country right after the war. He drove a Ford Thunderbird convertible, which also made him confusingly cool.

“Hitler’s still alive, hiding in Argentina somewhere,” Jimmy observed darkly, a step behind Paul.

Paul studied Mitchell’s manly moustache. He put his hand over the few thin, measly hairs sprouting on his upper lip. Mitchell had wolfed down two cheeseburgers—his own and the one Paul couldn’t eat—in the school cafeteria. The scent of that treyf burger had stayed with Paul, distracting him in afternoon history class, almost getting him yet another detention.

“Besides,” Jimmy chipped in, a step behind Paul, “you talk to her, you better have a lot of time.”

Mitchell laughed, wiggling his lower jaw, mimicking Anne Von Richler’s stutter.

Taller than Mitchell, Paul grabbed him in a one-arm headlock and gave him a running series of noogies...