The back window in Rabbi Schwartzman’s office looked out at his students—and, he believed, their hearts—while they played at recess. He could see who was picked first for teams, who was left at the end for the reluctant captains, and who was not even asked to play. He watched the boys share snacks and saw the bags of carrots and snap peas make their way to the trash, while the boys with chips and cookies were surrounded by eager hands.
Rabbi Schwartzman swiveled his chair towards the window every day at recess, scanning the boys to note the changes, small as they were, and more importantly, to follow that which did not change. The leaders continued to swagger out of the building and dictate what game would be played, and the followers willingly agreed. And always, there would be two or three boys standing alongside the yard, hunched over in the cold or sweating in the sun, watching the other boys play while Rabbi Schwartzman watched them all.
As the bell rang, signaling the end of the last recess, Rabbi Schwartzman swiveled back around and shuffled through the papers he had on his desk. Three resumés for the seventh-grade history position, an invoice from last month’s trip to the matzah factory informing him that the school owed another two hundred dollars. He was relieved to hear a knock, hoping for a pleasant distraction; then sighed when he saw Mr. Cunningham.
“Rabbi, we need to talk about the hallway,” Mr. Cunningham began, making his...
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