In the kindergarten, I was always a quiet and obedient boy. I can hardly remember anything about it, only the fragments. I remember one episode very well.

I sat quietly and ate borst thinking of my own, and the teacher walked between the rows of solitary tables. She approached me from behind and with the words, "We need to eat, not talk," just knocked me in the borst. A face in a hot borst. A little boy. The face in the border. I pulled my face out of the soup and sat in complete confusion for a while, my child’s brain was trying to understand what happened and why it happened to me. As she went on, she turned around and disregardingly said, “Go wash! “” I wasn’t crying, but I was disappointed and terribly sad. At home, I told my mother, and she told my dad. The next day, for the first and last time, Dad took me to the kindergarten, took me to the other children and left the room. In 10 to 15 minutes the teacher arrived. Although we were all five years old, we even noticed that she was wildly frightened. She stood at the door and licked my eyes, and I looked at her, it lasted a couple of minutes. And for the rest of the year in childhood, she tried not even to look at me and circumvent me. I don’t know what my dad said to her, but I know I would have done the same in his place. And the fact that my father advocated for me helped me quickly forget the outrage. And in my not the happiest childhood, it has remained a happy memory.

Thank you Dad. I remember