When I was eleven, however, my treasure had to be tucked away again, because my sixth-grade teacher allowed us to use only school pens and inkpots.
When I was twelve, I started at the Jewish Lyceum and my fountain pen was given a new case in honor of the occasion.
Not only did it have room for a pencil, it also had a zipper, which was much more impressive.
When I was thirteen, the fountain pen went with me to the Annex, and together we've raced through countless diaries and compositions.
I'd turned fourteen and my fountain pen was enjoying the last year of its life with me when...
It was just after five on Friday afternoon. I came out of my room and was about to sit down at the table to write
when I was roughly pushed to one side to make room for Margot and Father, who wanted to practice their Latin.
The fountain pen remained unused on the table, while its owner, sighing,
was forced to make do with a very tiny corner of the table, where she began rubbing beans.
That's how we remove mold from the beans and restore them to their original state.
At a quarter to six I swept the floor, dumped the dirt into a newspaper, along with the rotten beans, and tossed it into the stove.
A giant flame shot up, and I thought it was wonderful that the stove, which had been gasping its last breath, had made such a miraculous recovery.
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