by Liza Wiemer
“But they—they’re…Nazis,” Logan stammers without raising her hand.
Mr. Bartley’s stern expression cautions her not to speak out of turn again. “Yes, and your job is to understand their mentality. I know re-creating this debate is a challenge, but history is filled with many horrors and this is an impactful way to learn. Experience is always a great teacher.” Mr. Bartley smiles. “Unless you’d rather memorize dates and facts and take multiple-choice tests like I had to in my boring high school history classes.”
The room erupts with groans and “No thank yous.”
Once again, Mr. Bartley raises a hand to quiet us down. “All right then. Back to the Wannsee Conference.” He goes through several more slides. My eyes meet Logan’s, and then hers dart over my shoulder.
She gasps. I twist in my seat to see why Logan’s freaked out and my mouth drops open.
Jesse Elton stands and snaps his feet together. He lifts his right arm and salutes like a Nazi. “Heil Hitler,” he calls out.
Several people laugh, and Jesse gives them an appreciative grin. Cade’s stunned expression matches mine. Does everyone else find that funny? I look around. Revulsion flashes across Daniel Riggs’s face, but it disappears so quickly that I question whether it was there to begin with.
Spencer holds out his fist to Jesse, then mimics the salute and says, “Seig Heil. Hail victory.”
This can’t be happening here, in my favorite class with my favorite teacher.
And just as I wonder if Mr. Bartley is going to do something, he walks over to Spencer and Jesse. His tone is sharp as a blade cutting through metal. “Those actions are inappropriate. This isn’t a joke and you are never to make light of the Nazi salute and the hate it represents. I expect you to take this assignment seriously.”
Jesse drops his gaze, but not his smirk. Spencer shrugs his shoulders and looks at Mason, the RHS varsity hockey team captain and my biggest rival for valedictorian. Jesse and Spencer are his guys, his teammates, and for one second I hold out hope that maybe Mason will be the leader he’s supposed to be, to say something, do something—even a look of disapproval. But he’s not looking at them. He’s not looking at anyone. He’s picking at a thread on his jersey.
Another teammate, Reginald Ashford, however, shoots daggers from across the room at Spencer and Jesse. The muscle in his jaw tics. He’s pissed. Good. There’s always been a bit of a rivalry between Mason and Reg, and now I can’t help but think Reg should have been team captain instead of the coach’s son.
And then there’s Spencer. He shrugs his shoulders when he sees me glaring at him. Disgusted, I turn back in my seat. It hardly matters that Mr. Bartley reprimanded them. This assignment is a green light for these guys to act like Nazis. I don’t know if I’m more disappointed with Mr. Bartley or with Spencer and Jesse. Definitely Mr. Bartley. I don’t get why he thinks it’s a good idea to promote fascism by having us do an immoral debate.
Mr. Bartley says, “Let me be clear. I am not asking you to be sympathetic to the Nazis. Quite the opposite. This is a serious examination of a historical event. Let’s learn from this moment and remember to be respectful.” He looks pointedly at Jesse and Spencer.
“By examining these perspectives, this assignment gives you the opportunity to discuss and present a topic that will force you out of your comfort zone. Why is this important? It’s important because there will be plenty of times in your life when you’ll be in a situation where people will express ideas existentially and philosophically opposed to your own. It happens every day on the internet. You’ll face it on your college campuses.” Mr. Bartley looks at me. “The point is to understand all sides and be prepared to debate. I promise, after you complete this work, you’ll have a better grasp on how to create and present compelling arguments.”
“But, Mr. Bartley—”
He goes all traffic cop on me and I close my mouth. “Let me finish, Logan.”
Kerrianne snickers. I so want to raise my middle finger and tell her to go perch on a building with her fellow gargoyles. Mason asked me to prom last year. Not my fault she was second choice after I said no. Ever since, Kerrianne has been nasty to me. You’d think after eleven months as Kerrison, she’d be over it.
I focus on Mr. Bartley.
He says, “We only need to look to Sudan and Myanmar, to name just a few nations, to understand that genocide is not history. It’s a part of our modern society. We can turn to China and the reports of concentration camps holding up to a million Uighur Muslims. What is the excuse for this inhumanity? Power and politics!
“So, for this assignment only, I want you to walk in the footsteps of Nazis to gain insight into the Final Solution and their justifications for genocide. I look forward to reading your personal perspectives for your side of the debate and your point of view on the Holocaust in your papers.”
When Dad and I lived in Milwaukee, we had Jewish neighbors. Mr. and Mrs. Simon treated me like another grandchild—babysitting whenever Dad’s sister, Aunt Ava, couldn’t, reading books to me, and bringing me birthday presents. Every time I saw Mr. Simon in our apartment building, he’d greet me with “Howdo, howdo? How’s the sweetest girl on our floor today?”
They had a granddaughter my age, and whenever Gayle came to visit, the Simons always invited me over. During Hanukkah, Gayle taught my cousin Blair and me how to play a game with a four-sided spinning top called a dreidel. I cried when the Simons moved to California to be closer to Gayle. To this day, I miss them. I can’t imagine anyone ever wanting to hurt the Simons for any reason, let alone because they’re Jewish.
To my knowledge, no one in our school is Jewish, and I don’t think there are any Jews in our town. But what if there were?
The sound of drumming fingers draws me out of my head. Mason’s looking at me. He stops tapping his notebook. His other hand rests on his thigh, clenched in a fist. For a split second I wonder if he, too, is appalled by this assignment. But no. His gaze shifts to the clock, then settles on Kerrianne. Of course. He’s probably counting the seconds until he can get his hands on her.
She is doodling in her notebook. Ugh. Hearts and stars when Mr. Bartley’s talking genocide.
Cade catches my attention, flashes his notebook. “U ok?”
I feel ill. But Cade’s concern helps make it bearable. I answer him with a nod.
Mason notices Logan fidgeting in her seat and scowling, especially after his hockey teammates, Jesse and Spencer, stand and give the Nazi salute. Their actions are a violation of their team’s code of conduct—all members must refrain from disparaging or disrespecting others—and it bothers Mason. To his relief, Mr. Bartley calls them out on it, puts them in their place.
Hell, as captain, he’s tried.
Recalling what transpired after last Friday night’s hockey game, Mason fists his hand against his thigh. They’d won by a single goal, and Mason’s dad, Coach Hayes, had come down hard on all of them, pointing out mistakes that could have cost them the game. “I expect every one of you to think about what you did wrong. We got the win, but it wasn’t enough. You can and will destroy the next team at regionals.”
After Mason’s dad left the locker room, Jesse, Spencer, and a few other teammates spouted racial slurs about a Black player on their opposing team—a player with more skills, more moves than Jesse and Spencer combined. Mason stepped in and told them that they were way out of line and were better than that. When they didn’t stop, he told them to shut the hell up, that they were jealous of the dude, and to worry about their own play.
Jesse lifted his hand, sarcastically saluted Mason, and said, “Aye, aye, captain,” getting laughs from some of the guys. Spencer repeated it, then knocked his shoulder into Mason’s. Things escalated from there. They trashed Mason, taunted him, told him he was gay like Daniel Riggs.
Thinking about it now, Mason still gets pissed off. He doesn’t ca
re about what his teammates say about him—he can deal with it. But when they make racist comments or talk smack about Daniel for being gay, it irritates him. It’s cruel. Why do they have to be that way?
Mason glances at Daniel. He’s hunched over, looking at his phone under his desk. Whatever is on the screen has his full attention. Daniel keeps to himself, never bothers anyone.
Although they’ve gone to the same school since kindergarten, Mason has never been friends with him, mainly because Daniel has never been interested in hockey. Mason got his first pair of skates at two and started youth hockey at four. So did Spencer, Jesse, and Reg, and they’ve been friends ever since. For Mason, being on the ice is as necessary as breathing air. When his team voted him captain, Mason had earned it.
Still, Jesse, Spencer, and some of the other guys thrive on giving Mason hell. Last Friday night, they went too far. Mason lost it and threw Jesse into a locker. The fight ended when their teammates pulled them apart.
Clenching his teeth, Mason replays his dad’s reaction. Coach Hayes called him into his office, ordered him to close the door. He pointed to the cold metal chair. The second Mason sat, his dad lit into him. “You’re going to apologize to the team. I won’t tolerate that behavior from anyone. Not the team captain, and certainly not my son.”
Mason knew better than to talk back to his father, but he couldn’t help it. “Then why am I the only one here, Dad? They’re racists, and if someone recorded it—”
Coach Hayes cut Mason off. “You lead by example, and your behavior crossed a line.”
“Nearly every day they cross that line. They violate the athletic code we all had to sign, and you do nothing,” Mason seethed. “One word from you and they’d stop. I put them in their place and I’d do it again. I won’t apologize.”
“Then you’re benched.”
“Great.” Mason stood.
“Sit down!” his father roared.
Before turning around, Mason wiped the grim smile from his face. He knew Coach Hayes wouldn’t bench him. No way would he jeopardize winning regionals and their chance at the state championship.
His father clasped his hands. “Mason, they were letting off steam. Some of this stuff you have to let go or it distracts the team from doing what they need to do. Keep the boys focused on the game. That’s it. Besides, this never would have happened if you had played better, if you hadn’t missed that goal…” He went on and on, picking Mason apart until Mason wanted to shrink into his chair just like his mother did at home when the criticism was aimed at her. Mason stood and walked away under a barrage of threats and curses. He knew all too well how his father let off steam.
Punching Jesse had felt good, too good, and that realization gripped Mason with fear. I will never become my father, he vowed. I will never become that violent, horrible man.
Later that same night, when he and Kerrianne were in her bedroom, she asked him what was wrong. He told her about Jesse’s and Spencer’s slurs. “They’re just jealous of you,” she said. “They do it because they know it annoys you. You can’t let them get to you. If I let everything get to me, I’d crawl into a hole and die. Come here. Kiss me and forget about them.”
Looking over at Kerrianne now, Mason admits to himself that he doesn’t love her. After Logan turned him down for prom last year, Kerrianne was an easy, uncomplicated yes. They were friends, and even though she’d hooked up with a few of his hockey buddies the first semester their freshman year, she hadn’t been with anyone else. She stopped drinking, she stopped hooking up, but she didn’t stop hanging out with the team. And because Mason didn’t drink, either, they bonded over their alcohol-free red Solo cups, their love for hockey, and country music. Since prom, they’ve been a couple.
So what if he occasionally fantasizes that Kerrianne is Logan? He feels guilty about that, and because of it, Mason knows he should break up with Kerrianne, especially since she talks about a future with him. He wanted to tell her it was over weeks ago. He couldn’t. Not with Kerrianne on the Snow Ball dance committee, planning tomorrow night for the past two months. What kind of jerk breaks up with his girlfriend after she’s bought a midnight-blue strapless dress? (Yeah, she texted him a photo of the wrist corsage she said would complement it best.)
Mason realizes he needs to focus on Mr. Bartley. He’s at the Smart Board. A picture of Hitler fills the screen. Sick. Mason lives with a brutal dictator in his father and coach. He certainly doesn’t want to advocate for one at school.
Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Logan running her fingers through her short choppy hair, gripping it like she wants to tear it out. When Mr. Bartley says, “Examine if there is any legitimacy for the arguments on your side of the debate,” Logan looks like she wants to strangle him.
Mason’s right there with her. Half the assignments he gets—including this one—are a waste of time. But there’s college, and he’s always known that if hockey isn’t his ticket out of Riviere, his grades have to be. He has both. Besides, he likes battling it out for valedictorian against Logan.
Again, he glances toward her, then refocuses on the evil dictator with the bad mustache. Mr. Bartley says, “History is one of our best teachers. Unfortunately, this assignment will show you that society hasn’t learned much at all.”
Who wouldn’t agree with that?
As Mr. Bartley drones on about Nazis, snippets of the old story Grandpa told me in his workshop flash into my mind. I try to piece them together like the jigsaw puzzles we made. I know my grandpa told me he grew up in Poland on a farm with fields of wheat and apple trees. There was a barn filled with cows and a horse, goats and sheep. A river ran through their property, and he used to follow its bank to get to the nearest town. If he said the name, I don’t remember, but it was in Poland.
I glance out the window. Big flakes of snow fall diagonally, swirl in gusts of wind, adding to my deteriorating mood. It means more work for me and my family’s inn. I mentally add “shovel and salt the parking lot and sidewalks” to my to-do list. With a wedding party checking in tomorrow morning, I expect a late night, and instead of listening to Mr. Bartley, I go through everything I’ll need to do when I get home—extra touches to get ready, like arranging champagne, glasses, and Nana’s homemade chocolates for the bride and groom.
Mr. Bartley steps in front of my desk and frowns at my blank notebook. “Disappointing,” he murmurs, and continues down my aisle. I pick up my pen and glance at Logan to see if she heard. She’s glaring at Hitler’s image and has a full page of notes. On my right, Spencer flips his notebook up, showing me lines of text with red swastikas for bullet points. The word “Jew” has a red slash through it. He’s also drawn gallows. Stick figures wearing Jewish stars hang from ropes. I shake my head in disgust and mumble “asshole” under my breath.
I try to focus on what Mr. Bartley’s saying about the Final Solution, but Spencer’s gallows spark another memory. Grandpa had talked about gallows. I close my eyes, picture sitting with him in his workshop surrounded by wood shavings, sanding toys for Santa.
Grandpa told me that the Nazis were rounding up the Jews. A truck had stopped at their farm, checked their papers. The SS officers took their food, then warned his family to stay away from town. But Grandpa was worried about his Jewish friend. He wanted to find him. Even though his parents forbade him to leave the house, Grandpa snuck out after they fell asleep. He saw hundreds, maybe a thousand Jews in the town square forced to stand silent as several Nazis selected six boys for no reason and hung them from gallows. The rest of the story floods back into my mind like a tidal wave. I know what happened to his friend. I know what happened to the people in the town.
The memory leaves me shaken as Mr. Bartley scans the room.
“A demonstration,” he says. “I’d like those of you with blond hair and blue eyes to please stand up next to your desks.”
Pretty much everyone twists i
n their seats, checking each other out. Jesse Elton and Allie Fitzpatrick stand immediately. Allie has the most beautiful eyes, a deep turquoise blue the color of a calm Lake Ontario on a sunny day. In the front row, last seat on the left, Heather Jameson hesitates, but with everyone’s attention on her, she slides out of her chair and stands. She smooths back strands that escaped from her ponytail, then crosses her arms over her chest. Like Kerrianne, I’ve known Heather since kindergarten. She’s tiny, barely five feet, and looks more like a sixth grader than a senior. Like Logan, she loves to read. Heather always has a novel open, even in class. I think books are her way of avoiding people—armor—especially after her older sister was arrested in Riviere’s biggest drug bust. It happened during our freshman year. Heather’s sister ended up in juvie. Unlike Logan, who has a singing voice that makes dogs howl, Heather has a voice that could make angels weep.
With all this attention on her, she looks like she could weep now.
Mr. Bartley does another quick scan of our class, then addresses Jesse, Heather, and Allie. “Again, this is strictly a demonstration. If you feel uncomfortable, you do not need to remain standing.”
Speaking to all of us, he says, “Under Nazi Germany, blond-haired, blue-eyed characteristics were considered ideal for their Aryan race of superior human beings. Jesse, if you lived under Hitler’s rule, by appearance alone, you would have been considered a potential candidate for the SS.” He faces the rest of the class. “Other requirements included being at least five foot eleven, physically fit, and in excellent health. However, candidates needed to provide proof that their lineage had no Jewish blood going as far back as one hundred fifty years.”
“I’m pure.” Jesse grins and flexes his muscles, getting a sprinkle of laughter. Mr. Bartley ignores him. Logan’s disgust mirrors my own.
A photo labeled “Heinrich Himmler, the commander of the SS, with his daughter” fills the Smart Board. She, of course, has blond hair, blue eyes.
