by Liza Wiemer
“Heinrich Himmler started a program called Lebensborn, or ‘Spring of Life,’ in order to accelerate their Master Race. It is believed that over a twelve-year time period, up to twenty thousand children were born under this program. That doesn’t include the two hundred thousand or so blue-eyed, blond-haired children who were reportedly removed from their parents in captured countries to be raised in German homes. Take a look at the screen. I need a volunteer to read out loud part of this October 4, 1943, speech that Himmler gave to SS officers.” A few hands go up. Mr. Bartley calls on Kerrianne.
“One principle must be absolute for the SS man; we must be honest, decent, loyal, friendly to members of our blood and to no one else.
“What happens to the Russians, what happens to the Czechs, is a matter of utter indifference to me. Such good blood of our own kind as there may be among the nations we shall acquire for ourselves, if necessary, by taking away the children and bringing them up among us.” Kerrianne’s voice cracks and when she continues, it’s in a much softer tone. “Whether the other races live in comfort or perish of hunger interests me only insofar as we need them as slaves for our culture; apart from that it doesn’t interest me.”
Mr. Bartley continues. “Under Lebensborn, Himmler highly encouraged his elite SS officers to procreate with racially pure single women deeply devout to Hitler’s principles. The women included in this program had to believe in the ideals and pledge their fidelity to Nazism. They, too, had to prove that they had no Jewish blood.”
Heather braces herself on her desk and stares down at her boots.
I look at Allie. Pink splotches dot her cheeks and neck. I’ve never given much thought to genetics, but I’m suddenly grateful for my reddish-brown hair and hazel eyes.
“Nice!” Jesse smirks.
“Knock it off,” Mr. Bartley booms, glaring at Jesse. “Not nice at all, Mr. Elton. But I’m happy to give you extra credit if you do additional research on this subject. I’m certain you would not find Himmler to be a respectable role model. Please read the next quote from that same speech, Jesse.”
With the smile wiped from his face, Jesse begins. “We shall now discuss it absolutely openly among ourselves, nevertheless we shall never speak of it in public. I mean the evacuation of the Jews, the extermination of the Jews.
“It’s one of those things that’s easy to say. ‘The Jewish race is to be exterminated,’ says every party member. ‘That’s clear, it’s part of our program, elimination of the Jews, extermination, right, we’ll do it.’
“And then they all come along, eighty million good Germans, and each one has his decent Jew. Of course the others are swine, but this one is a first-class Jew. Of all those who talk like this, not one has watched, not one has stood up to it.
“Most of you know what it means to see a hundred corpses lying together, five hundred, or a thousand. To have gone through this yet—apart from a few exceptions, examples of human weakness—to have remained decent fellows, this is what has made us hard. This is a glorious page in our history that has never been written and shall never be written.” Jesse blinks at the screen.
Heather slides into her seat, and so does Allie, who looks a little green. Jesse remains standing.
“I don’t get it,” Heather says quietly. “We’re not smarter or better than anyone else. Himmler’s speech, the Nazis’ treatment of human beings, is appalling.”
Mr. Bartley leans against his desk. “Excellent observation, Miss Jameson. And through our enlightened perspective, I completely agree with you. I look forward to you sharing why you find it appalling in your paper. For the sake of the Wannsee Conference reenactment, however, our purpose is to understand the Nazi perspective on superiority and how it fueled their inhumanity.”
Logan’s hand shoots up. When Mr. Bartley calls on her, she says, “The problem is there are people who still believe in a superior race. They believe what the Nazis did was okay.” Her eyes dart to Jesse. “It’s wrong. What is there to debate?”
The end-of-the-day bell rings and the room erupts with the sounds of chairs scraping against the linoleum, cell phones being turned on, backpacks being zipped.
Mr. Bartley raises his voice above the noise. “That’s exactly why it’s important for us to learn about this, Logan. When you’re at Georgetown, you’ll think back to this assignment and appreciate this challenge.”
Logan opens her mouth, but then Spencer approaches Mr. Bartley and he gives Spencer his attention.
Jesse walks over to Heather. She ignores him as she sticks her latest novel into her backpack. He drapes his arm over her shoulder. “We should call ourselves the Aryans,” he says, a small smile playing on his lips. “You, me, Allie, and the rest of the blue-eyed, blond-haired beauties of Riviere High School.”
Heather shoves his arm off her, spins, and power walks out the door. Logan and I follow, but I lose sight of Heather as students pour out.
Logan grabs my hand, pulls me off to the side. “I’m not comfortable with this assignment,” she says. “This is wrong for the very reason I said. Some people still believe in white supremacy. Look at the violence that happened in Charlottesville, Virginia, when the white supremacists held their rally. A woman was killed.”
Goose bumps rise on my arms. I step closer to Logan and keep my voice low. “I can’t do it. My grandpa saved a Jewish boy, and now Mr. Bartley wants me to argue in favor of murder? I can’t—” I cut myself off.
“Wait, back up. Your grandpa did what?”
“I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“Why not?”
The revelation weighs heavily on my shoulders. I trust Logan. If I share Grandpa’s story, she’ll take it to her grave. But I gave him my word. I don’t have the right to tell Logan, especially when Mom doesn’t even know.
“I can’t. I promised.”
“Your grandpa?”
I nod. “Before he died. He told me true stories, Logan, horrible stories. Until recently, I’d forgotten about them. What the Nazis did to his Jewish neighbors—” I swallow.
Mr. Bartley enters the hallway clutching his computer bag handle as if he’s carrying government secrets. Logan straightens, backs up a few steps until she touches the wall. He lifts his chin to acknowledge us. “Have a good evening, you two.”
“You too,” I mumble as he passes.
We track his steps, and only when he begins the descent to the main floor and disappears from view, does Logan speak. “I don’t understand the purpose of this assignment. I heard Mr. Bartley’s explanation, but it’s not right. Role-playing or not, history or not, an assignment requiring us to defend Nazis is wrong. Why would he want any of us to act like that?”
Nazis. I can still hear the bitterness in my grandpa’s shaky voice when he talked about Nazis. The way his mouth pinched, the pain that crinkled his brow when he told me the story of how he saved his Jewish friend. During one emotional moment, he stopped, struggled to maintain his composure as he gripped the sand block he was using.
This is not how I want to remember Grandpa. I try to conjure images of him standing behind our reception desk and welcoming guests, dancing with Nana with her hands covered in flour, or taking an early-morning walk together on the inn’s beach to watch the sun rise. But each one fades. I look at Logan. “We need to do something about this assignment.”
Defiance blooms in her eyes. “Damn right. What do you think we should do?”
Video chat:
BLAIR: (on her smartphone, sitting in her beat-up car in the parking lot of JustaDollar, where she works as a cashier) Wow, Logan. I’m telling you, that assignment would never fly at Glenslope.
LOGAN: (on her laptop, sitting at her rummage sale desk she painted sky blue) You sure? This is a history class—
BLAIR: Hell yes, I’m sure. A billion percent. I don’t know how many Jewish students we have, but there ar
e enough that we get a day off for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. Half of our school is POC. If a teacher at our school gave out an assignment like that, I’m certain the majority of students and their parents would storm administration and get that racist, antisemitic fired.
LOGAN: We don’t want Mr. Bartley fired.
BLAIR: (surprised) Why not?
LOGAN: We only want the debate canceled. Mr. Bartley’s not a white supremacist. Normally, he’s a great teacher.
BLAIR: A good teacher would never give that assignment. I don’t get why you’re defending him. How well do you really know him?
LOGAN: (frustrated) I’m not defending him or the assignment, okay? Good people make mistakes. We want to give him the benefit of the doubt. He’ll listen to us. I know he will.
BLAIR: If you say so. But maybe you can get other students to go with you? Anyone Jewish at your school? There’s no way he could let this assignment stand if he has to justify their murders.
LOGAN: (shakes head) No, I don’t think so. One sec. (gets last year’s yearbook from her bookshelf, flips through it) If there are any Jewish students, I wouldn’t know. Last year, we had six hundred students and the only POC were two junior exchange students from Japan. Our school is pretty much all white-bread. (turns to the pages with clubs) We don’t have an LGBTQIAP+ club, either. Compared to Milwaukee and your school, there’s hardly any diversity here. Other than Cade and me, I highly doubt any students or parents would storm our principal’s office because of this assignment. (pauses) Any of your neighbors hanging Confederate flags from their porches?
BLAIR: You’re kidding?
LOGAN: No. On my drive to school, I pass at least four homes with those flags, and the last time I was on Main Street, the resale shop had one in its display window.
BLAIR: I repeat, are you kidding me? Logan. That’s—I don’t even know what to say. Seriously, I can’t imagine being surrounded by that kind of hate. At my school, some Muslim students wear hijabs and some Jewish students wear kippahs. No one blinks an eye. I walk down our hallways and every day I see interracial couples holding hands. Same with girls and girls and boys with boys and, at least with my friends, no one thinks twice about it. Glenslope has problems, but not your problems. I’m worried about you. If you and Cade are going to take on your teacher, you need a plan.
LOGAN: We have one. We’re going to meet with Mr. Bartley before school and present him with a list of reasons why he needs to cancel this assignment.
BLAIR: (turns the key in her ignition, starting the engine to heat up her car) But, didn’t you once tell me that Cade doesn’t always come to school on time?
LOGAN: So?
BLAIR: Do you have a backup plan?
LOGAN: I don’t need one. He promised, so he’ll be there. And you know Cade never promises, because—
BLAIR: —the inn always comes first. That’s why I asked if you have a backup plan. Even with his promise, things come up and I don’t want you talking to your teacher alone. Why don’t you have your dad go with you?
LOGAN: I haven’t told him about the assignment, yet. Besides, would you want your mom marching into school to talk to your teacher?
BLAIR: Point taken. Still, with everything you just told me, favorite teacher or not, why would Mr. Bartley listen to just you?
LOGAN: (sighs) You’re right. I’ll figure it out.
BLAIR: Of course you will. Listen, I gotta go. Mom wants me to pick up Culver’s.
LOGAN: One more thing I miss from Wisconsin.
BLAIR: (grins) Deep-fried cheese curds, butterburgers, buffalo chicken tenders, topped off with melt-in-your-mouth chocolate custard. Hmmm.
LOGAN: Great. Now I’m craving Culver’s. So mean.
BLAIR: Yes. Yes I am. Text me the minute you’re done talking with Mr. Buttley, ’kay?
LOGAN: Bartley.
BLAIR: (smiling) Love you.
LOGAN: Love you, too, cuz.
“Cade, I need you to double-check the bathrooms. Make sure they’re spotless,” Mom says as I finish dusting the parlor. She leans over the reception desk, eyeing the room I just cleaned as if she could spot a speck of dust from this far away.
“I’ll take care of it,” I say, knowing ten hours ago—the last time I’d gone through each guest room—everything was perfect.
“Mikayla, don’t nag the boy,” Nana says, coming through our apartment door. She sends me a sympathetic smile, then turns to Mom. “Give him a few minutes to have a snack. From the second he got home, he’s been working. There’s plenty of time, and if necessary I can scrub a toilet.” The lilt of her Polish accent thickens with irritation. “I’m not an invalid, you know.”
“Ma, of course not. But no one in this family can make your pies, so let us worry about everything else.”
“Ach. That’s my point. You worry too much.”
Nana’s so right, but I keep my mouth shut.
The brewing argument is my cue to escape. As I reach our apartment door, Nana steps in my way, takes my hands, and turns them over in hers. “Nice strong hands, perfect for kneading dough. Maybe it’s time for me to pass on all my baking secrets to you, hmm?” She narrows her eyes at Mom. “Before I become too old to do anything around here.”
I gently squeeze her hands. “You’re not old, Nana. Besides, we need you. Our best reviews always mention your cooking.”
“Humph.” She lowers her voice, but it’s still loud enough for Mom to hear. “I put aside some rogaliki in our secret place so your dad won’t eat them all. Now give me a kiss and go enjoy your treat.”
“Thanks, Nana.”
I make my way into our small kitchen, take the pasta box out of the cupboard, and head into my room. Kicking my door shut, I set the box on my nightstand, which Grandpa and I made from repurposed wooden crates.
The smells of powdered sugar and strawberry jam fill the air, making my stomach growl and my mouth water in anticipation. I plunge my hand through the pasta box flaps and draw out a piece. The small crescent-shaped pastry melts in my mouth. I eat one after another until the box is empty. Setting it aside, I pick up The Tenant of Wildfell Hall, a novel I promised Logan I’d read. Eventually.
The book reminds me of the first time Logan came bouncing through the inn’s double-arched doors, drenched from a downpour. Her dad, Professor March, scowled at the puddles as they walked to the reception desk to check in. I smiled, welcomed them. Logan smiled back, and said, “I’m so sorry we’re dripping all over the floor. If you get me a rag, I’ll clean it up.” I refused, told her it wasn’t a problem.
The next day, she wouldn’t let me make her bed or give her fresh towels or vacuum the carpet. Before I could move to the next room, she asked if she could tag along. Her dad was at an interview for the Dean of Mathematics position at SUNY-Lakeside. While I did my chores, she asked me questions about the inn, Riviere, and my family. She was good company, and with her dad’s extensive interviews, Logan had plenty of time to hang out with me as I cleaned rooms. By the third day, she was restocking the bathrooms and mini-refrigerators and emptying trash with me.
That afternoon, she came around the reception desk, leaned against our closed apartment door, and started talking again. This time, it was her love for all thing history, particularly English history. She rattled off English authors she loved, like Jane Austen, the Brontë sisters, and J. K. Rowling. One part of me was impressed. None of the twelve- or thirteen-year-old girls in my grade were quite like her—bright, spunky, ballsy, interesting, worldly. Half the things she talked about were new to me. I liked listening to her, but the other part of me wondered when she would pause so I could tell her she didn’t belong behind the counter.
When she did take a breath, her eyes grew wide, and I thought that she finally realized she’d crossed that invisible barrier between guests and innkeepers. But no. Not L
ogan.
She pivoted around, taking everything in. “You’re so lucky to live here. It’s beautiful.”
“We don’t exactly live here,” I said. “We live in the old servant quarters.” I pointed to our apartment door, then swept my arm in front of me. “The rest is for guests.” I had hoped she’d get the hint. She didn’t. Not even close. She hopped up and sat on the desk!
A minute later, she followed me into the parlor. As I straightened magazines, she brushed her fingertips over the leather chairs, the stone fireplace, the wood coffee table, and even the stained-glass lamp, as if taking it in by sight wasn’t enough. She went to the bookshelves, ran a finger over the spines, scanning the titles. She removed Anne Brontë’s The Tenant of Wildfell Hall.
“Have you read it?” She said it with so much hope, I was tempted to lie. I shook my head. “You must!” She tucked it under her arm. “Of all the Brontë sisters’ novels, it’s my favorite.”
I learned a valuable lesson about Logan that day. My mumbled yeah was interpreted as “Yes, Logan, I’d love to read The Tenant of Wildfell Hall.” Twice a year since, thanks to her calendar app, she asks how far I’ve gotten.
Okay, I fully admit, a year ago I thought I’d get away with watching the BBC miniseries, but Logan wasn’t having it. “Nice try, Crawford. But the series decimated Helen’s strength of character and it failed to mirror the authenticity of Anne Brontë’s revolutionary feminist novel.” She waved the book at me. “Read it, then we can talk about it.”
I pick up my pen, open my copy to the bookmarked page, and begin to read.
Two minutes later, my flip phone buzzes with a text. I hate texting on this thing. It’s a tedious pain in the ass, but it’s all our budget could afford.
LOGAN: Well? What did your mom say?
ME: Haven’t asked
LOGAN: It’s important.
ME: I know. Gtg
It’s been over a month since we had guests stay at the inn. Our upstate New York town during winter doesn’t attract many vacationers. This wedding party is a big deal. I never should have promised Logan I’d meet her before school tomorrow to speak with Mr. Bartley. But what choice do we have? There’s no way I’m going to present arguments in favor of murdering Jews. If we can’t convince him to change the assignment, I’ll take an F.
