The Assignment

by Liza Wiemer

  I hear a “but” coming, and my heart sinks faster than a rock tossed into Lake Ontario.

  “I’m happy to say we’ve reached a reasonable compromise. Everyone in class will have the option to either proceed with Mr. Bartley’s debate and opinion paper or they can research the Fort Ontario Emergency Refugee Shelter and immigration laws alternative. Mr. Bartley will announce this in class today and have the requirements prepared in a handout.”

  He smiles at us. It’s not friendly or kind, but oozes authority and confidence. “I’m certain you’ll both do an outstanding job on the assignment.” He motions for Mr. Bartley to open the door. “We’ve kept you long enough. Thank you for coming in to discuss your concerns.”

  Logan and I don’t move. Her jaw drops.

  Principal McNeil steps forward, gestures for us to leave. “I hope you’ll have a great rest of the day.”

  Dismissed.

  No more discussion.

  Final decision.

  Done.

  Stunned, we silently shuffle out. My head throbs. This is so surreal. Compromise? No, that was to get us to shut up.

  As we enter the hallway, Miss Wather approaches us. “How did it go?”

  Dazed, Logan continues walking down the hall. I can’t find my voice. Miss Wather studies my face. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah.” But I’m not. I fold my copy of our presentation into fourths, shove it into my pocket, then hurry to catch Logan.

  She fumbles with her lock combination, spinning the dial with a vengeance.

  I lean against the locker next to hers.

  “After everything we did, after everything we said, they still didn’t get it. How could they not get it?” she asks, yanking on her locker handle. “Argh!” She gives the bottom end panel a kick.

  I step in, enter her combo. The door pops open. “Maybe if I hadn’t gone off script? I was so nervous—”

  “You did great. I was proud of you. I’m proud of us.”

  I laugh bitterly. “Well, so is Principal McNeil. He thanked us for our diligence.” I make air quotes around “diligence.”

  Logan pages through our presentation. “Yet, for some reason, it wasn’t enough to cancel the debate.”

  I unzip my backpack, take out what I need for my morning classes, then stash my bag in Logan’s locker. “What else can we do?” I ask.

  Her eyes shimmer, and when she speaks, her voices cracks. “Would it seem ridiculous if I said I’m still hoping Mr. Bartley will see reason and change his mind? I’m hoping he’ll read through our presentation again, recognize we’re right, and have the guts to cancel the debate. That guy isn’t the Mr. Bartley I know.” She stops, swallows hard.

  I look at our matching clothes. “Maybe it’s his evil twin brother?” My attempt at humor falls as hard as a boulder tumbling down a cliff. She fights back tears. I take her hand and link our fingers together. I can’t think of a thing to say to cheer her up.

  “I’m going to make a pit stop before class.” She motions to the girls’ bathroom, slips her hand from mine.

  “You gonna be all right?”

  She nods.

  I turn to go and nearly smash into Daniel. “Sorry.”

  “No. My fault.” He shuts his locker, which is only a few feet from Logan’s. Has he been eavesdropping?

  “Hey, Daniel?”

  His hair flops into his eyes. “Yeah?”

  “What do you think of Mr. Bartley’s debate?”

  “It’s pointless. The Final Solution is evil,” he adds sheepishly.

  “Yes! Exactly. Logan and I think Mr. Bartley should change the assignment.”

  “Oh. I started this weekend and finished my paper.”

  My heart sinks. “Okay. I understand.”

  “Do you need help? I did a ton of research.”

  “No. Thanks, though. I’ll see you later.”

  As I head to English, I stop near the girls’ bathroom, wondering if I should wait for Logan. I spot Heather and call her over, “Will you check to see if Logan’s inside?”

  Ten seconds later, Heather’s back. “Nope. But I have class with her next period. You want me to give her a message?”

  Logan must have exited while I was talking with Daniel. I shake my head. I consider mentioning to her what happened in Principal McNeil’s office, but before I can decide, Kerrianne swoops in, loops her arm with Heather’s, and starts telling her about the Snow Ball dance.

  Walking away, I try picturing Mr. Bartley changing his mind. Based on what I saw in Principal McNeil’s office, I highly doubt it. I try to imagine others choosing the alternative assignment. With the way so many of our classmates laughed when Jesse and Spencer gave the Nazi salute, I don’t see that happening, either. But for all our sakes, especially Logan’s, I hope I’m wrong.

  Together, Cade and I walk into History of World Governments and take our seats. Mr. Bartley’s not here yet.

  Nervous and hopeful, I look around for potential allies. Most of our classmates have their phones out, music playing through earbuds. Heather’s long blond hair curtains her face and the book she’s reading. Daniel’s seat is empty. Mason, Kerrianne, Reg, Jesse, and Spencer huddle together around a tablet perched on Mason’s desk. No surprise, they’re watching a replay of the boys’ last hockey game. All day, it’s been playing on monitors in our lunchroom and hallways. Incentive, I guess, to get us into the team spirit and cheer on our Riviere Rockets for Saturday’s regionals. Posters fill nearly every RHS wall. The team’s lockers, inside and out, are decorated from top to bottom. To show support, we’re encouraged to write positive messages. Some of the girls put lipstick on and leave their marks. I won’t be doing that.

  The bell rings and Mr. Bartley comes in and shuts the door. He sets a small stack of papers on his desk, then calls out, “Settle down. I have an announcement to make.” He moves to the front of the room, clasps his hands, and waits for everyone’s full attention. It doesn’t take long.

  “Regarding the Wannsee Conference and the Final Solution debate assignment. I believe you’re mature enough to research the Nazis’ perspective, reenact this historic event, and come to a logical conclusion.”

  Logical conclusion? Logical? Why is he assuming everyone is against Nazis? Every day the news is filled with hate crimes. I wonder if I should raise my hand and mention the mass shooting at that Pittsburgh synagogue or the massacre at the Black church in South Carolina? I remember reading that the guy was a white supremacist. Sometime before the shooting, he took a photo with a Confederate flag. There are people in this community, in this room, with Confederate flags. I look at Jesse. Who else?

  Mr. Bartley continues. “If we don’t fully understand the opposition by putting ourselves in their shoes, how can we truly formulate our own opinions?”

  I blurt out, “What about putting ourselves in the shoes of the people murdered?”

  He looks at me. “As we’ve discussed, that’s a perfect argument to include in your papers.” Turning away, he says, “I recognize some of you may be uncomfortable with the Nazis’ point of view and find this assignment challenging. If you feel this way or have another valid reason why you don’t want to do this assignment, you have the option to do an alternative. At the end of class, there will be time to speak with me about that option.”

  He steps forward. “I warn you now, the alternative assignment will not be easier. I have the same high standards and expect quality work—exactly what is expected of you for the Wannsee Conference debate. Are there any questions?”

  Throughout his speech, there’s a hint of admonishment, judgment, in his tone. I can’t help but feel it’s directed at Cade and me and anyone else who might question the assignment.

  A murmur goes through the room and I hear someone say, “Why would anyone have a problem with the assignment?” I dig my fingers into m
y thighs. I can barely breathe. “Because they’re whining babies,” someone mumbles. If Mr. Bartley heard, he doesn’t show it.

  * * *

  * * *

  With ten minutes left of class, Mr. Bartley powers off the Smart Board. He says, “Anyone interested in the alternative assignment, this is your opportunity to speak with me. Otherwise, you may use this time for research or quietly discuss with other classmates your side of the Final Solution debate.”

  Reg gets up, and my heart takes a big leap of joy, then crashes when he wanders over to the pencil sharpener.

  I dust myself off when Daniel slides out of his chair. He has papers in his hand. I can’t help but watch as he approaches Mr. Bartley’s desk. Mr. Bartley’s surprise morphs to neutrality. He extends a piece of paper to Daniel. In bold letters it says, ALTERNATIVE ASSIGNMENT: Fort Ontario Emergency Refugee Shelter and WWII Immigration Laws. Daniel shakes his head. “I finished my research and paper over the weekend,” he murmurs. “I can’t attend the debate.”

  He can’t? Maybe he has a doctor’s appointment?

  Daniel slides his assignment over to Mr. Bartley, leans forward, whispers something I can’t hear. He stands in front of the desk and waits, shifting his weight from one foot to another. Mr. Bartley flips the paper over and nods.

  “I need to go to the bathroom,” Daniel adds.

  Mr. Bartley hands Daniel a hall pass, and the moment Daniel steps away, Cade gets up and defiantly walks over to Mr. Bartley’s desk. In a second, I’m at his side. The hairs on the back of my neck rise like soldiers preparing for battle.

  “So, you want to do the alternative assignment?” His voice is so loud I’m surprised there isn’t a bullhorn against his mouth.

  “Most definitely,” I say.

  We take our copies. It’s exactly what we presented, plus some specific instructions regarding the paper we’re to write, similar to what was on the original assignment. Mr. Bartley says something, but I tune him out. I’m listening to some of the arguments my classmates discuss. It’s like I’m in a room filled with white supremacists.

  “Hitler said, ‘It’s either victory of the Aryan, or the annihilation of the Aryan and the victory of the Jew.’ Are we going to let the Jew destroy us or are we going to destroy them?” Even though my back is to the class, I recognize Reg’s voice.

  Oh. My. God. My head is spinning.

  Someone else says, “Survival of the fittest. The Nuremberg Laws made sure pure blood wouldn’t mix with tainted blood…”

  And another voice. “Jews aren’t the only inferior race. According to this site, Africans, Slavs, Roma, Poles, people with physical or cognitive disabilities, Jehovah’s Witnesses, homosexuals and prostitutes—”

  I tune into Jesse, who says, “Genetically, Jews are predisposed to greediness, deception—”

  Heather Jameson interrupts. “You seriously cannot believe there’s a gene…”

  “Logan?” Mr. Bartley draws my attention back to him. “Same due date. I look forward to reading your papers.”

  “Do you hear what people are saying?” I ask.

  “Logan.” Mr. Bartley’s tone conveys frustration. He stands. “Question, class. Raise your hand if you personally support and believe in the arguments for your debate position.” He pauses, scans the room. “Raise your hand if this reenactment has turned you into a Nazi.” Again, he pauses. “Anyone?” Mr. Bartley refocuses on us. “So, there you have it. There’s no need to worry. Let’s put this behind us.” It’s not a question.

  The bell rings and, as our classmates leave, Cade and I get some dirty looks. Jesse gives Mr. Bartley a military salute as he exits the room. Mason makes his way over to us, and whispers, “You didn’t deserve that,” then heads for the door. Kerrianne doesn’t meet my gaze.

  I want to say something to Mr. Bartley but have no idea how to stop this train wreck.

  Cade and I walk out together. Never could I have imagined being singled out this way. Never could I have imagined Mason looking at me with so much pity. And never, ever could I have imagined that my favorite teacher would make an absurd and horrifying endorsement for intolerance and follow it up by humiliating us in front of the entire class.

  Logan and I don’t say a word as we walk to our lockers, collect our things, and head to her car. Roadkill pretty much describes how I’m feeling right now. I buckle my seat belt, shift to face Logan, and ask the one question stuck in my head since we left Mr. Bartley’s classroom. “Now what?”

  “Aaaaaahh!” Logan’s scream turns into a moan. “I don’t know. We can’t let him intimidate us. We’re not wrong, are we?”

  “Hell no.” I unzip my coat, but it doesn’t do much to relieve the pressure on my chest. I drop my head against the headrest. “We were sucker punched. And we can’t let Mr. Bartley and Principal McNeil blur the line with their compromise. I haven’t talked to my parents about it, but I can’t help but think my grandpa—”

  “What?”

  “Over and over again, I’ve asked myself what he would do in our shoes. Is offering the alternative assignment enough or would he push forward and stop the debate? I hear his voice in my head, and I know there’s only one answer.”

  “What does he say?”

  She’s not at all concerned about my sanity, and I love that. “ ‘When it comes to life, you can be in the audience and watch. You can be one of the actors in the spotlight or you can be the person who shines the spotlight on the stage. The trick is knowing what role to play and when.’ That’s it.”

  “Are we the actors or the ones shining the spotlight?” Logan asks.

  “Well, according to Grandpa, we need to be all three. If we’re going to stop this debate, we have to be all three.”

  “Dad?”

  Silence.

  “Dad?”

  “Hmm?” He doesn’t look up from his book, absently taking bites of the baked ziti I made for dinner. I sit kitty-corner from him at our kitchen table and drag my fork through the tomato sauce, making figure eights on my plate. I press harder, and the high-pitched screee finally gets Dad’s attention.

  His head snaps up. “Logan, that’s really annoying.”

  “Sorry, but I need to talk with you.”

  “Oh.” He shuts off his tablet, sets it aside. “Everything all right?”

  I shake my head, and when his timid smile falls away, I clarify. “Everything’s okay. I mean, I’m okay, but something’s going on at school, and Cade and I aren’t sure what to do about it.”

  At the mention of school, he relaxes a little, probably because anything academic is usually in his wheelhouse. But this? I doubt he’s run across anything like this in the math department.

  Dad sips his water, sets his glass on the table. “What’s going on?”

  I hand him copies of the assignment, the document we shared with Principal McNeil and Mr. Bartley, our notes from that meeting, and what’s transpired in Mr. Bartley’s class. He pages through while I explain in detail. When I finish, I ask, “Well, what do you think?”

  He scrubs at his graying five-o’clock shadow. “You did the right thing. I’m proud of both of you.”

  Relief washes over me like I got an A on a difficult test. Until I notice his frown. “But?”

  “But you’re my daughter. I can’t help but worry that taking this further will cause problems.”

  “What kind of problems?”

  He folds his reading glasses and lets them dangle by the chain around his neck. “No authority likes to be challenged.”

  “We get that. But, Dad, this isn’t right. I’m sure they think they’re being reasonable by offering the alternative assignment to everyone, but it’s not enough.”

  “Let me explain. You stand by your position, correct?” I nod. “Well, so do they. They believe they resolved the issue. You pursue this, there is a good chance
they’ll perceive you as being unreasonable and difficult. They’re bound to be defensive.” He makes two fists and holds them out six inches apart. “This is you and Cade.” He lifts his left fist. “And this is Mr. Bartley and Principal McNeil.” He knocks his knuckles together like two rams butting heads.

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Hear me out. You go further with this, it’s possible—no, highly probable—they’ll dig in. Based on what you’ve told me, they see themselves as experts. You, as students, can’t possibly be right. At least that’s my take on it. In my twenty-five years of experience, I’ve had my share of teachers who don’t want to listen to students or be told how to teach.”

  “Are you telling us to forget about it?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Speaking up for what we believe is important, right?”

  “A lot of people have strong convictions, yet do nothing.”

  “But—”

  “Are there other students in History of World Governments who feel the same way you and Cade do?”

  “Maybe?”

  “Why didn’t they speak out? They’ve had the same opportunity to go to Mr. Bartley and express their objections. What stopped them?”

  I hesitate, then say, “Well, if there are others, then they’re definitely in the minority. We felt intimidated, so I’m guessing they’re probably too afraid to go against Mr. Bartley.” I think of Mason and what he said when the bell rang. You didn’t deserve that. No, we didn’t. It would have been nice if he’d said it to Mr. Bartley.

  Dad rubs his eyes, and when he drops his hands, they’re a sea of emotion. “Here’s the question you really need to think about. If you let this go, could you live with it?”

  My instinct is to say no. But I stay silent, glance out the window. Every second I’ve spent arguing with Mr. Bartley about this debate has been uncomfortable at best. Most of it’s been hurtful and humiliating. Still…

  I turn to Dad. “Do you remember our Jewish neighbors in Milwaukee, Mr. and Mrs. Simon, and their granddaughter Gayle?” He nods. “Since we got this assignment, I’ve thought about them a lot. If someone tried to hurt them, we would never stand by and do nothing. If we saw a stranger on the street being attacked, we wouldn’t stand by and do nothing. How would I live with myself if I didn’t pursue this? I couldn’t.”