T-Ho started to shake his head then he stopped. “No … no I don’t … I didn’t … I … Christ, didn’t I say it was sixty years ago?”
It wasn’t what you’d call a real definite answer.
Jen had her hands on her hips. “And we should know about this, why?”
T-Ho shrugged. “Just thought you might like to have a little history about, y’know, where you live.”
“So what are you, Mr. R?” Big Nose Kate was grinning. “Should we call you, like, Mr. T?”
“Shit, you guys. What losers!”
I couldn’t tell from the way he said it if T-Ho was pissed off or what. I also wasn’t sure what he wanted us to do with our little history lesson. I looked at the foundations some more and then back at him.
He shrugged a slow-motion shrug and started walking away. So what was the deal? Ghost story? They’re way more effective at night. That couldn’t have been it. So what then? It didn’t make a whole lot of sense. My big question was how did T-Ho know all this stuff? T-Ho isn’t a guy who spends a lot of time reading the newspaper or skimming through history books. And if this place was such a big deal to him, why hadn’t it ever come up before? Like I said, it didn’t make any sense. But I kept my mouth shut. T-Ho put up with some people giving him a hard time, but I wasn’t one of those people. Besides, he was already half way back to the car. Rebel hung back kicking the cement foundations and looking around like he was one of the Hardy Boys, or a dude from CSI.
It was a day of surprises.
The following Tuesday Patti Bailer showed up in two of my classes — social and English.
There is a god.
Three
A four-door, six-cylinder, ’58 Chevy Biscayne with 83,000 miles (it was an old speedometer — before kilometers). And next to making out with Diana McNair (and thinking about making out with Patti Bailer), that car was the best thing about being me.
I guess you could boil my grade-ten year down to four major deals: The Six, Mr. Retzlaff’s social class, Patti Bailer, and the Biscayne. Not exactly huge stuff, but that’s the way it is in grade ten. It’s not like you’re going to save the world or score a Stanley Cup–winning goal or drive a Testarossa. It’s your friends, school, girls, and a car.
It was my brother Tim who taught me the whole business of restoring a car. The first one we worked on was a ’59 Edsel. That was his, when he was still at home; he got it in grade ten — the year he had Mr. R for social. I probably wasn’t much help since I was only about eleven at the time. But I remember both of us loving that car.
People sometimes wonder if Tim and I are really brothers. He’s always been taller than I’ll ever be. And he has those killer looks I mentioned before. Me, on the other hand? I have the kind of face that’s perfect for reading the morning announcements. Also, Tim has darker hair; mine’s more light brown. More ordinary.
My brother totally kicked butt all through school — still does, except now it’s at university. I’ve never been a big school guy, at least not when it came to grades and stuff like that. Reading? Well, that’s another thing entirely. You’d have to kill me to keep me from reading. I think I got that from my dad when I was little. My dad and I read together all the time. Sometimes he read my books and once in a while he’d let me read one of his murder mysteries. I remember how Dad would lie on the couch to read his book and I’d lie on top of him to read mine.
Sports — I already mentioned that, especially wrestling. But the rest of school, like say, math, chemistry, physics … pretty nasty.
So, yeah, I guess there are quite a few differences between Tim and me. But when we’ve got our heads under the hood of a car — especially an old car — we’re definitely brothers. We’d spend hours fixing them up, then rodding around town checking out girls (well, Tim wasn’t all that interested in that part since he’s had this very hot girlfriend, Carmen, since about grade eight).
After the Edsel, we worked on a 1950 Ford pickup — sweet truck. Then came the Biscayne, which was my baby in grade ten. Tim helped me buy it at a farm auction sale for four hundred bucks. Not bad since it actually ran. I mean, it didn’t run great, but you could maybe get around the block in it. I loved that car.
Every once in a while, someone would drop into Mr. R’s class. Usually it was a former student, maybe passing through town on their way to some cool job. Mr. R always remembered the person’s name. There was one guy who hadn’t been in the school for six years and he knocked on the door, came in and there was Mr. R practically yelling, “Carl McOdrum! Come on in, it’s been a long time.” And ol’ Carl, he came in and shook Mr. R’s hand, then went to a desk at the back and sat there grinning, pretty much for the whole class. And the art guy from New York City — he stopped in one day too. Got two calls on his cellphone while he was there, which I figured would bug Mr. R but he seemed okay with it.
A few times people dropped in who were too old to be Mr. R’s former students but were good friends of his. Even some famous guys. Like there was this one guy who looked familiar and it turned out he was a hockey broadcaster on TV. Then there was a big-shot politician — he came by a couple of times. He stood up front shaking hands with Mr. R and telling the class how we were the “luckiest kids in the whole district to have the opportunity to be in THIS MAN’S CLASSROOM.” His voice went up at the end and I wondered if he’d ever heard Mighty Michael. I could hear kids whispering, “Hey, isn’t that what’s his name? Isn’t he like some government guy or something?” I didn’t have a clue who the guy was. I only watch the news when there’s like a 9/11 event or when one of the musicians I like gets busted. Of course, I would have figured out who the guy was eventually because Mr. R had him up there at the front of the class for quite a while and was treating him like he was a president or a prime minister or something and I was pretty sure he wasn’t either of those. I have to admit it was pretty awesome having all these people coming around. It made me realize Mr. R wasn’t just cool. He was important, you know?
I was standing in the hall by my locker one day after class when Patti Bailer stopped as she was walking by. The student union president from a couple of years before had dropped in to social and even answered one of Mr. R’s questions — something about Mussolini or somebody like that.
“You think he puts them up to it?” Patti asked.
“What? Puts who up to what?”
“You think Retzlaff gets those people to stop by and makes it look like it’s just out of the blue?”
“Why would he do that?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. To impress us? Or maybe to show us how much he matters to them and should matter to us. You know, to get us to work harder and maybe be as successful as they are and some day a few years from now drop in on Mr. R’s social class.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“I don’t know.” Patti started off down the hall. “I don’t know if I’m kidding or not.”
Four
It was part way through the class. Social. We’d been working on a written response to some question — I think it was how we felt about the Americans not entering the war until it had been going on for a couple of years. Most of us had finished.
Kids were talking and shifting stuff around; there was some laughing, a few books crashing down on desks, the desks themselves scraping on the floor … I was finishing off the last of a juice box, a couple of slurps at the end so I didn’t miss any.
Usually Mr. R put his hands up or he’d say something and that would be our cue to cool it. But this time there was no signal. He just stood at the front of the classroom, looking at us. Not pissed-off looking at us — just looking and waiting. And it wasn’t long before all the noise stopped and every eye in the room was on Mr. R. I wasn’t sure how he’d managed to communicate that he wanted silence but he had — without saying, or really doing, anything. It was impressive.
“How many of you have heard of the Holocaust?”
A few hands went up. Some kids nodded, but d
idn’t put up their hands. I figured maybe they were like me. I’d heard of it … I’d seen a movie or something a while back about some guy saving a bunch of his Jewish workers from the Nazis. The movie was okay, but I wasn’t sure I’d be able to really explain what the Holocaust was.
“Louise.”
“That’s when the Germans — the Nazis — killed the Jews, like millions of them, right?”
Okay, I could have said that much. So maybe I did know what the Holocaust was, after all.
“Anyone else? Ben?”
Ben’s a computer geek and a smart kid. I figured he’d have something to say.
“The Nazis had gas chambers. People were herded into them supposedly for showers and then the gas was turned on. Lots of others were shot and a bunch more went to concentration camps where they starved to death and stuff. It was something like six million Jews who were supposed to have died.”
Mr. Retzlaff nodded. “Good.” He looked at Ben and at Louise. “Excellent. Ben, you said ‘supposed to have died.’ Interesting choice of words. Your answers tell me you’ve read and listened to history.”
“And seen the pictures,” Patti said.
I looked over at her. She was leaning forward in her desk and looking at Mr. R. She looked … intense. It was the first time she’d said anything in social.
“And you’ve seen the pictures,” Mr. R repeated. “Perfect.”
He began walking up and down and rubbing his hands together. The great thing about Mr. R was that this stuff really got him excited. Plus, he could get us just as excited.
“That’s what I want to talk about today. The pictures, the stories, the things you’ve read and heard about something that took place in the past … we call that history. Now some of you may have heard that the history of war is told by the winners. Can anyone see a problem with that?”
No response to that for a while. “Maybe you get a particular slant on what happened.” Ben again.
“Ah ha,” Mr. R nodded like crazy. “Let me ask you this. You’ve just fought a war with another country. You won, but a lot of your people died fighting in this war. If the historians are from the victors’ side — your side, in this case — do you think they’re going to spend a lot of time talking about what good guys the enemy were?”
Most of us shook our heads.
“Would you want them to?”
More head shaking.
“In fact, what you’d probably want is for the historians to paint as black a picture of the enemy as they can. I mean, if they weren’t bad guys doing bad things, why did we fight with them, shoot them, blow them up … right?”
This time we were nodding. I’d been watching Patti Bailer. She hadn’t been shaking her head or nodding. But she was shaking her head now. She raised her hand.
“Yes, Patti?”
“Why wouldn’t the historians on the losers’ side write their own account of the war?”
“Good question. They probably would. But do you think the conquerors are going to allow those accounts to ever see the light of day … accounts that point out what bad guys the winners were and what good folks the defeated enemy actually were? Not very likely.”
Mr. R didn’t say anything for a couple of minutes. He was letting us think about it.
He walked to the back of the class and then partway back to the front. He stopped. “So that takes us back to the Holocaust. The slaughter of six million Jews — I think that was the number you cited, Ben.”
Ben nodded.
“And Patti referred to pictures.”
Patti didn’t say anything; she just stared at Mr. R.
Mr. R finished his stroll to the front of the classroom.
“And that’s what we’re going to talk about later this week,” Mr. R was smiling. It was that I-know-something-you-don’t-know smile, the smile that I had already figured out usually made for a very interesting class. “Pictures, war pictures, disturbing pictures — pictures that have upset people for several decades … because everyone knows pictures don’t lie. Right, Patti?”
Before Patti could answer, the bell rang and Mr. R headed for the door to say his goodbyes as we filed out of the classroom. As I headed out into the hall, I noticed his smile was even bigger than usual.
I was supposed to meet Lou after school that day. Probably wanted to borrow money. About the only time Lou talked to me was to ask for money. I don’t know why, but Lou was the one guy in The Six I didn’t really trust. Hennie and T-Ho were kind of scary sometimes and Jen was weird. But with Lou, it was like you didn’t want to leave your wallet lying around. Maybe it was because he bragged about ripping off money from his mom’s tip jar (she worked at a restaurant in town). I don’t know, but I just didn’t feel real comfortable around the guy.
Turns out I didn’t have to worry about it since he didn’t show. And when I asked him about it later he looked at me like I’d made the whole thing up. Which didn’t help with the trust issue. It was actually kind of annoying, especially since I waited around for him for quite a while. I hung around behind the school throwing a football back and forth with a kid named Darryl who I’d seen in the halls. It wasn’t often that people wanted to do anything with me, so tossing a football back and forth was like a major moment on my social calendar.
It didn’t last long though. After a few passes, Darryl caught the ball, said “see ya tomorrow” and walked off. Yeah, a major social moment.
I reached down to pick up my backpack from the grass and when I looked up I saw something I didn’t think I’d ever see: T-Ho and Rebel coming out of the school with Mr. R, one on either side of him. They were laughing like Mr. R was the funniest thing since Adam Sandler.
T-Ho wasn’t exactly what you’d call a laugher. Except when he was the one saying stuff that was supposed to be funny. And I wasn’t totally sure I’d ever seen Rebel smile. Something else I’d never seen was T-Ho and Rebel hanging around school after the last bell. Usually they were out of the building and into the Crap Wagon in about … fifteen seconds. Yet there they both were — still at school, walking with a teacher and acting like they were in the front row at some comedy club. Another amazing chapter in the book called Mr. Retzlaff.
All three of them disappeared around the corner of the building, heading for the parking lot. I thought about following them, but decided against it. I mean, it’s not like they were doing anything wrong. Besides, if T-Ho saw me sneaking around spying on him and Rebel, the best I could hope for was a speedy recovery.
But I thought a lot about seeing the three of them like that. It was weird.
Still, when you added up everything about the day, I’d have given it a passing grade. Especially Mr. R’s class. That night at the dinner table I told Mom and Dad and Uncle Herm about it. And about how I couldn’t wait for the follow-up class when he talked about the pictures from the war.
“How cool is that going to be?”
Nobody answered. Dad looked at me and I thought he was going to say something, but he didn’t. Mom seemed to be concentrating extra hard on her mashed potatoes. And Uncle Herm — nobody ever knew what he was thinking about.
Except I found out exactly what he was thinking later that night. I was outside changing the oil in the Biscayne. It had only been maybe two weeks since the last time I changed it, but it gave me something to do with my car. Besides, I figured it was good practise for when the car actually needed to have the oil changed.
Uncle Herm wandered over as I was wiping oil off my hands. After he asked me a couple of things about the Biscayne, out of the blue he says, “I’d keep my head up around that Retzlaff bird if I was you.”
Retzlaff bird. Uncle Herm talked kind of weird sometimes, so the “bird” thing didn’t mean much. But what about the “I’d keep my head up” part?
I had no idea what I was supposed to say to that so I just looked at him.
“He’s been peddling that garbage for years. The school board checked him out a while back. Didn’t get him though, mostly b
ecause none of the kids would say anything. There’s a few of those guys around — Holocaust deniers, they call them — and they’re all full of shit but they’ve got lots of crap to back up their arguments. Just keep your head up, is all I’m saying.”
I’d never heard the term “Holocaust denier” before. Hell, I’d just learned what the Holocaust actually was. Besides, Mr. R hadn’t denied anything. He just questioned stuff and wanted us to do the same thing.
“Mr. R is an awesome teacher.” I threw the oily rag down on the ground. “The best one I’ve ever had. I wish there were more teachers just like him. Maybe if there were, more kids would stay in school.”
I figured that last line would blow Uncle Herm right out of the water.
“If there were more teachers like Retzlaff, we’d all be back in Nazi Germany. Yeah, that would be real good.” Uncle Herm walked off before I could answer.
I watched him go. Probably needs a drink. Hasn’t had one for at least fifteen minutes. I thought about yelling that after him but I knew I’d be in big time crap with my dad if I did.
What had Uncle Herm said — about Mr. R “peddling that garbage for years”? I wondered how he knew anything about Mr. R. One thing was obvious — he didn’t know much.
Five
There’s some stuff that doesn’t excite me like it seems to excite everybody else at school — stuff like grad. There are people who are already talking about our grad night. It’s three freaking years away and they’re already planning the theme. Should we go with something futuristic like Guardians of the Galaxy? Or maybe something about hope, with a giant hope chest on stage? All the grads could pull out something to show the crowd, something to do with hope and life after high school and stuff like that. Yeah, I can hardly wait.
And birthdays. That’s another one I can pretty well do without. I guess it’s because in my whole life I don’t think I ever got what I wanted from my parents on my birthday. When I was little I got clothes instead of racing car models or Hot Wheels stuff. And now that I want clothes, I get stuff that’s mostly just embarrassing. Last year it was a 3-D jigsaw puzzle thing of the Titanic. Sweet.
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