by Liza Wiemer
ME: He’s barely said six words. What if I ruined everything?
BLAIR: You didn’t. And six words from Cade is his normal. Stop obsessing.
ME: I’m not. You didn’t see his face. He looked like I kicked his dog.
BLAIR: He has a dog?
ME: NO!
BLAIR: You’ll fix it. Good luck talking to Mr. Barfly! Gtg my teacher’s glaring
ME: Bartley!
I slip my phone into my backpack pocket and look at the clock. Mr. Bartley’s now five minutes late. Most of the class has earbuds in, listening to music or watching YouTube videos on their phones. Heather is reading. Mason is talking to Kerrianne. Daniel has his head down and might be sleeping, and Cade is still sketching. I tear a corner of my notebook, roll the paper between my fingers, and shoot the ball at his paper. It bounces off his ear and onto the floor. He turns his head, his eyes full with questions. I plaster on a contrite smile, form a heart with my hands, flash it his way, and stick out my tongue, curling it into a U.
He shakes his head, and just when I think all is lost, his lips twitch.
Under his desk, he does something completely unexpected. He raises his pinkie, pointer finger, and thumb and bends his other two fingers down into his palm. Sign language for “I love you.”
Wow.
Then he crosses his eyes and sticks out his tongue.
I laugh.
He smiles, and my world is back on its axis. This is us: best friends.
Mr. Bartley walks in, hits the lights. The windows let in the late-afternoon winter sun. “Sorry, people. Let’s get started.” He picks up his clicker, fast-forwards through the beginning of Conspiracy, and pauses on an image of Nazis arriving at a mansion.
Mr. Bartley says, “To prepare for your assignment, we’re going to watch this reenactment of the Wannsee Conference, which was held at a villa in the Berlin suburb of Wannsee. Reinhard Heydrich, one of Hitler’s most powerful and highest-ranking officers, arranged the top-secret conference.
“As you’ll see, the discussion becomes intense. Take notes—pros and cons—on how the Nazis propose to deal with the Jewish problem. Remember, this is 1942 and you need to think not from your modern perspective, but from theirs.”
I open my mouth to object, but the words don’t come. Should I stand up and reveal my theory?
Mr. Bartley continues. “A little background. By 1942, Jews had already suffered under the Nuremberg Laws, which were enacted on September 15, 1935. The laws forbade Jews from marrying or having sexual relations with Germans. Previous intermarriages were declared invalid. The laws took away German citizenship from Jews. They were banned from teaching or attending German universities and schools, from practicing medicine and law, from government positions. No Germans could conduct business with Jews, forcing many Jewish businesses to close or to sell at prices way below value. At first only Jews were targeted, but eventually the laws included others—Roma, criminals, people with physical or cognitive disabilities, and anyone else the Nazis saw as undesirables. Who can tell me why the Nazis did this?”
Prepared to answer and to also share my theory, I raise my hand. Mr. Bartley calls on Reg.
“Non-Aryans were considered inferior. The Nuremberg Laws promoted racial purity and were meant to protect German citizens.”
“Correct. And because of those laws, some German Jews chose to leave, but many who wanted to escape didn’t have the financial means to do so. Even if they fled to another European country, their safety wasn’t guaranteed. By 1942, Nazi-occupied Europe had already rounded up Jews, forcing them into ghettos and concentrations camps. Genocide was already underway, but at this point, it had barely addressed a Final Solution of the Jewish question. The Wannsee Conference brought various branches of the Nazi government together in order to expedite the destruction of the Jewish people.
“Our debate will reenact this historical event, but you may also incorporate other authentic perspectives appropriate to the position you were assigned. Research the Nuremberg Laws. Though the Nazis’ actions were abhorrent—and I use this word purposefully—it’s important for you to examine their arguments.”
I had been so certain the assignment was a moral test, but after Mr. Bartley’s speech and with Conspiracy ready to be viewed on the screen, my courage to speak up fades. I rack my brain, trying to find some logic in Mr. Bartley’s reasoning. Something I learned in my sociology seminar triggers a thought.
Maybe this assignment is symbolic of how easy it is to persuade us to follow orders?
It’s another theory based on the famous 1961 Yale University Milgram experiment on obedience to authority figures. Milgram’s students willingly inflicted increasing levels of pain on others because their instructor ordered them to. They lost their moral compass. Mr. Bartley isn’t asking us to inflict physical pain, but he is asking us to do something reprehensible—justify systemic hate, racism, and murder. Is he trying to be Milgram?
I look around and decide to keep quiet for now.
“Pay attention to the actors’ body language as well as their words. Get into their mindset.”
Cade’s hand shoots up.
“Mr. Crawford, can your question wait?” Mr. Bartley asks. “I want to get through this today.”
“Is the assignment a test?” Cade blurts out. “I’m wondering if what you’re asking of us—with this debate—if it’s a moral test?”
Mr. Bartley’s startled expression says it all. “I appreciate your question and am happy to discuss this further after class.”
I mouth thank you to Cade. He shrugs.
Mr. Bartley hits play.
Over and over again the actors give the Nazi salute and call out, “Heil Hitler.” Is Mr. Bartley expecting us to do that for the debate?
Sitting around an oval table, fifteen Nazis introduce themselves. The actor playing Reinhard Heydrich says, “We have a storage problem in Germany for these Jews.” He continues on, explaining that the Nazis “have created a Jew-free society and a Jew-free economy.” He adds, “We have indeed eliminated the Jew from our national life. Now, more than that, the Jew himself must be physically eradicated from our living space.”
My gaze flickers to Cade. He sits with his arms folded over his chest, watching the screen.
As the movie continues, Heydrich explains that the Nazis’ aggressive emigration policy for the Jews failed. “Who would take more of them. Who would want them was the policy’s ultimate limitation,” he says. “Every border in Europe rejects them or charges outrageously to accept them.”
I am shocked to learn countries expected compensation, but I’m not surprised when the Nazis comment that even America turned them away. A while ago, I listened to a podcast about the MS St. Louis, a ship filled with about nine hundred Jews fleeing Nazi Germany in 1939 right after Kristallnacht, the Night of Broken Glass. In an organized vicious attack throughout Germany, Nazis descended on seven thousand Jewish businesses, shattering storefront windows, destroying equipment and merchandise, torching over a thousand synagogues to ash. The German Jews on the MS St. Louis sought sanctuary in Cuba. For most, it was a temporary solution until their US visa applications were approved. When the ship arrived in Havana, however, the Cuban government refused entry to 97 percent of the passengers, even though the refugees had proper documents issued by a Cuban official. The captain had no choice but to sail toward Miami, hoping the United States would welcome the remaining refugees. But the US Coast Guard stopped the ship at sea. Some sent pleas to President Roosevelt, but the president never responded and the US government held fast to the strict immigration laws. With no safe haven, the ship was forced to turn back. Several Western European countries took in the refugees, but for nearly a third of the Jewish passengers, it was a death sentence.
How many more times has the United States turned away innocent people, forcing them to return
to certain death?
Bile rises in my throat.
I return my attention to the movie. The Nazis debate the absorption of two and a half million Jews in Poland, discussing them as if they were rabid rats that needed to be exterminated from the planet.
How do you do that? With bullets. With poison. Carbon monoxide. Zyklon B.
I think about Cade’s grandparents. They came from Poland. His grandpa saved a Jewish boy, and though I don’t know the story, as I look at Cade, I see that this part of the movie has him riveted to the screen.
No wonder why my grandparents didn’t want to talk about life in Poland during World War II. The Nazi leaders are callously discussing how to murder Jews like they’re herding eleven million broken horses and sending them to the slaughterhouse. These are human beings they’re talking about. I can’t wrap my head around this. Conspiracy may be a movie, but Mr. Bartley said it’s considered an accurate account of what transpired during the Wannsee Conference.
I’m overwhelmed by disgust as some of the Nazis in the movie describe Jews as:
Inferior subhumans
Sublimely clever
Arrogant
Self-obsessed
Calculating
Rejecters of Christ
These are outrageous reasons to justify genocide. I’m supposed to use these to support my position? No. Freaking. Way. My theory that he’s a part of a white supremacist group is beginning to take hold.
This much I’ve learned, and I want to shout it to the world instead of in my head: THERE ARE NO DIFFERENT RACES OF HUMAN BEINGS! The idea of inferior or superior races is a human construct. It’s made up. It’s false. It’s a lie! But people use this bull every day to justify hate.
My eyes meet Logan’s. Her face is deathly pale. I lift my chin, motion toward the door, but Logan shakes her head, picks up her notebook, and shows it to me. She’s been busy taking copious notes.
Why? When we’re not doing this assignment?
I drop my pencil, cross my arms across my chest, and send her a look letting her know I’m not pleased, but I’ll stay. For her. And then I get a glimpse of Spencer’s notebook. Across an entire page he wrote in black ink: Filthy Jewish pigs must die. He’s not quoting the movie. Those are his words.
I glance around, hoping Logan and I aren’t the only ones appalled by the Nazis on the screen. Daniel is a strong contender. He’s slumped low in his seat and has his hoodie up, shielding his eyes. Reg has AirPods in and doesn’t seem to be paying any attention to the movie. Kerrianne is texting under her desk. Heather keeps twisting locks of her hair around a finger and is focused on the screen. Jesse seems to be taking notes or doodling. Mason taps his pencil against his thigh, and every so often his eyes flash toward Logan. Why does he keep looking at her?
Finally, the lights come on. “We’ll stop here,” Mr. Bartley says. “The rest of the movie focuses on the men leaving the conference. I hope you have a solid foundation for your side of the debate. Next week, you’ll have time to partner up and go over your arguments. Happy Friday, and those of you going to the dance tonight, I’ll see you there.” The screen holds the image of two SS officers giving each other the Nazi salute.
The bell rings.
As people head to the door, I bolt over to Mr. Bartley. “This assignment is immoral.” He looks up from his desk, surprised, probably since I never speak up in class. “I won’t advocate for murdering innocent people.”
Logan comes to my side with her notebook. “I’m not doing this assignment, either. No one should. It’s offensive and reprehensible.”
Mr. Bartley picks up a stuffed folder and puts it in his computer bag. “Offensive. Reprehensible. Immoral.” He ticks off each word with a finger. “I agree. But this is not only history, it’s our contemporary world. Along our own border with Mexico, our immigration officers separated children from their parents. They were locked up and deeply traumatized, not knowing what would happen next or if they would be reunited. Our own government violated basic human rights. For some, the result was death. We haven’t learned from history. In one form or another, human beings continue to show their ugliness.”
“That’s exactly our point,” Logan says. “Those kinds of actions take place when people care more about policies than human beings. That happened in Nazi Germany. You watched the movie. There was no debate. Heydrich made it clear that the goal was to exterminate every Jew. He brought those Nazi leaders together to ensure their compliance.” She consults her notebook, then looks up. “Kritzinger was the only one who seemed to object to murder, as if starving Jews in ghettos or working them to death was a better option, but he was swayed. By giving us this assignment, you’re asking us to legitimize the Nazis’ reasons for genocide.”
Mr. Bartley tilts his head side to side, as if we’re a pain in his neck. He stands and walks over to his closet, and says, “Don’t be naive.”
“Seriously?” Logan’s voice squeaks.
He looks at us with pity as he takes his coat off the hook. “Genocide takes place every single day. People justify their position of hate every. Single. Day. In their minds, they have legitimate reasons. My job as a history teacher is to expose you to different perspectives. Throughout your lives you’ll face opinions opposite to your own. I am preparing you to respond. This is a safe environment to explore and debate these issues. You find genocide offensive? Good! This assignment should make you uncomfortable. Life is often uncomfortable.”
Anger crashes down on me like an avalanche. I set my hand on Logan’s wrist to let her know I have something to say. “Mr. Bartley, history or not, you’re wrong! This assignment fuels intolerance and hate!”
“Lower your voice, Mr. Crawford.” His nostrils flare as his chest rises, falls, rises, falls. He puts on his coat. When he looks at Logan, his voice is controlled and resolute. “Re-creating history does not in any way give it legitimacy. If anything, it illuminates the sins of the past. Think of it like you’re putting on a play.” He points to the Smart Board with the two SS officers saluting one another in the movie. “You’re actors. They’re actors. You can get into your roles without personally supporting your characters’ beliefs. How is this assignment any different from those actors playing Nazis?”
I struggle to find a response. Logan’s eyes are on the screen. Mr. Bartley goes to his computer and the screen goes blank.
“I have never been unreasonable with the work I’ve given my students. I understand you don’t like it, and that’s okay. We need to agree to disagree. That’s life. I expect your best work.”
Logan’s lips part, but no sound comes out. I press my arm against hers. She’s trembling. I look at Mr. Bartley. “Fine,” I say. “I’ll take an F.” And I follow Logan out the door.
Who was that teacher? What happened to Mr. Bartley?
As I walk out of his room, the shock of his response morphs into fury and indignation, propelling me like a lit fuse burning through gunpowder. It takes all of my willpower not to explode. I stalk through the hallway, dodge and weave around the Friday after-school rush like a taxi in New York City traffic.
Blair’s words come back to me. Students and parents would storm administration if a teacher had given this assignment at Glenslope High School.
“Where are we going?” Cade asks when I pass our lockers. He leaps over a backpack and nearly collides with my AP Lit and Composition teacher, Mrs. Ingram. I point toward the office where Principal McNeil reigns over our school.
I wrench the door open and barely register Mason and Daniel standing at the counter. They turn and stare. Our school secretary, Miss Wather, holds out her jar, which is filled with Valentine’s Day candies. Her smile drops the second she sees us. “What’s wrong?” she asks, setting down the jar. Her hand flutters to the vintage butterfly brooch she always wears.
If I open my m
outh now, I’ll explode and I need to save it for Principal McNeil. I round the counter and storm to his office. Cade shoots Miss Wather an apologetic smile, but thankfully, stays at my side because there’s no way I could do this alone. I lift my hand to knock on Principal McNeil’s door, but Cade beats me to it.
“Come in,” Principal McNeil says.
Neat piles of papers and files sit on his large wooden desk along with a computer, several textbooks, and a papier-mâché can filled with pens and pencils. A shade covers the only window in the room, blocking out nearly all of the late-afternoon sun. On one wall, he has photos of every graduating class from the past twenty-some years.
I push aside one of the two chairs Principal McNeil has in front of his desk and stand before him. Cade rests his hands on the other seat back. I motion to him with my thumb and announce, “We have a problem.”
Principal McNeil grabs two water bottles from his mini-fridge and hands us each one. His gaze bounces between Cade and me. He points to Cade. “Why don’t you start.”
Cade’s first few sentences have more uhhs and umms than words, but then his nerves settle and he does an amazing job presenting our position. “We told Mr. Bartley we won’t do the assignment,” Cade says, winding down. “We’d like you to have him change it.”
Principal McNeil picks up a pen. “Are you saying Mr. Bartley asked you to sympathize with the Nazis?”
Cade hesitates, then shakes his head. “Not exactly. He did say their actions were abhorrent.”
I jump in. “But plenty of people in this world are antisemitic. This feeds right into it. Several students did the Nazi salute and said, ‘Heil Hitler.’ ”
Principal McNeil’s brow furrows and his wrinkles are so deep they look like someone carved them into his skin. “I completely agree with your position on genocide,” he says. “Thank you both for bringing this to my attention. I will speak with Mr. Bartley. Since we are now into the weekend, let’s discuss this further on Monday.” He steeples his fingers. Neither Cade nor I move. “All right?”