The Assignment

by Liza Wiemer

  She uncaps a water bottle, drinks deeply. “So, what do you think? We can pull this off, right? I thought we could do an alternative assignment on US immigration policy during World War Two and the Fort Ontario Emergency Refugee Shelter. All the research we need is right here.”

  I glance around. I’m standing in the middle of a museum. I could have been at the Snow Ball dance shuffling my feet and hating every minute of it, except for being with Logan. “What do I think? I think you’re a genius.”

  She grins. “Thanks, Clyde.” With a flourish, she produces two notebooks and pens from her backpack.

  I can’t help it. I laugh. “Why the rope?”

  “To throw you off.” She sets the notebooks and pens on a table. “I bet you thought we were going to break into the fort, right?”

  “Maybe,” I concede. “One more question. Someone gave you the keys and the code, right?”

  Logan saunters over. “You gotta admit it was a rush.”

  “My heart’s still pounding.”

  “Mine too.” Our eyes lock. She’s standing inches from me and I’m barely breathing. Adrenaline pumps into my blood like high-octane fuel. For nearly five years I’ve fought to keep this friendship a friendship. I want to reach out and pull her in. Her breath mingles with mine and I can almost taste the mocha truffles Nana made special for Logan. A lifetime passes in a blink of an eye. Holding her hand, being here with her, adds fuel to this slow-burning fire. But just as I lean in, Logan steps back and turns to the table. “All right, Clyde. We have work to do.” And she hands me a notebook.

  Just like in a debate competition, I had told Cade we needed to dress up and make an impression on Principal McNeil and Mr. Bartley. We’ll make an impression, all right. But this isn’t quite what I had in mind. I take in Cade’s church clothes—white oxford and pressed black chinos—then appraise my untucked fitted white dress shirt I borrowed from Dad and my black pants. I swear Cade and I didn’t plan it this way. Even our black Converse high-tops match.

  Cade shakes his head and laughs, shuts his locker, and joins me at mine as I arrange the papers we need for our meeting with Mr. Bartley and Principal McNeil.

  Cade says, “You want me to change into my gym T-shirt?”

  “And spoil our fun?” I say in jest.

  “You’re sure? I could run to the locker room. It’ll take two minutes. Five max.”

  “I’m sure,” I say, lying through my teeth. But it’s better for us to be a bit early than late.

  We’re not a couple, but we look like one and I’m even more self-conscious. At the museum, I had wanted to kiss Cade. I had wanted him to kiss me. I think he was going to, but I panicked. We spent the rest of the night keeping a safe distance from one another, pretending like we’d never held hands and that everything was status quo between us.

  The way we’re dressed is definitely not status quo. We look like one of those couples. If I saw a couple dressed like this, I’d make a sarcastic comment about it to Cade, have a good laugh over their color-coordinated coupledom, and maybe make gagging noises once they were out of earshot. Why didn’t I wear my red or purple Converse? At least that would have given me some individuality.

  Cade leans in and whispers, “We’ve got this.”

  When we reach the office, Cade opens the door for me. Miss Wather takes us in from head to toe and smiles. “I’ll let Principal McNeil and Mr. Bartley know you’re here, dears. Have a seat.” She motions to the chairs outside Principal McNeil’s office. Cade takes the middle. I sit on his left and clutch our presentation in both hands.

  Ten minutes pass, and every person who has come into the office has noticed our coordinated outfits. Or maybe they’ve wondered if we’re in some kind of trouble. Or maybe I’m reading too much into their smirks, raised eyebrows, and curious glances? I don’t think so.

  Why is Principal McNeil making us wait?

  The anticipation is killing me. Cade and I spent every spare minute of the weekend preparing and practicing our presentation. I can’t think of anything more we could have done.

  I rub my palms on my pants, then tuck my hands under my thighs. Cade bounces his knee. I slide my foot next to his, getting his attention. Our eyes meet. We have a conversation without saying a word. We will not back down, he says. I tap my fingertips against our presentation and nod. We got this!

  Finally, Mr. Bartley opens the door, ushering us in.

  “Have a seat,” Principal McNeil says from the chair behind his desk. He sounds pleasant enough, but his body language is dismissive, putting me even more on edge. A copy of the assignment covers most of his tabletop calendar. The blood-red “TOP-SECRET” pops among the stark white papers and dreary textbooks.

  Mr. Bartley takes a few long strides and stands next to Principal McNeil like a sentry guarding a king. I read their body language like a book. Spoiler alert. Cade and I, the protagonists, are about to be hit with a metaphorical freight train.

  “So,” Principal McNeil says, bracing his elbows on his desk and lacing his fingers together. “I’ve thoroughly reviewed this lesson and the assignment and support Mr. Bartley one hundred percent. Studying the Final Solution and understanding the Nazis’ actions and motivations are important parts of fighting racism, antisemitism, and hate. And I see nothing wrong with historical reenactments. In fact, I believe they’re great teaching tools. Mr. Bartley has made it very clear that this activity is to help you and your classmates understand the mindset of the Nazis and what led to the most destructive acts of antisemitism in modern history.”

  He taps his copy of the assignment. “Furthermore, Mr. Bartley told me that he expressed his strong opposition to the Final Solution and agreed with you that all genocide is immoral. Is this statement correct?”

  I glance at Cade. Reluctantly, we both nod.

  Principal McNeil smiles. “Excellent. We have no doubt you’ll do a fine job presenting the Nazi points of view, and then write outstanding papers expressing how you strongly oppose their actions.”

  Cade speaks up. “With all due respect, we won’t do this assignment. It’s not just that the Nazis actions were immoral. This assignment is immoral. We want it canceled.”

  “Excuse me?” Mr. Bartley says.

  As we rehearsed for this scenario, I hand copies of our presentation to Principal McNeil, Mr. Bartley, and Cade. Cade’s hand shakes as he takes his copy from me.

  “What is this?” Principal McNeil flips through our eight-page document.

  “Cade and I spent many hours researching and putting together our arguments against this assignment and creating alternatives.” I hold up my copy.

  “We’ve been asked to debate the Final Solution of the Jewish Question, but the Wannsee Conference had ultimately one purpose: to discuss how to implement the systematic murder of the Jewish people. That was confirmed in Conspiracy, the movie our class watched this past Friday. If you look at our document, we have included additional source material from the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum’s website supporting this fact.”

  I focus on Mr. Bartley. “Furthermore, you compared our assignment to acting. Actors choose their roles. Everyone knows it’s pretend. But by having us re-create the Wannsee Conference, you are forcing us into the Nazis’ shoes, rationalize their actions, and justify their thinking. This assignment allows for the possibility that the Nazis were right.”

  Waves of frustration or resentment or both roll off Mr. Bartley, but he hasn’t uttered a word since I handed them our document.

  I straighten my posture as if I’m standing in front of the judges for one of my debate competitions. “As you know, the purpose of a debate is to persuade others that your position is correct. In order to be persuasive, there must be legitimate arguments. How can anyone justify starving people to death in ghettos? How can anyone legitimize enslaving people for the sole purpose of profit, abusing
them until they’re dead? That’s murder. How can you ask us to justify genocide? We can’t debate two evils. Asking us to do so normalizes the Nazi perspective. It dehumanizes the Jewish people. We shouldn’t be asked to support systematic annihilation of any people, whether it’s a historical perspective or not.” I pause for their reaction, but from their silence it’s clear I haven’t convinced them.

  I forge on. “After World War Two, the results of the Nuremberg Trials prove our position. The defense attorneys argued that these Nazis were only following their superiors’ orders. But the International Military Tribunal concluded that under international law, morality overrode any order from a government or from a superior. Again, what the Nazis did was pure evil. There is no debate. Morality overrides this assignment!”

  In need of support, I reach for Cade’s hand. He laces his fingers with mine and holds tight. For two long beats, silence suffocates the room. I look over at Cade. It’s his turn to speak.

  Logan squeezes my hand. My mind is as blank as an erased whiteboard. I can’t remember one thing we wrote out on the notecards. I glance out the window, then focus on Principal McNeil. I pick up Logan’s thread as best as I can. “I’m not in Debate. This isn’t— Look, we’re not Jewish. To our knowledge, RHS doesn’t even have any Jewish students. But let me ask you, if there were Jewish students in our school, would you have us look them in the eye and deliver reasons to kill them? I don’t think so.”

  I shift my gaze to Mr. Bartley. Swallowing hard, I say, “If we look at the broader picture, this assignment promotes intolerance and hatred not only toward Jews, but toward people of color, our LGBTQIAP+ community, people with disabilities, to name just a few. It feeds into white supremacist beliefs that exist today. Would you ask us to argue in favor of slavery? Would you ask us to advocate for the actions of school shooters? What about the terrorists who murdered three thousand people on 9/11?” I shake my head. “No. I’m certain you wouldn’t. So why would this assignment be okay?”

  Mr. Bartley’s mouth is flat, like the line of a heart monitor hooked up to a dead patient. Neither he nor Principal McNeil responds. I don’t get it. Do they seriously have nothing to say?

  Gently, I tap Logan’s foot, needing her to take over. I can’t dislodge the lump pushing against my windpipe, making it nearly impossible to speak or breathe. I release the second button below my shirt collar.

  Logan’s eyes flash with concern, but I bump her knee and she gets the message to continue. “Cade and I visited the Safe Haven Museum and Education Center. It held nearly a thousand Jewish and non-Jewish European refugees.

  “In contrast, the US government brought over 425,000 German POWs. Many stayed in this area. Instead of saving some of the millions of innocent people, we welcomed, housed, and fed the enemy. As an alternative assignment, we propose a field trip and paper on the Fort Ontario Emergency Refugee Shelter and US immigration laws during World War Two.”

  Principal McNeil stares at us.

  “We’d appreciate it if you’d review it now,” Logan says.

  They turn the pages, taking their time reading the material.

  Mr. Bartley’s expression gives nothing away, but I notice his tight grip on the papers and his white knuckles.

  A few minutes later, Principal McNeil sets down his packet. Looking from Logan to me, he asks, “Anything else you would like to add?” He purses his lips like he’s annoyed.

  Have we made any impact? I’m not sure.

  When Logan and I prepared for this scenario, we agreed I would deliver our ace in the hole only if needed. I reach for her hand, squeeze it, letting her know I’m going for it. If this doesn’t convince them to change the assignment, nothing will.

  Immediately, my throat tightens up. “Principal McNeil, I found out that in 2013 an Albany high school English teacher gave her students an assignment kind of like this one. They were told to imagine that their teacher was a member of the Nazi government. They had to write a persuasive paper to—and I quote—‘argue that Jews are evil.’ ” I swallow hard. “It was all over the internet. The teacher was put on leave.”

  There’s an awkward pause.

  “We’re not here to make trouble. All we’re asking you to do is cancel the assignment. Let everyone do the alternative.” I glance at Logan. “That’s it. That’s all we have to say.”

  Principal McNeil flattens his palms on his desk and stands. “This is very impressive work. It’s clear you put a tremendous amount of effort into it.” He picks up a pen and uncaps it. “I’d like to speak with Mr. Bartley for a few minutes.”

  He walks around his desk and ushers us out.

  When Arthur McNeil hired Joe Bartley three years ago, he was pleased by the prestige Joe brought the school. The year before, Joe had finished his twentieth year teaching in Maryland. Because of his innovative ways of teaching history, Joe had received the Maryland Teacher of the Year Award. Arthur had milked it for all the positive publicity the school could get. He even felt that it helped motivate new families to move to Riviere. And now Cade and Logan dangle a veiled threat over their heads, comparing Joe’s thought-provoking debate to the essay given by the teacher who was put on leave in Albany?

  He motions for Joe to sit, then opens a desk drawer and removes a bottle of acetaminophen. From a small refrigerator, he grabs two water bottles, giving one to Joe. He pops three pills and washes them down.

  Picking up the teens’ document, he admires their hard work. For that alone, he’d give them an A. Begrudgingly, he has to admit they have some valid points, but they also overstepped student boundaries by telling them what should and shouldn’t be taught.

  Still. He doesn’t want trouble. He wants this to go away.

  On a frustrated sigh, he says, “Nothing’s changed, Joe. I support you one hundred percent. You work to engage these students and help them think outside the box and, like you, I see nothing wrong with your students reenacting this historical event. Your students need to understand how ordinary people were brainwashed to dehumanize the Jewish people. It happens every day.”

  “Exactly.”

  “You go above and beyond to help these kids in every possible way, Joe. I see how you’ve made a huge difference in our students’ lives. So I’m going to ask you to bend a bit here. I don’t want this molehill to turn into a mountain. Let’s take care of it now.”

  Joe scrubs his hands over his face. “What do you have in mind?”

  “Let them do the alternative assignment on the refugee shelter and immigration laws. It’s a brilliant idea, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Joe nods.

  “Make the same offer to the rest of your students.”

  “What? Why? No one else has an issue with my assignment. You don’t have an issue with this assignment. I’ve done what you asked. You said to challenge my students in a creative way. I’ve done that. But to offer an alternative to everyone?”

  “You’ve exceeded my expectations. But by offering everyone the same opportunity, you’re treating everyone equally. If no one else takes you up on the offer, then it’ll send Logan and Cade a clear message. You understand?” Arthur leans forward.

  Joe nods again.

  “You win, they win, and this will be over.”

  “Okay.”

  “Call them back in.”

  As Cade and I step out of Principal McNeil’s office, we’re greeted by the astonished faces of Mason, Kerrianne, and Spencer. Kerrianne’s been an office assistant since we were freshman, so it’s no surprise she’s in Miss Wather’s chair. Mason and Spencer flank her sides. What I’d love to know is what they’re doing on the computer. Mason does his chin lift/nod. I nod back, relieved no one asks why we’re here. Cade and I take our seats.

  I pull my phone from my pocket. As I scroll through Instagram, Kerrianne whisper-shouts, “They’re the Olsen twins. Hey, Spence, which one do you think
is Mary-Kate and which one’s Ashley?”

  “Cade’s definitely Ash. He’s shorter.”

  “So mature,” I mutter under my breath. (What I don’t say is that Cade and I are the same height: five feet, ten inches.)

  “I take it back,” Spencer says. “Logan’s the evil twin.” Being quite the comedian, he begins reciting twin jokes from his cell phone. Kerrianne lets out an obnoxious snort.

  With his voice low, Cade says, “Wow, maybe he should audition for SNL?”

  “Or clown school,” I whisper back. “But I think he’d scare small children.” When Cade’s smile reaches the Dimple Zone, I have a hard time appreciating it. I glance at Principal McNeil’s closed door. Why is it taking so long? What is there to discuss? We nailed our presentation. It has to go our way.

  Spencer walks over and stands in front of us. His eyes make a slow perusal over my body. The slime. Cade kicks out, forcing Spencer to jump back. Spencer curls his lips into a sneer and motions to McNeil’s office. “Suspended or expelled? I vote expelled.”

  “Shut up, Spencer,” Mason says. “Just back off.” For some reason, Spencer listens. But when Spencer returns to Mason and Kerrianne, he whispers something to them. Kerrianne laughs, and Mason’s balls up his hand. The look that Mason gives Kerrianne, then Spencer, is murderous.

  “Hey, I’m sorry.” Kerrianne says it more to Mason than to us. “But—”

  “But what?” he chides. She closes her mouth.

  Principal McNeil’s door opens. Cade and I stand. Mason says, “I’ll see you later.” I have no idea if he’s talking to all of us or only to Kerrianne and Spencer because Mr. Bartley ushers us back in.

  Before Logan and I can take our seats, Principal McNeil pushes away from his desk and stands like he’s on his way out. “We were impressed with your presentation,” he says, “and appreciate your hard work and diligence.”