by Liza Wiemer
My dinner sours in my stomach. “I’ve been trying to understand how Mr. Bartley could give this assignment, see this from his point of view. I can’t. I’ve been trying to understand how anyone could advocate for murder. How was it that millions of people either actively participated or passively did nothing during the Holocaust? What happened to their humanity, morality? How could they watch and do nothing, turn their Jewish neighbors over to the Nazis, or worse—become Nazis and be part of murder or commit murder themselves?”
“I don’t know and I have no answer, Logan.”
“I’ve imagined what it would be like if we’d been dragged from our home at gunpoint, made to dig our own graves, and then forced to kneel at the edge. What if Mr. Bartley had us reenact that? There would be such an uproar!”
“Logan, don’t.”
“We have to, Dad. Because no one else in our class is saying this is wrong. These Nazis started out as regular people and became monsters. They had wives, husbands, sons, daughters, parents. They laughed and danced and celebrated birthdays. They went on picnics, walked dogs, and read bedtime stories to their kids. And yet they didn’t hesitate to put a bullet into a neighbor’s head and go on with daily life. They had to be so brainwashed or filled with hate to bear looking at themselves in the mirror.
“When Cade and I researched the alternative assignment, I stumbled upon a 60 Minutes interview with Father Patrick Desbois. He’s a French Catholic priest who’s spent twenty-plus years trying to understand how the Holocaust could happen. His grandfather was a prisoner of war in a Nazi camp in the Ukraine and refused to talk about his experience. So Father Desbois traveled to that village, then throughout Eastern Europe and the former Soviet Union, to get answers. He and his team recorded over four thousand eyewitness accounts of Jews being rounded up from their homes and shot in massive graves. They’ve found many of those graves.”
I choke back tears, but I have to continue.
“These witnesses saw everything, described it in detail. They were children and teenagers, so what could they do against Nazi soldiers? But the adults? They did nothing! Maybe they were afraid they would be murdered, too? Except Father Desbois heard firsthand accounts that after the Nazis left, the graves shifted and writhed for days and people did nothing to help the victims. Even worse, they searched the bodies and stripped them of watches, money—any treasure.”
A tear trickles down my cheek. I pick up my napkin and wipe it away.
“Dad, Father Desbois’s mission in life has been to let the world know how dark humanity can be. Most of my classmates are good people. Yet, they’re doing nothing to protest this absurd assignment. If they had lived in Nazi Germany or in one of those countries Father Desbois went to, would they have stayed silent as their Jewish neighbors were murdered? Would they have turned them in and stolen their belongings?”
Dad clutches the edge of the table. “I honestly don’t know.”
“Cade and I have to do something about this. Maybe then others will, too.”
“I’ll support you and Cade in every way I possibly can.” He pauses. “We’ve done all right, haven’t we? You and I? Without a mother in your life, I’ve worried about you.”
“We’re good, Dad. Really.”
He looks at me and asks, “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure. I have you and Aunt Ava and Blair. I have Cade and his family.”
I know my parents’ story. They were never married, just lived together. When I was three, my birth mom packed up her things and walked out of our lives to be with another man. I don’t remember her and I’ve never had a need to find her. Dad was awarded full custody. She simply gave up her parental rights. Maybe I should miss having a mom, but I don’t. I never knew her. She’s my egg donor, that’s all. Whenever I’ve needed a mom, Aunt Ava has always been there for me. I’m so lucky my dad’s sister loves me like she loves Blair. The hardest part of my life was when Dad moved us away from Aunt Ava and Blair to Riviere. I thought I’d fall apart.
I got lucky again with Cade’s parents and his nana. I went from being a guest to being a part of their family. Although I love them all, Nana has a special spot in my heart. The week Dad and I stayed at the inn, I asked Nana if I could bake with her. I woke super early and joined her in the kitchen. We laughed, listened to oldies playing on the radio. She gave me an apron and I helped her mix the dough for chruściki, a fried Polish pastry shaped like angel wings and dusted with powdered sugar. Nana called me her breath of fresh air. Later, Cade told me that Nana doesn’t share her baking secrets, not even with him, and that in the six months since his grandpa had died, it was the first time he’d heard Nana laugh. When Dad and I checked out, Nana hugged me like she never wanted to let go.
In need of a hug now, I get up and walk over to Dad. I open my arms. He rises and hugs me close. For a few moments, even though I’m three months shy of eighteen, it feels so good to be his little girl.
I let go, pick up our plates, and bring them to the sink. Over the sound of running water, I ask, “So what do you think our next step should be?” I turn off the faucet and face him.
“I’m not sure.” He comes to my side. “There is a rabbi on campus, and now that I think about it, a few years back he received some threatening messages. There were other incidents, but I don’t remember the details. An organization called Humanity for Peace and Justice helped. Maybe HPJ could give you advice or you could talk with the rabbi?”
I unplug my phone from the charger. There’s a missed text from Blair:
“OMG your day sounds like the worst! I DESPISE Mr. Bigotley! CALL ME! BTW, I got the part of Sandy in our school production of GREASE! Can’t wait to tell you about it. Love you.”
Grinning, I text her back, “Congrats! So proud of you!”
I go online and search for Humanity for Peace and Justice. Their site comes up immediately. The first line of their mission statement says: “To seek justice and provide support for those targeted because of religion, race, gender, or sexual orientation.”
“Got it.” The nearest office is in Albany. “I’m going to call Cade.” When I reach the bottom step for our back stairway, I turn around. “Thanks, Dad.” I smile. “Not just for this, but for being my dad.”
Monday, 8:49 p.m. Three-way phone call:
LISSA CHEN: (in her home office, sitting at her desk with Cade and Logan’s email on her laptop screen) Thank you for getting in touch with me. I must say I’m deeply impressed by your documentation and detailed account of what has transpired.
LOGAN: (sitting at her desk with her laptop ready to take notes) Thank you. Can you help us?
LISSA CHEN: I’ll do my best. I have this job because these situations are so much more common than you’d think. Many of these incidents don’t hit the media. We’re able to deal directly with the school and take immediate corrective measures quickly and quietly.
CADE: (closes the door of the bridal suite he’s cleaning) Do you think that could happen with this assignment?
LISSA CHEN: Absolutely. Recently, a teacher had her students read Anne Frank: Diary of a Young Girl. When they finished, she asked her students to pretend they were the Gestapo who captured the Franks, the Van Pels, and Fritz Pfeffer. The students were supposed to explain their actions. She thought it would help her students be sensitive and sympathetic to Holocaust victims. Not only was this misguided, but several of her seventh graders targeted a younger Jewish student, saying that she and her family deserved to die. We received a call from the parent and together we spoke to the teacher and principal. The principal was horrified. Instead of punishing those students, we brought in a Holocaust survivor’s son and provided effective restorative justice activities. They’re currently in the process of revamping the curriculum.
CADE: (sits on the stone hearth in the suite’s bedroom) And it worked?
LISSA CHEN: We believe so. In
your situation, I feel it’s best for me to email your principal. I’ll let him know you have the full support of HPJ and will explain our concerns and give suggestions on how to alter this assignment. There is nothing wrong with learning about the Wannsee Conference and the Final Solution, but it’s completely inappropriate to ask students to represent Nazis and defend the indefensible. People can contort the truth to justify atrocities. Make excuses for the inexcusable. No matter what they conjure in their minds or how society turns away, they’re still responsible. Just like your teacher is responsible for this assignment. Your class could have been researching how the Nazis’ actions were based on pseudo-science, propaganda, lies, and antisemitism.
LOGAN: Exactly. What if Principal McNeil refuses to change the assignment? What will the next step be?
LISSA CHEN: We contact the press. (pauses) Neither of you mentioned your parents. Do you have their full support or support from other adults on this?
LOGAN: My dad was the one who suggested we contact you.
CADE: I haven’t told my parents yet. Do you really think it’s necessary?
LISSA CHEN: I highly recommend you let them know what’s going on, Cade. We never know how these situations are going to turn out. It’s important to have their support. If you’d like, I will be happy to speak or meet with them.
CADE: (blows out a breath) I’ll talk with them tonight.
LISSA CHEN: Excellent. I’ll email you all my contact info. As soon as I receive a response from your principal, I’ll follow up with you. If you have any questions or if anything comes up, please don’t hesitate to get in touch with me day or night.
After Logan and I hang up with Lissa Chen, I head downstairs to talk with Mom and Dad about the assignment. But when I reach the last step, I hesitate.
Gripping the railing, I glance back toward the messy honeymoon suite, then shift my gaze to our closed apartment door. Twenty minutes ago, I left my parents at the kitchen table, going through receipts from the weekend and this month’s bills.
The honeymoon suite wins.
I put on the latex gloves and give the four-poster king-size bed a hard shove, shifting it back against the wall. I strip the sheets and duvet and stuff them into my laundry bag. I drop the two empty bottles of champagne into the recycling bin and search for the two glass flutes I delivered Saturday night along with a bag of Nana’s homemade chocolate fudge. Kneeling, I lift the dust ruffle and instead of finding glasses, I’m gifted with underwear. Why oh why is it never a twenty-dollar bill? I gather them up, pull off my gloves, and dump it all into the garbage.
Cleaning these rooms, it’s impossible not to think about what happens in these beds, and it’s moments like these that I think about Logan. But this time, instead of fantasy, my mind wanders to that moment when our eyes locked at the museum. We’ve both done a spectacular job pretending it never happened. But what did happen? I wanted to kiss her and I’m almost positive she wanted to kiss me. I’m not imagining it. Am I?
It doesn’t matter. Anything other than friendship with Logan is doomed. But I wish there were some magical incantation that would stop me from wanting her.
I move into the bathroom and crack open the window. As I scrub away a bright yellow film from the Jacuzzi, I rehearse what I’m going to say to my parents about the assignment. By the time the bathroom sparkles for our next guests, I still don’t feel ready, but I’ve put it off long enough.
Bills, checkbook, receipts, and parents are not at the kitchen table. Nana is in her room with the door closed. From the sound of it, she’s watching another one of her cooking shows, most likely dozing off in her recliner. I check the office, then knock on my parents’ bedroom door. They’re nowhere in the apartment.
The lobby is empty. When I get to the first-floor hallway leading to guest rooms, there’s a chill in the air. I call out, “Mom? Dad?” No response. I walk to the end, checking guest rooms. When I get to the last one, their muffled voices drift through a vent near the basement stairwell. I open the door and their voices grow louder.
“Can you fix it?” Mom asks.
“I’m doing what I can,” Dad says. “I’d hoped the pilot light had gone out, but that’s not the problem.”
In the furnace room, Dad’s kneeling in front of one of the boilers’ small doors. Mom’s crouching next to him, holding a high-powered flashlight aimed at the coils inside.
“What’s the matter?” I ask, startling Mom. The beam hits my eyes.
Dad scoots back and pushes up onto his feet. “The boiler for the first floor of the inn isn’t working,” he says, sounding stressed. “It’s not the pilot or the fuse.”
“Then what is it?” Mom asks.
Dad closes Grandpa’s toolbox. “It’s either the pump or circuit board. Neither one is a cheap fix.”
“Are you sure?”
“Mikayla, I’m not an expert. So no, I’m not sure of anything,” Dad snaps. His gaze shifts to my grandpa’s closed workshop door, and I wonder if Dad’s thinking what I’m thinking. If Grandpa were still alive, he’d know how to fix it. From the time my parents started dating their senior year, Grandpa took Dad under his wing and taught him about home repair—things my mom has little interest in. Dad grew up in foster care and knew nothing about his birth parents. He struggled, but my grandparents have always loved Dad like a son. His role models, he’s always said.
“I’ll call Zeke and ask him to take a look.” Dad wipes grime on his jeans.
“We can’t afford this now,” Mom says.
Dad cups her face. “Please don’t worry. I’ll see if I can barter my labor for his. One way or another, we’ll figure a way to work it out.”
Not wanting to get dragged in, I hustle upstairs to our back door, take my coat off the hook. The second I step outside, I’m blasted with the bitter cold. I run to our woodshed. As Grandpa always said, it’s important to be prepared. The nylon straps bundling the firewood cut into my palms. I hurry inside, and when I finally set the wood onto the fireplace hearth, red, painful lines dent my palms. I flex my fingers and it brings back a memory. Grandpa had a habit of holding up his callused hands and examining them as if they were a wonder to behold. It’s a miracle I didn’t lose them, I once heard him say as Nana rubbed her homemade cream into his palms. The pungent smells of ginger and chili pepper temporarily filled the air.
As I finish restocking the firewood in our parlor, my parents come down the hall, talking about credit cards and taking out a second mortgage. They turn the corner without noticing me. Dad straightens a landscape painting near the reception desk, and then they go into our apartment, shutting the door behind them.
I should tell them about the assignment. But tomorrow before school is soon enough. Or after. Better after, I think, since Nana will be baking at the crack of dawn, Dad will be leaving early for work, and Mom will be sewing or preparing for the monthly Riviere Junior Women’s League meeting we host in the community room. I stock wood in that room’s fireplace, too, bring out the lectern, and rearrange the tables.
With no chores left, I shut myself in my bedroom, plug my headphones into my dad’s old Discman, and crank up some classic Queen, my dad’s favorite band. I take out my calculus homework, but it’s hard to focus. Why should I say anything about the assignment? Logan and I aren’t in any trouble. It’s being handled. We don’t need my parents’ help. Most likely, they’ll tell me to work it out. With HPJ involved, I’m certain Principal McNeil will cancel the debate.
I really hope so, because these reasons are not why I can’t tell my parents. All my life I’ve been told not to make waves, to do whatever I can to resolve guests’ issues as quickly as possible because our reputation means everything. Will my parents see protesting the assignment as making waves? I’d say there’s better than a fifty-fifty chance. And now that Logan and I are doing the alternative assignment, would my parents want us to
continue the fight to get the assignment canceled if Lissa Chen isn’t successful? I’m not sure.
If I tell them everything and they ask me to let it go, what will I do? I can’t imagine not standing with Logan when I know our position is right and Mr. Bartley is wrong. Unfortunately, I can only think of two options: Drop it or defy my parents. I don’t like either one.
From the moment we walk into History of World Governments, Mr. Bartley’s gaze passes right through us, yet he acknowledges others with a nod, a smile, or a hello. Not once does he make eye contact during his discussion on the alliance made by Italy, Nazi Germany, and Japan to form the Axis powers. Not once does he call on me when I raise my hand to answer his questions about the propaganda posters used during World War II. Even when my hand is the only one to go up, instead of calling on me, Mr. Bartley answers the question himself as if it were rhetorical. But I know better, and so does everyone else in class. I’ve caught their pitying looks.
I’m 99 percent sure I know why Mr. Bartley is ignoring us. Principal McNeil must have received the email from Lissa Chen at HPJ and shared it with Mr. Bartley. Did I expect him to be upset? Yes. Did I expect him to act like a jerk? No.
We haven’t done anything wrong, and that’s what I have to remember. Still, I’m struggling. I don’t want Mr. Bartley to hate us.
Wanting to disappear, I slump in my seat. For the next three questions, even though I know the answers, I keep my hands in my lap, wishing for a way to get out of class. I touch my forehead. Maybe I have a fever?
The weight of Cade’s gaze forces me to glance over at him. He forms a tight fist, sending me a message to stay strong.