by Liza Wiemer
Another image fills the Smart Board. It’s a Nazi poster showing a huge crowd of smiling people, saluting Hitler. “Yes! Leader, we will follow you!”
When Mr. Bartley asks for an analysis, Cade surprises me by raising his hand. It’s the second time this entire year. The first was a few days ago when he brought up my misguided theory that the assignment was a moral test. What is Cade up to? But Mr. Bartley angles away from us so it’s really easy for him to pretend he doesn’t see Cade. I don’t buy it for a second.
He calls on Heather Jameson.
“The image promotes absolute trust in Hitler,” Heather says.
“How so?” Mr. Bartley asks.
“Look at how he’s standing,” she says. “He’s on a stage way above the crowd with one fist propped on his hip and the other clenched at his side. He holds his head high. His back is to the people, commanding authority and strength. He’s huge compared to the smiling, saluting people standing below.” Heather adds, “It’s psychological warfare on the masses.”
Mr. Bartley nods, asks Heather to explain “psychological warfare.” As she does, I accidentally on purpose elbow my notebook. It thumps onto the floor. Almost everyone turns their eyes my way, except for Mr. Bartley.
Yup. I’m invisible to him now.
Advancing the screen, he brings up an official US Army poster.
“This was produced and distributed by our government. Take a good look and think about its message.”
The poster is a black-and-white drawing of Japanese soldiers leading American soldiers in chains, beating them. One prisoner is on his knees, the butt of the Japanese rifle poised to bash in the American’s face. On top, the poster reads, “What are YOU going to do about it?” “YOU” is in red, reminding me of the red “TOP-SECRET” used on our assignment.
Mr. Bartley asks, “What impressions does it give you? How do you think it impacted Americans during World War Two?”
My hand shoots up. He looks right through me. Half the class is ready to answer. Dejected, I lower my arm, and that’s when I hear “Yes, Logan?”
I’m so surprised Mr. Bartley chose me, my brain turns to mashed potatoes. Heat rises to my face. “Uh, I—uh—”
Mr. Bartley repeats the questions and, thankfully, waits for my answer. I launch into my analysis, stating that the poster was propaganda promoting hateful treatment toward Japanese Americans, turning public opinion against innocent people. “Even though it tells Americans to stay on the job until the enemy is wiped out, the line ‘What are you going to do about it?’ can be interpreted by the masses that they have blatant permission to take action into their own hands. This is extremely dangerous language, and—”
The bell rings.
Mr. Bartley holds up his hand, halting a few students who were ready to sprint out the door. “Logan’s assessment is spot-on. By today’s standards, it’s highly offensive, but during World War Two this was the norm. Antisemitism was also prevalent and, in many crowds, socially acceptable.” For a second, he holds my gaze. “You are dismissed. We’ll continue this conversation tomorrow.”
My head spins from Mr. Bartley’s comment. I understand we need to examine propaganda and behavior based on the time period. But from my perspective, his point is another failed attempt to justify the assignment.
When Cade and I reach my locker, he says, “Glad that’s over.”
“Understatement of the day. Was Mr. Bartley ignoring us, or is my perception off?”
“Oh, he definitely was ignoring us.”
“Good.”
“Good?”
“Yeah. It beats the latter.”
Heather walks by with Jesse at her side. He slings his arm onto her shoulder. “We’re forming an Aryan club at school and I really think you should join us,” he says.
She shoves him hard, and he stumbles. “Get off me. Don’t you dare put your hands on me,” she says. “If you do it again, I will report you to Principal McNeil.” She storms off.
Jesse’s laugh stops her. “I was just messing with you. It was a joke. Lighten up.”
Heather spins around. There’s venom in her sky-blue eyes. “I really used to like you. But now?” She lets out a sound of disgust. I move toward her, but the crowd sweeps her away.
A stunned Jesse stares after her and, for a few moments, his face reveals raw emotions I’d never expect to see from him—confusion, regret, and sadness. They disappear when Reg and Spencer and a few other hockey players call Jesse over.
I look at Cade. “I think we could use some ice cream.”
“It’s twenty degrees and you’re thinking of ice cream?”
“A hot fudge sundae, emphasis on hot fudge. And warm caramel. After all, this is a celebration. We need to go all out.”
“And what exactly are we celebrating?”
“You raised your hand in class. You raised your hand.”
He grins, full-blown Dimple Zone. “The sacrifices I make to help prove a point.”
Damn. I really love this boy. If only he knew.
“You get to decide, but since your principal refuses to cancel the assignment, I see no other choice but to take this to the press,” Lissa Chen says through my phone’s speaker. “The story could go nowhere or it could attract national and even international attention. We just never know.”
Nervous, I glance around. This isn’t a conversation I want everyone in our school parking lot to hear. I motion to Logan to unlock her car doors. As soon as we get inside, Logan asks Lissa, “What would we have to do?”
“My contact at the Lake Towns Journal will want to interview you. You can remain anonymous, but given what’s transpired at school, people there will most likely speculate that you’re the source.”
“Logan and I need a minute to discuss it,” I say.
“Take your time. I can wait.”
I cover the phone’s speaker with my hand. As Grandpa said, sometimes, even when you don’t want to, you need to put yourself into the spotlight. “Logan, if Lissa thinks this is the only way, we have to do this. Trying to deny an anonymous tip, especially at school, doesn’t feel right. We have to own this. What do you think?”
“Agreed.”
I remove my hand and say, “We’ll go on record and do the interview.”
“Excellent. It’s the right choice. I’ll also give a statement, which will add weight to your position. Let me contact the reporter now and I’ll call you right back. Hold tight, okay?”
Ten minutes later, my phone rings. But it’s not Lissa. “Cade?”
“Yes?”
“This is Bethany Beshett. I’m the education reporter for the Lake Towns Journal. Lissa gave me your phone number. Is Logan still with you?”
“She is. I have you on speaker.”
“Hi, Logan. I’m looking forward to meeting you both. I just happen to be in the area and was wondering if you could meet at the Riviere Public Library today. I could reserve one of the study rooms. Would four o’clock work?”
That’s thirty minutes from now. Logan nods. “Sure,” I say.
After I hang up, Logan says, “You drive. I want to research Bethany Beshett.”
* * *
* * *
On the way to the library, Logan reads several articles written by Bethany Beshett, but I’m only half listening. My thoughts drift to the last moments I had with my grandpa before he died in my arms.
It was a Sunday a little over five years ago. Nana, Mom, and Dad were at Mass. Grandpa and I were serving our guests coffee and tea and refilling the brunch buffet in the community room. Grandpa moved from table to table, telling jokes, impersonating actors, and making people laugh. Suddenly, his voice cut out. He swayed and collapsed to the floor. I remember running to him. I remember kneeling by him. I remember Grandpa clutching his chest. Someone called 911. Grandpa’s breath wheeze
d in and out. He tried to talk. A tear rolled down his cheek. Hold on! Hold on! I begged, holding him tightly. His eyes were fixed off in the distance; then they went vacant like an abandoned motel. By the time paramedics arrived, Grandpa was gone. He died from a massive heart attack.
At the red light, I raise my eyes to the cloud-filled sky, wondering if Grandpa would want me to give this interview.
The story he told me replays in my mind. Months had passed since Grandpa witnessed the Nazis’ liquidation of the town’s Jews, and every day he worried about what became of them—most of all, his friend Yankel. One morning when Grandpa went to feed the animals in the barn, there was Yankel, filthy and not much more than skin and bone. He told Grandpa about what it had been like living in the ghetto—in a space fit for two people, there were fifteen, crumbs of bread or no food at all. Typhus swept through, killing his mother, his father, his neighbors. Piles of corpses filled the cemetery, which was too small to provide a proper burial for many of the dead. In the graveyard, Yankel, along with two other boys, used the mound of corpses as a shield to dig a hole under the fence. They escaped under the cover of darkness.
For several days, Grandpa hid Yankel in the barn, sneaking him morsels of food. On the fourth night, his mother discovered them. Grandpa begged her to help Yankel, and finally they came up with a plan. They bleached Yankel’s brown hair so it looked blond, gave him a family Bible and a cross to wear around his neck. They told him what Catholic prayers and passages to memorize. They gave him bread, an apple, and a coat my grandpa had outgrown.
That night, as Yankel said his goodbye, Grandpa gave Yankel one more gift: his identification paper. Your name is Warclaw now.
At first, Yankel refused to take Grandpa’s identity. But my grandpa insisted, pushing him to leave. There can’t be two of us here. You have to go far away and never come back. Yankel promised that if he got caught, he would say he stole the paper. He promised never to betray my grandpa or his family. He kept that promise. My grandpa never saw Yankel again.
Cade parks my car in the Riviere Public Library lot. Twenty minutes to spare. I unbuckle my seat belt and shift to talk with him. “You weren’t listening, were you?” It’s not an accusation, but a statement of fact.
“I was half listening. Sorry. Want to share the highlights?”
I unlock my phone and bring up Bethany Beshett’s Facebook profile, which is mostly private except for a few photos and articles she’s had published. “She has a degree in journalism. Last May she started interning at the Lake Towns Journal. All her articles focus on education. She’s a good writer,” I say. “And it seems like she sticks to the facts.”
“Okay,” he says.
I scrutinize his face. “You’re nervous?”
“A little. I’ve been thinking about my grandparents. I wish I knew what happened to their families in Poland during World War Two.”
“Did you ask your mom?”
“A long time ago. She said Nana and Grandpa never wanted to talk about it, so she stopped asking. She knows less than I do.” He rubs his hands over his thighs.
“Cade. Is that one of the reasons why you want to do this interview?”
“It won’t help me get answers, so no.” He fixes his gaze on me. “I want to do this because it’s the right thing to do.”
“Cade!”
What does Mom want now? I glance away from our moonlit beach toward the limestone cliff and the stairs that lead to the inn. Waves slap against the ice, spraying cold water onto my jeans and jacket. I wanted five minutes to figure out how to tell my parents about the interview with Bethany Beshett, but even here I can’t have peace.
I check the time on my phone. Twelve more hours until the article goes live on the Lake Towns Journal website.
I hear Logan’s voice in my head. “That was amazing. We were amazing!” After the interview, I stood on the sidewalk in front of the library, looking up at Logan dancing on the top step, pumping her fists in victory. My grin hid the dread churning in my stomach, and even her hug goodbye when she dropped me off wasn’t enough to vanquish it.
“CADE!”
“I’m coming,” I call.
“I need you inside RIGHT NOW!!!”
With one more glance at the lake, I turn, sweep my flashlight several feet ahead, and sprint up the path I cleared for the wedding party. I mentally run through the chores I finished, trying to figure out what I might have messed up. I can’t think of anything. Mom opens the door wide, letting me pass.
“What’s all the racket?” Nana asks as I follow Mom into the kitchen.
“It’s nothing, Ma,” she says.
“It’s not nothing if you’re hollering like that. You could wake the dead.”
“Everything’s fine. I just need some computer help, that’s all.”
At the mention of computers, Nana frowns and heads toward her bedroom, but not before she murmurs her disapproval. I smile at her, letting her know I’ve got this. The last time Mom freaked out this much was when we received a negative review on TripAdvisor. It was from a woman who complained about a strand of hair she found on the suite’s bathroom floor. I was the one who carried the cleaning supplies and a basket of complimentary goodies to the room at 10:45 p.m. I was the one who scrubbed the bathroom as the woman stood over me with her arms folded across her chest in her sheer nightgown. And that strand of long black hair on the floor? It was hers. But did I point that out? Of course not.
Mom closes the apartment door behind us. She sits at the reception desk and moves the mouse. The computer screen comes to life. Her voice comes out in a soft hiss. “How do you explain this, Cade?”
I shake my head as if that’s not me, as if it’s a big mistake. It is a mistake. I was supposed to have time!
LAKE TOWNS JOURNAL
Riviere High School Students Oppose Holocaust Debate Assignment
Posted at 7:45 p.m.
The article fills the screen. There’s the picture of Logan and me at the library, sitting side by side, looking into the camera. The inn’s logo is clearly visible on my shirt.
Mom’s voice is filled with controlled fury. “I got a phone call from Mrs. Stoke. Imagine my surprise when she told me about this article.”
There are already 82 shares and 41 comments!
I can’t breathe.
Through clenched teeth Mom says, “She informed me that Joe and Mary Bartley are her neighbors and best friends and that she won’t do business with someone who is out to destroy a great teacher’s reputation.”
Mom points to one of the last lines in the article.
“Cade and Logan do not want Bartley to lose his job. They believe the teacher and administration should apologize and acknowledge that the assignment was inappropriate and offensive.”
“Mrs. Stoke said you’re the ones who owe Mr. Bartley an apology. She canceled her daughter’s bridal shower and said that the wedding guests will no longer stay at the inn. How could you have done this to us, Cade?” She sets her hand over her heart. Her lips tremble.
“I—”
“How is it that you didn’t tell us about this assignment and your disagreement with Mr. Bartley and Principal McNeil? How is it that you spoke to Humanity for Peace and Justice and a reporter without talking to us first?”
Mom glances at our closed apartment door. “We’re not going to have this discussion here. I don’t want Nana to know about this.” Her anger hits me like a battering ram. The printer spits out the article and the first three pages of comments. Mom shuts down the computer, and I follow her upstairs.
Comments: 41
Retired social studies teacher
I’m shocked that a teacher would give this assignment. These teens are heroes! Thank you for having the courage to speak out against hate.
6 Like Reply
I Salute NZS
0 Like Reply
TripleK4Evr
@I Salute NZS
Or we can just sterilize them.
0 Like Reply
Riviere resident
@I Salute NZS @TripleK4Evr
Serious question: What’s happened in your life that you’re filled with so much anger and hate?
14 Like Reply
Bulldog
FIRE the teacher and principal!
3 Like Reply
RHS senior
Cade and Logan never should have gone public with this. Mr. Bartley is the best teacher and we’re lucky to have him. Just because you didn’t get your way doesn’t mean you can smear his reputation like this. Did you think about his feelings? Do you even care if he gets hurt? Also, just because I have to pretend I’m a Nazi and explain my reasons why the Jewish people should be exterminated, doesn’t mean I personally believe it’s okay to kill anyone. God said, “Thou shalt not kill.” I listen to God, not Nazis.
1 Like Reply
Bulldog
@RHS senior
If you’d lived in Nazi Germany, what would you have done?
3 Like Reply
JUSSUK
Jews control every segment of society while the rest of us suffer because we can’t get jobs.
0 Like Reply
HistoryBuff
@JUSSUK
Jews are 0.2 percent of the world’s population. They’ve been persecuted for thousands of years—FYI research pogroms, Crusades, and the Spanish Inquisition. If you’re suffering, it’s because you’re lazy. Get up and get a job.
1 Like Reply
BNice
The problem with this world is people blame and bully others as a means to gain power. They always find scapegoats. It’s easy to blame Jews because it’s been done for thousands of years. Hitler used them as political scapegoats, subscribing to faux science to declare that Jews are an inferior race. It was nonsense. He brainwashed German society with his charisma and lies. “Get rid of them and life will be great.” Personally, I’m sick of people being cruel to one another. Enough of the racism, homophobia, misogyny, Islamophobia, and antisemitism.