The Assignment

by Liza Wiemer

  My phone buzzes. Cade doesn’t call. He texts: “Home.”

  Long after Cade and Adam are asleep, Mikayla gets out of bed and walks to her mom’s bedroom door. Mikayla had left it cracked open in case her mom woke up and called for her. Like the thousands of times her mom had checked on her in the middle of the night when Mikayla was a child, she feels compelled to look in on her mom.

  But from the dim glow of the nightlight, she can’t tell if her mom is breathing, so she tiptoes into the room, peers down on her. She seems at peace, but there’s a vulnerability to her mom that Mikayla’s never seen before. Her mom has never been fragile or weak. Not even when Mikayla’s dad died. She can’t remember her mom crying. But…maybe when she was a little girl?

  As she watches the rise and fall of her mom’s chest, snippets of Mikayla’s childhood come back to her.

  Her mom had wanted a big family. After four miscarriages, Mikayla became her mom’s miracle at age thirty-nine. Sometimes Mikayla thought that all the people her parents welcomed at the inn became extended family. Growing up without grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins, her parents surrounded themselves with strangers who were always made to feel at home. Her parents doted on them, listened to them, and most of all, fed them. God forbid anyone should ever be hungry.

  It makes sense now.

  Her parents rarely slept, but when they did, the TV was always on. Now Mikayla wonders if the screams or crying she heard in the middle of the night came from her mom and not some actress on the screen as they’d said? Were the nightmares brought on by memories of Gross-Rosen concentration camp?

  Mikayla has so many questions.

  When she was a child, she attended catechism. Her mom rarely missed Sunday Mass, but her dad never went to church, using the responsibilities at the inn as his excuse not to go. He always said that his contribution was making toys for Santa to bring to children in hospitals and shelters. Every year they went all out, decorating and celebrating Christmas and Easter at the inn.

  Through the years, none of it made her feel particularly religious.

  Maybe because her parents didn’t talk about God or Jesus? But they did talk about kindness. If anything, they placed their faith in kindness. She wonders about the real Warclaw, the one who gave her dad his identification, the cross, and the Bible. What happened to him?

  Now Mikayla understands her parents better. When she was a child, there were moments when her father went out of his way to help guests, from making bag lunches for their picnics, to buying their favorite snacks and putting them in their rooms, to picking up items at a pharmacy. Mikayla felt that some guests took advantage of him, and it enraged her. But her father insisted that a small kindness could transform a person’s life, even save it. If only she had understood then.

  Mikayla’s gaze drops to her mom’s exposed arm. Her gnarly finger rests on her stomach, and Mikayla wants to reach out and hold her hand, but she doesn’t dare in fear of waking her. Did her father ever hold her mom’s hand? She can’t remember. They weren’t ones to show affection, at least not that way.

  More memories flood back. The time Mikayla left for school without letting Mom know. Hearing her frantically call for Mikayla as she ran after her, barefoot in the snow. She grabbed Mikayla, shook her, pulled her into her, screaming, “Don’t ever, ever, ever leave the house without saying goodbye!”

  She always needed to know where Mikayla was, what she was doing, whom she was with, and when she would return. If Mikayla came home a minute late, there was hell to pay. Mikayla learned. If a movie ended at nine, she said nine-thirty. She padded time and arrived home early. Mom always waited up for her, staying busy by knitting, sewing, polishing, baking, or cleaning.

  “Hi Ma. I’m back,” she’d say. Her mom would nod. Mikayla would say goodnight, and only then would her mom go to sleep, though she never slept for long. Mikayla would wake to her mom covered in flour and the smells of freshly baking breads and breakfast treats.

  Her mom’s quirks and habits were Mikayla’s normal.

  Mikayla could never have imagined, not in her wildest dreams, that her mom had spent some of her childhood in a concentration camp. It explains so much, yet she can’t help but feel that her mom is a stranger. And just as she thinks it, her mom stirs.

  “Mikayla?”

  “Yeah, it’s me.”

  “What are you doing here? Is everything all right?”

  “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “What’s the matter, darling? Sit. Talk to me.”

  Several long beats pass before Mikayla is able to speak. “I know you said you’re not ready for questions, but…I don’t understand.” She meets her mom’s gaze. “Why did you keep this from me for so long? Why didn’t Pa—” She chokes. “W-we’re Jewish?”

  “Oh, Mikayla. I thought it would be better if we blended in. I am not ashamed of being Jewish. I was afraid. I live with the terror every day, Mikayla, especially in nightmares. And now, even here in beautiful Riviere, such hate! Decades and decades past World War Two, and evil is alive and well.” She takes Mikayla’s hand in hers. “I regret not honoring my family in Poland, but it’s hard for me to regret wanting to protect you. You understand?”

  “I think so. Did you name me for your youngest brother? The one who the Nazis hanged?”

  Her mom stares up at the ceiling. Mikayla has to lean in close to hear her. “It’s our Jewish tradition to name a child after someone who passed away. Michoel was special. He was the sweetest, happiest boy, gentle and kind and so smart, like you. He had thick brown curls, like you, and hazel eyes that sparkled with mischief. He and your pa used to play pranks on one another.” Her lips curve into the tiniest of smiles as a tear rolls down her cheek. “Michoel was your pa’s dearest friend. They were two peas in a pod.”

  There is so much more Mikayla wants to know, but even this has caused her mom too much pain. She leans down, kisses her cheek, and whispers, “I love you, Ma.”

  I planned to stay home today to spend some time with Nana, but if that wasn’t reason enough to skip school and have a long weekend, Officer Shawn Sullivan gave me one. Knowing we’re early risers, he called at six a.m. and spoke with Mom. Still no leads, but he told her that members of the Riviere Police Department as well as several Riviere storeowners will gather at nine a.m. to remove the hateful graffiti from our inn. Officer Sullivan is arranging everything.

  It’s only 6:20, but I call Logan.

  “Hi. What’s going on?” she asks, sounding wide-awake.

  “I’m staying home.” I fill her in on Mom’s conversation with Shawn. “After everything that’s happened and all the negative publicity, we need to show the good side of our community.”

  “I’ll be there,” Logan says.

  Of course, I knew she would. Still…“And ruin your perfect high school attendance record?”

  “You think that matters?”

  “Just a little,” I say honestly.

  “More proof you know me so well. But I wouldn’t miss this for the world. We’ll spend the day together.”

  “Come over as soon as you can. I’m working on something.”

  “Oh yeah? Can I have a preview?”

  “Nope. I’ll show you when you get here.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Through Nana’s window, we see that the inn’s parking lot is full—not full, packed! This isn’t a few people, it’s a rally!

  “Nana, come outside,” I plead. “All these people are here to support us.”

  “I don’t like crowds and I don’t like a fuss,” she says.

  “They’ll be asking for you.”

  “Then they can come into the inn for coffee, tea, and cake after. Now go.”

  “All right. I’m going, but if you change your mind—”

  “I won’t.”

 
With a sigh, I head outside and join Logan in handing out the posters I designed and had printed on heavy cardstock. At Logan’s insistence, I made one hundred, thinking it would be too much. I was so wrong. Logan’s dad will be bringing two hundred more.

  People gather underneath our apartment entrance and fan out across the parking lot. Many stand together in small groups, talking and drinking coffee in to-go cups that Dad and Mom provided. Some point at the vandalism. To its right, a wooden ladder leans against the stone wall.

  It’s a warm day for late February—forty-six degrees—and I unzip my coat and scan the crowd for Logan. I finally spot her with Mom, standing off to the side surrounded by several women I recognize from the Junior Women’s League. When Logan spies me, she waves.

  “No luck getting Nana to come outside?” Mom asks when I reach her side.

  “Nope.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Dad says, joining us with Professor March. “She hates crowds.”

  “Exactly what she said.”

  Dad sets a hand on my shoulder. “Cade, we want you to speak to the crowd.”

  “What? No. I can’t.”

  Mom cuts in. “You and Logan,” she says, like it’s an opportunity we can’t refuse.

  “But I hate giving speeches,” I say.

  “It would mean a lot to everyone if you did it,” Dad says.

  Resigned, I ask, “What should we say?”

  “Whatever’s in your heart,” he answers.

  Professor March gives Dad some more posters and says, “We’re going to finish passing these out. You did a great job with these, Cade. I have no doubt after today we’ll see these in the windows of every business and many Riviere homes. It’s exactly what our community needs.”

  Mom leads Logan and me through the crowd, stopping to greet people and to give and receive hugs. Logan and I are stopped, too. Over and over people tell us that we’re brave, that they are proud of us. I can’t help but smile and thank them for their support.

  When we get to the front, I glance around. Nerves dance in my stomach.

  Officer Sullivan, wearing his uniform, steps onto the ladder. As he climbs a few rungs, Dad grips the side, holds it steady. Officer Sullivan raises his palm and the crowd quickly grows silent.

  “Hello, everyone. Thank you so much for coming on such short notice. I know I’m overwhelmed, so I can only imagine how the Crawfords must be feeling right now.” He smiles warmly at Mom, then lifts his gaze. “This is our community. We’re here to show unity, to let the Crawford family know they’re valued members of Riviere. Their presence and generosity make us better. We are privileged to speak out against hate and intolerance.”

  Shawn climbs down the ladder, nods to Logan and me.

  There’s not much room, but we’re able to balance on the same rung, cling to the ladder, and mostly face the crowd.

  With my free hand, I give a small wave. “Hi. I’m Cade Crawford.”

  “And I’m Logan March.”

  We get a few chuckles from the crowd. Of course they know who we are. I spot Officer Tisdale and, to my big surprise, Miss Wather. She waves to us.

  Taking Dad’s advice to speak from the heart, I begin. “On behalf of my family, thank you for the overwhelming support.” I pause, look over at the swastika, then refocus on the people gathered around us. “Today, your presence is a positive statement about who we are as a community. We’re saying that bigotry, racism, and antisemitism, and everything else this symbol of hate represents, are not welcome here.”

  The crowd breaks into applause.

  “History teaches us that being silent and not speaking against injustice allows injustice to thrive. Let’s show the world who we are. Please hold up your signs!”

  Three hundred fifty people hold up HUMANKIND WELCOME HERE! Many others are empty-handed. We needed more signs.

  “Humankind welcome here!” The crowd chants it over and over again, louder and louder. I spot Bethany Beshett with her phone out. Standing next to her, there’s a woman taking pictures with a professional-looking camera.

  When the chanting dies down to a murmur, I lift my chin, motioning for Logan to continue. She shifts her grip and pivots, facing more people. “As you may have heard, the New York education commissioner announced that the assignment will never be given again. We’re relieved and grateful that there will be no debate. But it’s not enough.” She points to the vandalism. “We’re getting rid of this symbol of hate today, but we need to continue to work hard to ensure it never happens again. Today is only one day. Every day we need to be vigilant against all forms of hate. We hope you’ll join us and display these signs in the windows of your homes and businesses.”

  Logan takes the HUMANKIND WELCOME HERE! sign, holds it high. A chant starts up again. Logan ends with, “Thank you for adding your voices to ours. Thank you for your support.”

  Her dad nods, beams at her, then me.

  As we step down to more applause, Officer Sullivan takes our place. “We have a special guest with us today. Representing our district, State Senator Laura Luddy!” She gives a heartfelt statement on unity and community, then asks George Zentner, owner of Armageddon, the tattoo parlor that’s within a short walking distance from here, to come forward. Nana’s always had a soft spot for George. She calls him up and has him stop over whenever she makes his favorite blueberry crumb pie. George announces that funds are being collected to help us through this difficult time and gives the details on how people can contribute. Mom dabs at her damp eyes.

  George holds a bucket and a scrub brush in his rubber-glove-covered hands. He dips the brush into the bucket and runs it over the spray paint. Almost immediately the paint begins to drip like bloody tears. Officer Sullivan brings over our garden hose. During the winter, we have it stored in the basement, but Dad must have hooked it up. People in front take a few steps back. George sprays the stone, washing away the paint.

  A cheer goes up.

  Some of the crowd begins to disperse, but many surround Mom, Dad, Logan, and me, sharing their opinions on the assignment. Several people tell us that they wrote Principal McNeil to express their disapproval. I thank each and every one. Standing among supporters with Logan is one of the most incredible feelings I’ve ever experienced.

  From the corner of my eye, I notice Logan’s dad trying to get her attention. I nudge her and point to her dad. He holds up his keys, motions that he has to leave, and gives us a thumbs-up. I answer with one of my own.

  Miss Wather comes over to us. “You did an amazing job speaking,” she says, clutching one of our HUMANKIND WELCOME HERE! signs. Before we can thank her, she adds, “You mentioned the commissioner’s announcement, but as far as I know the debate is still scheduled. In the future, the assignment will never be given again. Mr. Bartley is still holding the debate on Monday.”

  Fury radiates off Coach Hayes as he stands next to Principal McNeil in the team’s locker room. Mason plasters a puzzled expression on his face, hoping he looks innocent among his teammates. With a clenched jaw, Reg stands near Mason’s dad, glaring at everyone.

  “Late last night, I received an anonymous email with an audio recording of one of our players spouting racial, anti-gay, and antisemitic slurs. I take this very seriously. This is a grave offense, one that would require expulsion under our school’s Hate Speech and Anti-Bullying Policy.”

  Protests sweep through the locker room. Several teammates stay silent as they shoot glances at Reg, Jesse, and Spencer. Jesse and Spencer stand in the back. Both look nervous.

  Principal McNeil calls out, “Quiet down!” He waits. “Thank you. Now, after speaking with Coach Hayes and the player allegedly using such filth, I have determined that this anonymous audio is fake, a manipulation of technology by someone determined to destroy one of our top players in order for us to lose at regionals tomorrow afternoon.”

 
Many players nod and vocalize their agreement.

  Mason swallows hard, forces his eyes to remain steady on Principal McNeil until his father’s gaze burns so hot that Mason can’t ignore it. He meets it measure for measure. He knows I sent the audio, Mason thinks, and when his father flexes his fists, Mason also knows his father not only wants to use them on him but will use them on him. Refusing to be intimidated, Mason folds his arms over his chest.

  Principal McNeil adds, “Obviously, I am concerned. I ask each and every one of you to be careful. You represent the integrity and respect of Riviere High School, and I expect you will uphold our high standards as outlined in the Athletic Code of Conduct you signed. Unless the person who sent this audio comes forward, I’m putting this completely behind us. Now go out there and win big for Riviere!”

  It’s Saturday morning. Cade and I stand outside the Bartleys’ Victorian home. We’re here for one reason: to speak with Mr. Bartley and get Monday’s debate canceled. Somehow—maybe it was wishful thinking—I assumed that the commissioner’s announcement also applied to our class’s debate. Miss Wather made it clear that I was wrong.

  “Ready?” I ask Cade.

  He nods.

  A light dusting of snow covers the wraparound porch steps and railing. Our footprints are the only ones leading to their front door. On its left, there’s a small glass coffee table with an empty flowerpot on top. On the right, two wicker chairs sit under a window. And in that window is Cade’s sign! HUMANKIND WELCOME HERE!

  How did the Bartleys get one?

  “Cade, you see this?” I ask. He stares at the sign, his expression neutral. Right after the rally, the signs started popping up in storefronts and homes around Riviere. My Instagram post with Cade holding the sign, and the picture of the crowd with the signs in Bethany Beshett’s follow-up article, has led to hundreds of requests for copies. With everything that’s been going on, we haven’t had time to respond.