The Assignment

by Liza Wiemer

  Cade whispers, “Maybe we should wait until Daniel and Heather can join us tomorrow?”

  “With the debate less than two days away, I don’t think we should risk it.” I tuck the folder with the information we collected under my arm.

  Cade grips the banister, then says, “You’re right. We need to do this. For Nana.”

  “For Nana,” I repeat. I peer through the beveled glass door into a small entryway closed off by a second door of solid wood. In the left corner, there’s an ornate wrought-iron coatrack that looks more for show than to hang wet winter gear.

  I lift my fist to knock, then lower it. Woodpeckers have invaded my gut and I have to breathe through the pain. I glance over at Cade.

  He leans in and rings the doorbell.

  A curtain flutters behind the window with the wicker chairs. A woman calls out, “I got it.”

  Mrs. Bartley opens the inner door, then closes it behind her as she steps into the entryway. Her frown deepens. It seems to take her forever to unlock the next door.

  “Yes?” Her tone is sharp, temporarily paralyzing my ability to speak.

  Cade shoves his hands into his pockets. His friendly customer smile and his friendly customer voice come out so smoothly, I’m in awe. “Hi, Mrs. Bartley. We were wondering, is Mr. Bartley available?”

  She hesitates, then calls, “Joe? You have visitors.” She motions for us to step inside. “Wait here.”

  She opens the interior door, then shuts it behind her. I track the tap, tap, tap of Mrs. Bartley’s shoes against the wood floors. A sports broadcast pouring out of some room in the distance clicks off.

  “Are you sure?” Mrs. Bartley says.

  “I’m not sure of anything, but I want to hear them out.”

  Mrs. Bartley says something else, but I can’t make it out.

  “They’re my students, Mary. You’re here. I’m not worried. I need a minute, then I’ll bring them in.”

  Cade’s hand brushes against mine at my side, and stays.

  Footsteps, this time heavier, have us both turning to the door. It swings wide open.

  “Logan. Cade. Come on in. Feel free to hang up your jackets.” Mr. Bartley motions to the coatrack in the foyer, but we leave them on. He glances at the folder under my arm. “We can talk in the dining room.”

  As Mr. Bartley leads us through a small parlor and an arched doorway, I take in the antiques. Framed old posters for presidential races sit on the fireplace mantel, a worn oriental rug covers most of the floor, and chairs and a couch look like they’ve been in this house since the late 1800s.

  The dining room has a floor-to-ceiling built-in china cabinet and a magnificent wood table with clawfoot legs. Mr. Bartley sits at the head. Cade and I flank his sides. Mr. Bartley laces his fingers together and rests his forearms on the table.

  He doesn’t say anything, but his expression holds the question Why are you here?

  Cade gives me an almost unperceivable nod.

  Shifting in my seat, I focus on Mr. Bartley. “These are all the hateful and antisemitic acts we’re aware of that have taken place as a direct result of this assignment.”

  I slide the folder over to Mr. Bartley. He flips it open.

  I tap the first line. “It starts from the beginning when our classmates gave the Nazi salute. This is the latest incident.” I slide my finger to the photo of the hateful spray-painted message on Cade’s family’s inn. “With the online attacks, they’re extensive.

  “And yes, Mr. Bartley, we’ve read some of the terrible things people have said about you online and we’re sorry you’ve had to endure that.” I dig my fingernails into my palm to keep the tears at bay. “We also know many have come to your defense.”

  “As they have for you,” he says.

  Mrs. Bartley comes into the room with bottles of water, sets them on the table, and pulls up a chair next to her husband. Mr. Bartley reaches for her hand. He says, “We, too, have been deeply distressed by the hateful actions you’ve endured.

  “I realize I’m the one who should be apologizing to you. It’s not the other way around. I’m sorry for the way I treated you in class. It was unfair and unprofessional. This is not your fault and I accept full responsibility. I’m the teacher. You’re the students. And I am sorry. I should have put an end to the assignment immediately. It’s not enough, though. I give you my word; I will resolve this on Monday.”

  Cade’s surprise and relief mirror mine. He says, “So, does this mean you’re canceling the debate?”

  Joe needs to explain, but this is new territory and it’s way out in the stratosphere. He starts to speak, fumbling his way through, hoping he doesn’t add to this disaster, trying instead to clean it up. “It was and still is my intention for my students to personally understand how easy it is to normalize hate, to misplace blame, to use marginalized people as scapegoats for anything and everything. The Final Solution allowed almost the entire civilized world to turn their backs on the Jewish people.”

  “And that’s your justification?” Logan takes a water bottle, uncaps it, and drinks half of it down.

  “I was wrong.”

  “You were wrong.” Cade shakes his head in disgust like it’s too little too late. Cade’s right.

  “I was wrong on many different levels and I’d like to explain.” Mr. Bartley pauses because he needs a moment to collect his thoughts. Mary squeezes his knee, being his rock, as always.

  “At first, I was offended that you questioned the validity of my assignment. That’s on me. I was focused on my perspective and I was frustrated that you didn’t understand. Then you went to Principal McNeil, infuriating me even more. I’m ashamed I wasn’t open to any criticism.”

  Logan straightens in her seat. “You didn’t say one word, and even worse, you ignored us.”

  “I was told by administration not to speak to you or to the press.”

  Cade and Logan have no response to that.

  “My treatment toward you was way out of line. I did ignore you. I was defensive and angry. I had to work through it. I’m not proud of it, and I am sorry. It’s not an excuse; it’s fact.”

  Cade sits with his hands clasped together. He’s angry, and Mr. Bartley deserves it. Logan’s expression seems to give Joe more benefit of the doubt.

  “I’ve come to the realization that my biggest mistake was creating the assignment and believing I had valid reasons. Recreating the Wannsee Conference was my way of not justifying the Nazis’ actions, but my way of enlightening my students on a very personal level. In the history of world governments, the Wannsee Conference was a pivotal point of no return. There have been many other despicable moments, but the Final Solution…” His voice trails off. “I could argue that it was the coldest, most heartless, most brutal, most callous, most despicable debate in the history of humankind. My goal was to have my students come to that conclusion. I was absolutely clear that I didn’t want anyone to sympathize with the Nazi perspective. Over and over again, I said their actions were abhorrent. That seemed obvious to me. But I was wrong.”

  Spencer Davis, Jesse Elton, and Reg Ashford come to mind.

  “Now you realize some students used this assignment to justify their prejudice and hate?” Cade asks.

  Joe rubs his temple. “Yes.”

  “I’m still struggling to understand how you came up with this assignment in the first place. Where did the idea come from?” Logan asks.

  “I had been watching the movie Conspiracy. With the actors around the table discussing the Final Solution, I thought recreating that event would be a powerful, creative, and interesting way to learn that history. I was fascinated by the Nazis’ debate, how that one meeting changed history.”

  “But it was never a real debate,” Logan says. “The sole purpose of the Wannsee Conference was to create a systematic way of annihilating the Jewis
h people.”

  “I made a mistake.”

  “Then cancel the debate,” Cade says.

  “Cancel the debate,” Logan echoes. “It’s not enough that the assignment will never be given again.”

  “I understand, but I’m asking you to trust me. I altered my lesson right after you first spoke with Principal McNeil. He approved the changes. And because of everything that’s transpired since, I’ve made more alterations. When I spoke with the commissioner of education, he, too, was satisfied that this will bring a positive resolution. I know you two weren’t going to attend the debate, but I’d like you to come to class. Give me a chance to make this right.”

  Once again, Cade and Logan share a look. Logan’s expression gives Joe hope. It says he’s earned her trust in the past and has a good chance to earn it back. Unfortunately, Cade appears skeptical.

  “What are your concerns, Cade?”

  “I get that you’re going to try to fix this—”

  Joe cuts him off. “I will fix this. I have a lesson planned for the debate, and it will put an end to this.”

  Cade’s knee bounces. His eyes flicker to the folder. “Logan and I—” His composure cracks. His hands shake against the table. Guilt washes over Joe as he watches Cade struggle to bring his emotions in check. Mary, visibly shaken, opens a water bottle and slides it across the table to Cade. He picks it up, takes a sip, then another. After several deep breaths, he sets the bottle down. “Why should we trust you?”

  “Because I care. Not only about what has transpired, but because I recognize how my actions have negatively impacted you, our school, and our community. At the very least, I want to have the opportunity to express this to the class. I promise, I will give my absolute best.”

  The moment I reach the bottom of the Bartleys’ porch steps, I bolt. I want to punch, smash something, anything to release the emotions I’ve felt since we sat at their dining room table.

  Mr. Bartley wants our trust. He promised to do his best. But the debate is still on. I’d promised Nana I’d do everything I could to stop the debate.

  It wasn’t enough.

  One block, then two. Logan catches up. I don’t stop. I run and run and continue running along the tree-lined path through snow-covered Sunrise Park. I reach the center fountain and stop. I leap onto the wide marble lip, tilt my head back, and scream, “Ahhhhhhh!”

  Logan’s right beside me, and just like the other night, she opens her arms wide.

  This time, Logan’s the one crying.

  She says, “I want to be done with this! I want to be done with him! Mr. Bartley said he was concerned for us? How did he show it? By ignoring us? Humiliating us? Not once over the past week has he expressed any kind of compassion or sympathy for the personal attacks we’ve endured, at least not until I said it to him first! He used Principal McNeil as an excuse, saying he wasn’t allowed to talk to us? What about decent human courtesy? It’s inexcusable. I don’t trust him. He doesn’t deserve our trust! He wants us to come to class. What are we going to do?”

  I take Logan’s hand, brush the pad of my thumb over her knuckles. The question lingers in her conflicted eyes. I give her the only answer I have. “I wish I knew. Let’s just wait and see how we feel about all of this on Monday. Last minute. That’s when we’ll decide.”

  Appalled and disgusted by the debate, Daniel took action immediately. He did the research on the Nazis’ Final Solution of the Jewish Question, wrote his paper expressing his disapproval and horror, and turned it in last Monday along with a personal note explaining why he could not, would not, attend the debate.

  Dear Mr. Bartley,

  As you will see in this report, I did extensive research on the Wannsee Conference to understand the Nazis’ positions. I did not, however, do it from their points of view, but as myself—Daniel. Everything I learned about the Nuremberg Laws and Nazi Germany’s political ideas and military was based on false science, a quest for power, and oppression and discrimination. The Nazi mentality of hate is not something I can relate to nor do I ever want to.

  How was it that a society was brainwashed to believe such lies? Where is human decency?

  This assignment specifically targeted the Jewish people. But under Hitler’s Germany, people with disabilities were murdered, homosexual men were murdered, people of color were murdered, the Roma were murdered, and so many more. If I had lived in Germany under Hitler, I would have been arrested. I would have been put in a concentration camp, humiliated and forced to wear a pink inverted triangle, experimented on, tortured and tormented, murdered. My uncle, who became a quadriplegic after a horrible car accident, would have been euthanized under Hitler’s leadership. He would have been perceived not as a person, but as a thing adding no value to society.

  You’ve opened my eyes, Mr. Bartley. I’ve had nightmares from the gruesome descriptions of the torture, bolted awake because I saw myself in a concentration camp wearing that pink inverted triangle.

  This knowledge, however, has also fortified me.

  People are not born to hate, they’re taught to hate, and I won’t be a part of that. I cannot, I will not, I choose not to argue in favor of hurting or murdering the Jewish people. Therefore, I will not attend or participate in the debate. Whatever you need from me, including a note from my parents to excuse my absence, I will make sure you receive it.

  Daniel

  Daniel sat on the sidelines and watched as Cade and Logan fought to get the debate canceled. Now, according to Logan, Mr. Bartley has asked them to trust him and attend tomorrow’s class? No. There is no way Daniel will ever listen to that debate.

  Monday, 7:08 a.m.

  Mason sits across from Principal McNeil, waiting for him to respond. His cell phone rests on Principal McNeil’s desk. He itches to pick it up and tuck it back into his pocket. Mason has already played the audio recording of Reg’s rant three times and sworn that it’s authentic.

  Folding his hands over his stomach, Principal McNeil leans back in his chair, sighs deeply. “Why now?” he asks. “Why come forward when your team is going to play in the state semifinals next week?”

  There’s so much more to that question and Mason knows it. Reg had his best game in regionals—two assists and three goals. The Riviere Rockets won because of Reg. Even though Mason has thought of little else since the team meeting this past Friday, he struggles. He’s walked the tightrope for so long, trying to balance between living up to his father’s expectations and his own moral code.

  Mason glances out Principal McNeil’s window. He’s fully exposed.

  “Reg was the one who vandalized the lockers,” Mason finally says. “And though I could have withheld this information until after the state championship tournament, I realized hockey can’t outweigh integrity. Reg has done and said despicable things.” Mason sits up a little straighter. “You said the recording was fake. I sent it anonymously because I was afraid. I’m still afraid of the consequences, but I’m willing to live with them.”

  “Coach Hayes will not be pleased.”

  Mason gives Principal McNeil a firm, succinct nod. His chest feels tight. “If you want to tell my dad your source, that’s up to you. I’ve given you the proof. Now you get to decide what to do about it. You want to wait until after the tournament, that’s up to you, too. I’ve done what I needed to and I can live with my conscience.”

  I push open the door of the boys’ locker room, step into the hallway, and find Logan waiting to walk with me to History of World Governments. Her face lights up, sunshine in a forest of gloom. We decided to give Mr. Bartley a chance and attend class today. Does he deserve our trust? We’ll find out.

  “Hi.” The smile slips from her face. “Blair sent us a text wishing us luck.” Logan rubs the silver bracelet her cousin gave her for her last birthday like it’s a good-luck charm.

  “We’re going to
need it,” I mutter. I glance around. Practically every wall has signs congratulating the Riviere Rockets hockey team on winning regionals and cheering them on for the state tournament.

  Forget hockey. All I can think about is the disappointment on Nana’s face when I told her the debate was still on. Logan’s voice is quiet. “We don’t have to go to this.”

  I stop, take her wrist, and move to the side of the hallway. I drop her hand and return mine to the safety of my pockets. Right now, I’m really tempted to smash the trophy case. Unfortunately, that won’t stop the debate. “I don’t want to do this, but I’m going to. Not for you, but for me and for us. We’re finishing this. But I reserve the right to walk out at any time.”

  “You walk. I walk. And vice versa.” Her fierce, steady gaze is the reassurance I only now realize I’ve needed.

  “Okay.” I give her a grim smile and offer my hand. She takes it. “Let’s do this.”

  Dread slows me down. Logan pulls me forward. When we finally reach the top of the stairs and turn toward Mr. Bartley’s classroom, the hallway is bottlenecked with students. I push up on my toes and get a glimpse of signs being raised above our heads. Someone calls out, “Stop the debate!”

  Logan’s fingers slip from mine, and we weave our way until we reach the center. Right in the middle of it all are Daniel, Mason, Heather, and three other students not in our class. They loop around in front of Mr. Bartley’s closed door, chanting, “Stop the debate!” They hold up signs:

  NAZIS NOT WELCOME HERE OR ANYWHERE!

  NO JUSTIFICATION FOR GENOCIDE!

  ADVOCATE FOR LOVE, NOT HATE!

  HUMANKIND NOT HUMANHATE!

  OUR SCHOOL SHOULD BE A SAFE ZONE NOT A HATE ZONE!

  NO DEBATE!

  When Daniel spots me, he steps away from the circle. His face is bright with excitement. “Hey Cade,” he calls. “We have extra signs, if you want to join us.” He points to a stack leaning up against lockers near Mr. Bartley’s door. HUMANKIND WELCOME HERE! is on top.