The Assignment

by Liza Wiemer

  “I’ll join you.” Kerrianne takes the “NO Debate!” sign out of Daniel’s hand and holds it high. She moves in front of Mason, and even though it’s a circle, she has this way about her that makes it look like she’s leading everyone. She turns the chant from “Stop the debate!” to “No debate!”

  Logan darts around Heather and comes over to us. In the short time since we got here, the crowd has doubled. Almost everyone has their phones out, snapping pictures or taking videos. An electric current runs along my skin.

  Heather motions to Allie Fitzpatrick—the other girl Jesse had dubbed his Aryan sister—to join them, but she backs away. People shift around Allie like sand, then fill the space as if she’d never been there. Heather looks at me and smiles, and from her expression I’m fairly certain she expects us to join in.

  “You organized this?” Logan asks Daniel.

  “Yeah. Got everyone together over lunch.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us?”

  “I did. I texted you both. You didn’t respond.”

  No surprise, since I left my phone in my locker. But Logan? Blair texted her during lunch and we video-chatted with her. Logan takes her phone out of her pocket. “That’s weird,” she says, flashing it at me. There’s a text from Daniel. It came through at 11:21 a.m.

  “Grab a sign. We’re going to stop this debate.”

  Logan opens her mouth to respond, but a burst of laughter cuts her off.

  Jesse Elton mocks Mason’s movements, high-stepping like a soldier marching in a parade. He pretends to hold a sign in one hand. He lifts the other to his temple and salutes the crowd. Spencer pairs with Kerrianne and mimics Jesse’s moves. But what shocks me the most is Spencer’s belt buckle. It’s a Confederate flag. Way to own your hate.

  Daniel grabs a sign, rejoins the protest, and shouts, “No debate! No debate!”

  Spencer starts chanting, “Save the debate! Save the debate!” Like an orchestra conductor, he motions to the crowd, encouraging others to join him. Several people do, like this is some joke.

  “Stop!” I shout, but the chanting smothers my voice. This has to end now. I try again, moving between Spencer and Kerrianne as they battle from opposite sides.

  Where the hell is Mr. Bartley?

  Someone pushes me from behind, and I have a split second to raise my arms as I fall into a locker. Heather pitches forward. Her sign drops from her hands, barely missing Daniel’s head as it crashes to the floor. She grabs my shirt. Her nails dig into my shoulders, and I slam into the locker again with her on top of me.

  More and more people pick sides, and it’s nearly impossible for me to tell who’s yelling “Save the debate!” or “No debate!”

  I scan the chaos and spot Mrs. Ingram, waving her arm and pointing her index finger like she’s ordering students to leave. I look for Logan’s purple Converse. And just as I spot her next to Kerrianne, arms spread wide, Jesse pins Mason against Mr. Bartley’s closed door. They’re both grasping the sign handle, pushing one another. Jesse yells at Mason, something about ruining their team. I don’t think. I don’t wait. I jump in, straight-arm both of them, and shout at the top of my lungs, “STOOOOOOP!”

  Pandemonium. The word flashes in my head as I spread my arms wide, trying to protect Kerrianne after Spencer shoves her. “You bitch,” he says, to her, to me, to both of us. I brace myself; prepare to take him down with a swift knee to his family jewels, a defensive move that Blair and I learned from a YouTube video. Spencer raises his hands. His nostrils flair like a bull’s, but he backs off.

  I turn to Kerrianne. “Are you all right?” Those are the most words I’ve spoken to her since she cornered me in the bathroom at the beginning of the school year, staking her claim on Mason.

  “Yeah, thanks.” At least that’s what I think she says. It’s growing louder by the second and there’s more pushing and shoving. Suddenly, a piercing voice overpowers all others. “STOOOOOOP!”

  Cade.

  And to my surprise, people quiet down like Cade hit a mute button.

  But what’s even more surprising is what happens next. Heather grabs my hand, raises it up. She begins to sing “Hallelujah,” a song she sang with the RHS choir during the holiday concert that Cade and I attended. I take Daniel’s hand and lift it high, and suddenly, in a chain reaction, people join in.

  Only a minute ago, the hallway reverberated with shouts—and now it reverberates with song. More and more people clasp hands, add their voices. Chills shoot down my spine as I join in on the one-word chorus. For a brief moment, my eyes connect with Heather’s. A soft smile curves on her lips as she pours her soul into the lyrics. I’m in awe of her and the power of music.

  When we finish, Heather breaks the silence by calling out, “Hey, everyone, that song was written by Leonard Cohen, and in case you didn’t know it, he was Jewish!”

  Mr. Bartley makes his way through the crowd, pushing an elderly man in a wheelchair. The man wears a baseball cap that says “World War II Vet.” It’s decorated with pins. Mr. Bartley opens his classroom door and ushers everyone in.

  I move to the side and wait for Cade.

  Now that the chaos has calmed down, it occurs to me that Mr. Bartley has let us down again. Why wasn’t he here waiting for us? He knew how contentious things have been, and with the debate scheduled today, wouldn’t it have been logical for him to greet students and usher us into his classroom? Couldn’t he have had someone else, like Miss Wather or a student, escort the veteran? This entire scene never would have happened if he had been here. Logic and common sense is exactly what’s been missing from this entire assignment.

  He betrayed us, eroded my respect for him day after day, and even though I’m willing to hear him out, all the excuses, all the platitudes, and all the apologies in the world won’t change this fact: Although the assignment will soon be a part of my past and eventually I hope to forgive Mr. Bartley, nothing, nothing will ever be the same. I will never forget this. I will never, ever be able to step into his classroom or any classroom without being on guard. It’s a bitter pill, and Mr. Bartley shoved it down my throat.

  Cade comes over. We take two steps into the classroom when Cade freezes. I follow his gaze. There’s a Nazi flag on the Smart Board. I look over at Cade. A small vein bulges along his neck. I wave my pointer finger between us and mouth, You walk. I walk. I walk. You walk.

  He nods, his expression grim.

  Our desks are arranged in a circle facing each other. Cade and I take the two closest to the door. Toward the front of the room, there’s a one-chair gap, and that’s where Mr. Bartley locks the wheelchair in place.

  I look closely at Mr. Bartley. It’s hard for me to believe that I used to hang on every one of this man’s words.

  Mason and Jesse huddle together a few feet away from Cade and me, their voices low, angry. Mason looks ready to explode, but then Mr. Bartley steps in. “Mason, Jesse. Take a seat. I want the two of you sitting next to each other.”

  “Why?” Jesse asks, furious.

  Mr. Bartley holds up his hands, palms an inch from each other. “Because I’m this close to sending both of you to Principal McNeil’s office and having you expelled for fighting. Prove to me you can behave like gentlemen and I’ll give you a stay of execution.”

  Mason glances over at me and takes a seat. We haven’t said a word to each other since the day he helped me remove the hateful Post-it notes. I need to talk with him. Even though I apologized, it doesn’t seem like enough. Rumor has it that he broke up with Kerrianne, but since she sits next to him, I’m not sure that’s true. Jesse grudgingly fills the chair on Mason’s other side, but scoots as far over as he possibly can.

  The veteran has a penetrating gaze. He seems to be sizing up our class. He probably was a drill sergeant, and I get the sense that he’s not impressed. I’m not impressed, either. My faith in Mr. Bartley slips to
below zero. From the way Cade’s angled toward the door, I’m pretty sure he’s set to bolt and that the only thing keeping him chained to his seat is me.

  Notably, Daniel is absent. I’m not sure where he disappeared to after the protest.

  There are two empty desks, and—no surprise—they are on either side of Spencer. One should have been for Reg, but rumor has it he’s been suspended or expelled. No one knows why or if they do, they’re not talking.

  Mr. Bartley stands to the right of Spencer, resting his hands on the back of that empty chair. He looks at each of us, exuding authority like an army commander. Earlier, I thought he was furious. But that doesn’t come close to the controlled anger he radiates now.

  When the silence is nearly unbearable, Mr. Bartley says, “I made a grave error in judgment. I’m canceling the Wannsee Conference debate. Please get out your papers and pass them to me.”

  I close my eyes for a brief moment. After all this time, he finally, finally gets what we’ve been saying all along. It’s not a victory. It’s sad and pathetically long overdue.

  I wish I could pick up the phone and call Nana to tell her the debate is canceled. This morning, before I left for school, she said, “It’s not too late. It could still happen.” Even though the protest was complete mayhem, at least it was the answer.

  Under our desks, I reach for Logan’s hand and lace our fingers together. She slides her desk closer, pressing her leg against mine. Our contact helps ease the mixed emotions stirred up during the protest—the fights and the incredible performance of “Hallelujah.” From shouting, my throat is raw, matching my emotions. The combination makes it hard to swallow.

  Mr. Bartley pushes one of the empty desks against the wall. It takes me a few seconds to realize that Daniel and Reg are missing. It never occurred to me to ask Daniel why he wasn’t going to be in class today. As for Reg, I heard he was suspended. How is it that no one knows why?

  Secrets.

  My mind keeps wandering. I’ve spent the past few days pretty much thinking only about Nana and Grandpa’s secrets and came to the conclusion that what they endured is not something I’ll ever fully comprehend. No matter how much I try to grasp their painful past, there’s slim to no chance I’ll ever know what it’s like to starve, to be a slave, to be beaten, to watch the people I love murdered. As much as I struggle to figure out what it all means for me, to come to terms with our Jewish identity, I don’t blame Nana. My entire life my grandparents showered me only with love. I don’t fault Nana for trying to protect us, for doing what she felt she needed to do in order to feel safe. I’ve thought about Grandpa and wonder how much he suffered by keeping his Jewish identity a secret.

  On Sunday, no one in my family went to church. Instead, Nana baked, and Dad, Mom, and I walked down to the inn’s beach and talked. Dad told us that being Jewish doesn’t change the fact that we’re a family, that wherever this journey takes us, we’ll do it together. Mom cried a little. A few minutes later, she asked me, “If we’d known my parents’ history all along, would you have told us about the assignment right away?”

  I picked up the largest rock I could palm and hurled it into Lake Ontario. I thought about what I said in Principal McNeil’s office, the irony. If there were Jewish students in our school, would you have us look them in the eye and deliver reasons to kill them? “Yeah,” I said, nodding. “I would have.”

  Mom reached for me, pulled me into her arms. She said, “You spoke out because it was the right thing to do. That fills us with so much pride, Cade.” She shifted away, then added, “Dad and I talked about how much we admire your conviction and integrity. If you want, you could leave here. Go anywhere. We know you love the inn, but it doesn’t have to be your life. We want you to pursue your own dreams.”

  Leave here. Go anywhere.

  The idea is both exciting and terrifying. Leave Riviere. My family. The inn. Its walls, its history, our family’s legacy have always felt solid and safe. Even with financial struggles, we’ve survived. But this assignment, Nana, the spray-painted message of hate—they’ve taught me that safety is a facade, one that can fall in a second.

  Do I want to stay in Riviere?

  I don’t have an answer.

  Looking around Mr. Bartley’s classroom, I see Mason inch his desk as close to Kerrianne without touching her. He stares straight ahead and so does Jesse. The largest gap between chairs is between those two.

  Sliding into the empty seat next to Spencer, Mr. Bartley completes our circle. “I have some important things to say and I need all of you not only to listen, but to understand.”

  I brace myself. This is it, I think. Do or die. Mr. Bartley said he’s going to fix this mess he made. I’m not at all confident he can. But hope is a strange partner. It keeps you holding on to a thread, even as you watch it unravel.

  Mr. Bartley looks around to make sure he has everybody’s attention. Sixteen pairs of eyes, including the World War II veteran’s, are fixed on him.

  “The Nazi debate at the Wannsee Conference was morally reprehensible. I now see that the assignment was misguided, insensitive, and grossly inappropriate. I accept full responsibility for what has transpired since I gave it to you. I take full responsibility for my failure as a teacher. I owe each of you an apology and I ask for your forgiveness.”

  Wow. Didn’t expect that.

  Mr. Bartley looks at Logan and me.

  A murmur goes through the room.

  I’m grateful he doesn’t hold our gaze for long. It feels like he’s asking too much. At this point, to say I forgive him would be a lie.

  Lieutenant Peter Franklin is now ready to speak. He scrutinizes Mr. Bartley’s class, and it pains him to see how the assignment has torn these youngsters apart. The girl with the blue hair impressed him with her powerful voice, so it gives him hope that he can make a difference. He motions to Mr. Bartley. “I’m going to need each student to have a piece of paper and a pen,” he says.

  Mr. Bartley says, “I’ll take care of it.”

  He goes to his desk, picks up a stack of printer paper, and asks a young man with a Confederate flag on his belt buckle to hand each student a sheet. Peter’s gaze locks on that belt buckle, then on the boy’s face. Defiance is written all over it, but Peter isn’t intimidated and he easily wins that round. A young woman passes out pens.

  When both students take their seats, Mr. Bartley says, “Raise your hand if you know of anyone who’s served in the US military.”

  Every hand but two goes up. This, the lieutenant thinks, is a good sign. He’s found that when he speaks at schools where students know military personnel, there’s a deeper level of understanding about what it means to serve the country.

  Motioning to the Nazi flag, Mr. Bartley says, “This is a symbol of hate and it represents the most heinous crimes against humanity.” He advances to the next screen. The photo of Peter in his army uniform fills half the screen. On the other, he’s wearing shabby pants that hang on him along with a threadbare long-sleeved shirt. It still gives Peter a start.

  “It is a great honor for us to have with us today a speaker from Voices of World War Two Vets and the Holocaust Survivors. Lieutenant Peter Franklin is a decorated World War Two veteran and was the leader of a secret sabotage initiative behind enemy lines. You’re looking at an American hero.”

  The word “hero” makes Peter flinch.

  Gingerly, Lieutenant Franklin gets to his feet and walks over to the girl sitting in the seat next to Mr. Bartley. He’s going to address the boy with the Confederate flag belt buckle last. He asks the girl her name, shakes her hand, and moves on to the next. When he gets to the girl with the blue hair, he says, “That song is one of my favorites. I hope you’ll record it someday. I’ve never heard a better rendition.”

  She blushes and says thank you.

  From the photographs in the newspapers, he recognizes C
ade and Logan. Unlike the other students, they stand and introduce themselves. “I’m honored to meet you,” Lieutenant Franklin says. His grip is gentle but firm. His voice is quietly respectful. “I admire your bravery and am proud of you both for not backing down. Thank you for coming today.” Humbled, Cade and Logan murmur, “Thank you.”

  Jesse salutes the lieutenant. The lieutenant does not salute back. He comments on Jesse’s varsity hockey jersey, asks him about his future plans, encourages him to consider the military. “It’s a good place to channel your energy, young man,” he says, eyeing Jesse as if he knows his inner secrets.

  When Mason rises to his feet, he introduces himself and offers his hand. The lieutenant’s grip is strong, decisive. The wrinkles around the lieutenant’s eyes crinkle. Mason is surprised when he says, “I’m impressed. Thank you.”

  Stammering, Mason answers, “I don’t understand, sir.”

  The lieutenant leans in, whispers, “Courage comes in many forms, and so does speaking up for what is right.”

  Lieutenant Franklin releases Mason’s hand and exchanges greetings with students around the circle. At last, he stands in front of the boy with the belt buckle.

  The boy doesn’t get up, but sticks his hand out to greet the lieutenant. Calmly and quietly so only the boy can hear, the lieutenant says, “Stand up, young man.”

  He does.

  “Name?”

  “Spencer, sir.”

  The lieutenant nods, looks down at the buckle, then directly into Spencer’s eyes. “Spencer.” He offers Spencer his hand, then shakes it firmly, not once dropping his gaze, holding it like he’s seeing the depths of Spencer’s soul. At that moment, it’s as if no one else in the room exists but them. Finally, the lieutenant nods again, but this time like they have some kind of understanding. Spencer sits and rests his clasped hands on his lap, covering his Confederate flag belt buckle.