by Liza Wiemer
Lieutenant Franklin returns to his seat.
“I am honored to be here to share my story,” he begins. “In 1945, I was a twenty-four-year-old who’d already served our country for five years. I spoke German, Italian, and Russian fluently. I had a very special job working with the OSS, the Office of Strategic Services, which is similar to today’s CIA. My job involved espionage, coordinating clandestine operations and bringing in military supplies behind enemy lines to assist Austrian partisans who despised the Nazis. My spy name was Hans Mueller.” He taps his shoulder. “A good strong German name.
“Because of circumstances beyond my control, the Gestapo became highly suspicious of me. Without a doubt, someone discovered my cover. I was in grave danger. I didn’t run away from that. For months I avoided capture, but during a botched parachute mission into Austria, the Gestapo was waiting.”
He pushes up a sleeve. “I have these scars and many more to show for it.” His arms have white lines like hashtags from his wrist to his elbow.
“I could tell you about my experiences with the interrogation, the brutal beatings in the Vienna prison, but I want to focus on what took place after the Gestapo transferred me to one of their worst extermination camps in Germany: Mauthausen.”
He pauses, looks around the room, making eye contact with every student.
“It’s a miracle I lived, and what I and others in the slave labor camp endured is still vivid in my mind.” He taps his temple. “One of the first things I noticed was what you youngsters call zombies. They were people so thin I couldn’t comprehend how they were still standing. It terrified me.
“We were pushed, slapped, and beaten almost around the clock. We were told that if we attempted to escape, we would be shot dead on sight. If we missed roll call, we would be found and shot. If we sat down, we would be shot. The list of infractions went on and on. To show they meant it, an SS officer walked over to a British POW and, for no reason at all, shot him in the head.
“They took all my clothes, my boots. I was naked as the day I was born. They shaved my head. This is what they did to all new prisoners. Instead of going to the gas chambers as many did after selection, the rest of us were forced to stand under a cold shower, then forced to stand barefoot in the cold for several hours. The rags they gave me to wear had a number and an inverted red triangle, the symbol used for political prisoners. We were then marched to our barracks. Three of us shared a wooden plank bunk. The other two were prisoners of war, airmen from France and Britain. We had to sleep together curled on our sides in order to fit. Take a moment to think about your beds. Comfortable, I hope.
“Two days after I arrived, I had my first bite of food. It was watery soup with a tiny piece of potato skin.” He holds up a hand, tucks his pointer finger into his thumb and narrows the gap until it’s barely visible.
“The Nazis tried to strip us of our humanity and our identities, and in the weeks that followed, I found out how hard it was to keep them.”
Lieutenant Franklin looks at Mr. Bartley, then shifts his gaze to Spencer.
“I was assigned to work on building a new crematorium with a small group of prisoners. There were so many corpses piled up that the SS officers were desperate to burn the evidence of their brutality and hate efficiently and quickly. We had to haul water, sand, and cement. We did everything we possibly could to slow down the process, moving at a snail’s pace in order not to complete the crematorium. We knew that once it was done, they would murder more people. Everyone was beaten. I received blows from a club and a rifle butt was slammed into the side of my head. We were told that if we didn’t finish the crematorium on time, we would be the first to be consumed by its flames. Inevitably, we finished by the deadline. The next day, three hundred twenty-seven men and forty women were gassed, then burned in the ovens I helped build.”
He pauses again, struggling for composure. “My British bunkmate was shot in the head for trying to escape. My other bunkmate, the French airman, was caught trying to steal the sawdust mixture they called bread. The Nazis punished him along with some Polish and Russian prisoners of war by stripping them naked, dousing them with water, and forcing them to stand in the snow for forty-eight hours. They all froze to death. Dutch Jews were pushed off a hundred-foot cliff. Dogs tore others apart. I tell you this because it’s important to understand how hate can be twisted to the point where men feel no shame for their actions.” This time, Lieutenant Franklin looks at Jesse.
“One of my most difficult moments was when a prisoner I had become friendly with informed me that my name was on a list for execution. He worked in an office that kept the records, and he said I was to be gassed the next day. I didn’t ask and I don’t know how, but he said he could exchange my name for another. Not for a second did I consider allowing that. I couldn’t be responsible for another person’s death.”
Mr. Bartley has his eyes closed and his brow is pinched.
“Then a miracle happened. The next day, May 6, 1945, a platoon of men from the Eleventh Armored Division of the US Third Army liberated us. To this day, I celebrate on May sixth like it’s my birthday.”
Lieutenant Franklin nods to Mr. Bartley. He picks up the clicker and all eyes turn to the Smart Board. Mr. Bartley says, “This is a short documentary of Mauthausen after liberation. It shows the results of hate, bigotry, antisemitism, and the apathy from a world that did next to nothing to stop this from happening until eleven million had been murdered. Six million were Jews from across Europe.”
As the students watch the short film, Lieutenant Franklin notices that Cade is staring down at his upturned palms, flexing his fingers.
Other than a few sniffles and an occasional creaking chair, the room is silent.
When the film is done, he lets a minute pass. Then two. Then three.
Lieutenant Franklin breaks the silence. “My testimony given during the American Military Tribunal at Dachau helped convict over sixty SS officers. Many received a sentence of death by hanging. After the war, however, it’s known that plenty of Nazis who committed heinous crimes against humanity walked away with no punishment. Because of that, Nazi hunters tracked down notorious murderers and helped get justice. One of their targets was Adolf Eichmann. You might recall that he participated in the Wannsee Conference and was a key player in the Final Solution. He was executed in Israel in 1962.”
He pauses, takes a deep breath.
“I got through the hell of Mauthausen by living minute by minute. There were some days I prayed every waking second, begging God to give me the strength to survive. There were days I wanted to kill those Nazi bastards and free every prisoner. Holding on to hope wasn’t easy. It slipped away like water through my fingers. But I was lucky. Some drops stuck and got me through.
“Mr. Bartley called me a hero, but I don’t see it that way. Survival doesn’t make me a hero. Doing the right, moral, responsible thing doesn’t make me a hero. It makes me a decent human being.”
He gets to his feet. “Each of you has a piece of paper and a pen. Write down your answers, please.
“If you could have the best, most unforgettable day with someone you love or someone important to you, who would it be and what would you do? Write it down.”
He waits.
“Now imagine the worst, most terrible thing that could happen to the person you love. Write it down.”
He waits.
“Now imagine that worst, most terrible thing happens to you.”
He waits.
“Imagine that you have the power to stop it. You can prevent that worst, most terrible thing from happening to the person you love and to you.”
He waits.
“Now imagine that you have no power to stop it. No matter what you do, what you say, or how hard you try, it happens.”
He waits.
“This, my friends, is what happened to every victim of the
Holocaust. This is what happens to every victim of hate.”
Last day of school:
Principal McNeil motions to Joe to take a seat across from his desk. Rocking back in his chair, Arthur says, “I’ll get right to it, Joe. I’m sorry, but this is your last day teaching at RHS.”
Joe chokes on the piece of candy that Miss Wather had given him. He coughs and coughs and struggles to get his breath. His eyes water, raining down like tears. Arthur takes a water bottle from his office mini-fridge, twists the cap open, and hands it to Joe.
“I’m fired? Why?”
“Come on, Joe. The assignment. All the negative publicity. That fight during the protest hit way over a quarter million views and comments, and even though the students were praised for their peaceful resolution, it never should have gotten out of hand in the first place.”
“But I apologized. Lieutenant Franklin’s presentation was highly impactful. You saw the students’ evaluations. The assignment will never be given again. Isn’t there anything we can do?”
“You were fortunate to finish out the year. The commissioner wanted me to fire you on the spot. But I advocated for you, did everything I could to save your job. You’re a year shy of tenure, so there’s nothing we can do. This assignment put us in a horrible situation. I’m still getting calls about it.”
The office closes in on Joe and spots dance before his eyes. He picks up the water bottle and drains it dry. Fired. Terminated. His stomach lurches and he fights getting sick by closing his eyes, but it only makes the room spin faster.
Opening his eyes, he says, “I’m a good teacher.”
“I know.”
“But—”
“I’m sorry. The decision is final.”
Joe loses his ability to speak. Thinking back, he’d expected to be fired after the protest went viral. One more black eye for the school, but things settled down. His apology leaked onto the internet, not his exact words because they weren’t recorded, but close enough. Sure, people said it was too little, too late, but his students supported him. Arthur had supported him, or at least he thought so. A reporter had asked Cade and Logan if they wanted him fired. Logan had said, “This was a learning experience for all of us.”
Realizing he’s been lost in his thoughts for quite some time, Joe looks up. There’s concern on Arthur’s face, but Joe knows him well enough that arguing will be futile.
Reality hits its mark. Fired. How did this happen? It’s still a shock to him. The light in the room shifts as everything Joe worked hard for unravels and floats away in a black void of nothingness. Who is he if he doesn’t teach? He loves it, loves the kids.
Color leaches from Joe’s face. His breath is short and shallow, and beads of sweat form on his forehead. Arthur takes out another water bottle and pushes it across his desk. He leans as far forward as he can, taps his fingers to get Joe’s attention.
“Joe?” He doesn’t respond. Arthur gets up, comes around his desk, and sits on the edge. He rests a hand on Joe’s shoulder. “Do you want me to call Mary? She could come in, help you clean out your room?”
Joe slowly meets Arthur’s gaze. “No. That’s all right.” He gets to his feet.
“You’ll bounce back from this. I know you will.” Arthur sticks his hand out.
For several heartbeats, Joe stares at Arthur’s peace offering. Then he turns around and walks out.
* * *
* * *
At the urging of many of his loyal students, Mr. Bartley attends their graduation. For about five minutes, it feels amazing to have them flock around him, offer their support. He has a few awkward moments of meaningless small talk with his former colleagues. One even turns his back to him.
Keeping his head up, he takes a seat closest to a side exit.
Joe sits through the usual speeches. And then, in celebration of Miss Wather’s retirement, the graduating class honors her with a video, chronicling her years at Riviere High School. There isn’t one photo with Joe in it.
The choir surrounds her and sings “True Colors” by Cyndi Lauper. They escort Miss Wather onto a platform, and then each member gives her a flower until there are so many she can’t hold them all in her arms. Heather, with her hair dyed pink, is the last one. She goes to the podium and announces that an outdoor garden with picnic benches will be dedicated in Miss Wather’s name. Mason, winner of the Outstanding Senior College Scholarship Award, stands and presents her with a beautiful plaque and a gift certificate for travel. Principal McNeil tells her to “come back and visit anytime, especially with bags of candy.” The crowd laughs and so does Miss Wather through her tears.
Logan, as valedictorian, gives her speech and concludes with: “We all know what it’s like to be intimidated, embarrassed, harassed, humiliated, or hated. We have witnessed others experiencing the same. The only way to counteract hate and illuminate the darkness is by lighting our lamps of kindness. We all possess a lamp within us. We just need to strike the match and outshine the darkness. How do you do that? Do not stay silent. I urge all of you to go out into this world and speak out against injustice. Wherever you end up, be ambassadors for change. Don’t close your eyes, don’t turn your backs, don’t turn away from the past. Learn from it. Use it. Make a positive difference!”
The bleachers erupt with applause. Mr. Bartley joins in. He’s so damn proud of her, but at the same time his heart is shattered. There will never be a retirement celebration for him. And if he is remembered, what will these kids say?
As the students receive their diplomas, Joe cringes when he recognizes that one student is noticeably absent: Reginald Ashford. An audio recording of Reg making racist, anti-gay, antisemitic remarks was turned in to Principal McNeil, providing evidence that eventually led Reg to confess to vandalizing Cade’s and Logan’s lockers. With two months left of high school, he was expelled. Fearing retaliation for the student who came forward with the recording, Principal McNeil never named the individual. Reg’s college hockey scholarship was revoked. Thanks to Mason’s outstanding save, the Riviere Rockets hockey team went on to win the state semifinals, but lost in the finals. Joe had been there to cheer on the team.
Sadness coats him like a layer of ice on the rink. This graduation might be the last time he’ll cheer for a Riviere High School student.
The moment the ceremony ends, Mr. Bartley leaves.
He applies for every teaching position within a sixty-mile radius. He doesn’t get one callback. He searches the internet for new job ideas, takes a personality test, and looks at various PhD programs in the SUNY network. Everything points him to teaching, and it plummets him into despair.
Mary wraps him in her arms. She doesn’t know what to do or how to help him. He doesn’t know, either. One trip to the liquor store for a bottle of scotch led to a rumor that he’s turning into an alcoholic. He drops his club baseball team, stops going to his favorite coffee shop, refuses to go out to eat, He wears the same sweats for days as he binge-watches shows on TV.
Then one day, Joe receives a letter in the mail. It’s addressed to Mr. Bartley. No return address. No signature. Just a typed note:
Dear Mr. Bartley,
I’ve done a lot of things I’m ashamed of, things that hurt others, and I got away with them. The truth is, I was real proud of that.
It’s been nearly five months since the assignment and I think about what happened every day. Your courage to say you made a mistake made a difference for me.
I feel pretty crappy about how my actions back then impacted innocent people.
I’m not ready to come forward and admit what I did. I don’t know if I ever will. But I’ve changed. I wanted you to know that.
There’s been a lot of talk. Were you forced to quit? Did you quit to write a novel? Most people believe you were fired. Whatever happened, I hope you’ll teach again.
Sincerely,
A former student
The letter gets Joe thinking.
With their savings and Mary’s income keeping them afloat, he decides to seek a different way to work with children. He gets in touch with a family shelter to volunteer and tutor kids. It’s a new start, one he hopes will rekindle the joy and passion he lost.
Five days before Logan leaves for Georgetown University:
A cemetery. Only Logan would consider Oswego’s historic Riverside Cemetery a great place to hang out. Cade stands back, shakes his head, and laughs to himself as Logan examines headstone after headstone as if she’s taking in artifacts at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City.
Glancing over at Cade, she says, “Isn’t this place inspiring?” Obviously, it’s a rhetorical question, so he doesn’t respond. Though the temperature is in the mid-eighties, goose bumps rise on Cade’s arms. With only a few days left to spend together, Cade can think of a thousand things he’d much rather do with Logan in a thousand less creepy places. But she’d said there was something important she wanted to show him before she left for college. It so happens to be in this graveyard. Logan turns to Cade, lifts an eyebrow. “Well?” Apparently, the question wasn’t rhetorical.
“Inspiring, no. Depressing, sad, morbid, haunting. Any of those will do.”
Logan scoffs and playfully shoves Cade. “But there’s so much history. It’s even on the National Register of Historic Places,” she says. “Famous people are buried here.” She lists a bunch of names that Cade has never heard of and their political accomplishments.
Boring under normal circumstances. But this is Logan. Like the first time she walked into the inn, Cade’s drawn to her, drawn to her passion, the way it lights her face. He’s going to miss her, miss moments like this.
As Logan goes on talking about the cemetery’s history, Cade’s mind wanders. So much has changed since Mr. Bartley gave them the assignment.