The Nuremberg Laws
Attitudes on religion and race
Our policies on education, including who may attend or teach at primary and secondary schools and universities
Economics, including our perspective on who has the right to own businesses and property
Our leader’s stance on Darwin and survival of the fittest
How to increase our superior Aryan race by exploring key ideas such as emigration, expulsion, evacuation, and eradication to be judenrein (Jew-free)
Note from Mr. Bartley:
The Wannsee Conference was one of the most pivotal historical moments that had a destructive force on humanity in the twentieth century, one that continues to leave a profound mark on society today. As you complete the research for this assignment, it is important for you to know that the goal is not to garner support or elicit sympathy for the Nazi perspective. It is, however, imperative for you to understand the Nazi mentality, even if it makes you uncomfortable and is diametrically against your moral, ethical, and philosophical beliefs. Researching this historical meeting and your side of the debate allows you to broaden your points of view and develop critical thinking skills.
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I flip the page, read through the requirements for our papers and how we’re going to be graded on the debate. My stomach somersaults. Get an A by successfully debating reasons to put Jews in gas chambers versus torture them, starve them, force them to be slave laborers for profit until they’re dead. Either way, Mr. Bartley is asking us to advocate for murder.
Everything in my body screams, This is so wrong! But do I say it to Mr. Bartley? Looking at the other sixteen seniors in our class, I don’t see anyone other than Cade who seems uncomfortable with this assignment.
“One more minute,” Mr. Bartley calls out. “Then I’ll answer questions.”
I have a question. Is this a sick joke? I can’t bring myself to ask it out loud. Mr. Bartley isn’t any teacher. He’s a great teacher, my favorite teacher.
He must have a reason why he wants us to pretend we’re Nazis. I reread his note. It makes me more than uncomfortable. For the first time ever, I’m tempted to get out of class by asking to go to the girls’ bathroom or the nurse’s office. I could say I have a pounding headache. Thanks to this assignment, I do.
Mr. Bartley leans against his desk, and when he notices me staring at him, his warm smile fades. I pick up my pen and trace the blood-red “TOP-SECRET” that’s stamped on top of the memo. I don’t get it. Why would Mr. Bartley want us to keep this a secret? History of World Governments is the fourth class I’ve taken with him, and we’ve never had any assignment like this.
Soon after Mr. Bartley started teaching at Riviere High School my sophomore year, he became our most popular teacher. He has the kind of smile that makes you know you’ve been seen, that you matter. During lunch and his free periods, his room is always filled with students. I’ve liked him for bringing in guest speakers, for taking us on field trips, showing movies, and letting us decorate his papered walls with quotes, facts, and pictures for every new unit. I love to contribute quotes. He makes history exciting, interesting, and challenging.
I run my thumbpad over the silver bracelet my cousin Blair gave me for my seventeenth birthday and wonder what she would think of this assignment. I’m tempted to take a photo and text it to her, but I don’t want to get caught with my phone and have it taken away.
Cade’s bouncing knee catches my attention. He writes in his notebook, then flashes it at me. He’s drawn an X over “Nazi” and written, “No. Freaking. Way!”
The Allies defeated Nazi Germany during World War II. Why would I want to pretend I’m a Nazi? Mr. Bartley wants us to broaden our points of view. Really? How is it possible anyone would think murdering millions of people was okay? It’s simple. Killing is wrong. Debate over. This is ridiculous.
Despise barely describes how I feel about this class and I have no one to blame but myself. I let Logan rope me into taking it instead of Advanced Web Design so we could spend more time together before we graduate. I look at my best friend and know it’s worth it. She’s worth it.
But this assignment?
It fills me with dread. My grandparents grew up in Poland and lived through World War II. Grandpa was fifteen at the end of the war. Nana was fourteen. They immigrated to the United States in the late 1960s. The one time I asked Nana about her family, she smiled and said, “I have you right here.” Then she pulled me into her arms and squeezed me tight.
A memory returns to me. I was twelve. Nana and my parents were at church, and Grandpa and I were in his workshop. The smells of linseed oil and sawdust filled the air. We were elves, making puzzles for Santa to give to children on Christmas. As we sanded the pieces we’d cut from old drawers, I asked Grandpa what his life was like when he was my age. I remember Grandpa said he didn’t like to talk about it, that lots of bad things happened in Poland during the war. His expression grew solemn. His tone was firm. “Promise me you won’t ask Nana about her childhood, either. It will only upset her,” he said.
I nodded.
We kept working, but then a little while later he said, “Other than your grandma, I haven’t told another soul about my life in Poland. Not even your mom. But you’re old enough to understand, and I’m growing old.” He paused. “The story might frighten you.”
I said I didn’t care.
I can’t quite remember. Something about watching his Jewish neighbors being rounded up by Nazis? I buried those stories when we buried Grandpa two months later.
Mr. Bartley plants himself in front of Logan’s center row. A murmur goes through the room as if Mr. Bartley broke a silencing spell. He holds up a palm like he’s a crossing guard halting traffic, and it’s quiet again. “Questions?” he asks.
Logan’s hand shoots up, but then she lowers it when Mr. Bartley aims his clicker at the Smart Board and brings up the assignment.
Kerrianne Nelson gets called on. “I’m confused. The Final Solution of the Jewish Question. Do you mean the Holocaust?”
Mr. Bartley says, “Exactly. The Final Solution was the plan and implementation of the Holocaust.”
“Ah, okay. I thought so.” She smiles at her boyfriend, Mason Hayes, but he’s too busy picking at a thread on his hockey jersey to notice. When she sees me looking at her, she frowns. Like most of the people at our school, I’ve known Kerrianne since kindergarten. We always got along, but for some reason when Logan moved to Riviere and joined us in eighth grade, Kerrianne stopped sitting with us at lunch and started hanging out with the hockey players.