“What happens to the Russians, what happens to the Czechs, is a matter of utter indifference to me. Such good blood of our own kind as there may be among the nations we shall acquire for ourselves, if necessary, by taking away the children and bringing them up among us.” Kerrianne’s voice cracks and when she continues, it’s in a much softer tone. “Whether the other races live in comfort or perish of hunger interests me only insofar as we need them as slaves for our culture; apart from that it doesn’t interest me.”
Mr. Bartley continues. “Under Lebensborn, Himmler highly encouraged his elite SS officers to procreate with racially pure single women deeply devout to Hitler’s principles. The women included in this program had to believe in the ideals and pledge their fidelity to Nazism. They, too, had to prove that they had no Jewish blood.”
Heather braces herself on her desk and stares down at her boots.
I look at Allie. Pink splotches dot her cheeks and neck. I’ve never given much thought to genetics, but I’m suddenly grateful for my reddish-brown hair and hazel eyes.
“Nice!” Jesse smirks.
“Knock it off,” Mr. Bartley booms, glaring at Jesse. “Not nice at all, Mr. Elton. But I’m happy to give you extra credit if you do additional research on this subject. I’m certain you would not find Himmler to be a respectable role model. Please read the next quote from that same speech, Jesse.”
With the smile wiped from his face, Jesse begins. “We shall now discuss it absolutely openly among ourselves, nevertheless we shall never speak of it in public. I mean the evacuation of the Jews, the extermination of the Jews.
“It’s one of those things that’s easy to say. ‘The Jewish race is to be exterminated,’ says every party member. ‘That’s clear, it’s part of our program, elimination of the Jews, extermination, right, we’ll do it.’
“And then they all come along, eighty million good Germans, and each one has his decent Jew. Of course the others are swine, but this one is a first-class Jew. Of all those who talk like this, not one has watched, not one has stood up to it.
“Most of you know what it means to see a hundred corpses lying together, five hundred, or a thousand. To have gone through this yet—apart from a few exceptions, examples of human weakness—to have remained decent fellows, this is what has made us hard. This is a glorious page in our history that has never been written and shall never be written.” Jesse blinks at the screen.
Heather slides into her seat, and so does Allie, who looks a little green. Jesse remains standing.
“I don’t get it,” Heather says quietly. “We’re not smarter or better than anyone else. Himmler’s speech, the Nazis’ treatment of human beings, is appalling.”
Mr. Bartley leans against his desk. “Excellent observation, Miss Jameson. And through our enlightened perspective, I completely agree with you. I look forward to you sharing why you find it appalling in your paper. For the sake of the Wannsee Conference reenactment, however, our purpose is to understand the Nazi perspective on superiority and how it fueled their inhumanity.”
Logan’s hand shoots up. When Mr. Bartley calls on her, she says, “The problem is there are people who still believe in a superior race. They believe what the Nazis did was okay.” Her eyes dart to Jesse. “It’s wrong. What is there to debate?”
The end-of-the-day bell rings and the room erupts with the sounds of chairs scraping against the linoleum, cell phones being turned on, backpacks being zipped.
Mr. Bartley raises his voice above the noise. “That’s exactly why it’s important for us to learn about this, Logan. When you’re at Georgetown, you’ll think back to this assignment and appreciate this challenge.”
Logan opens her mouth, but then Spencer approaches Mr. Bartley and he gives Spencer his attention.
Jesse walks over to Heather. She ignores him as she sticks her latest novel into her backpack. He drapes his arm over her shoulder. “We should call ourselves the Aryans,” he says, a small smile playing on his lips. “You, me, Allie, and the rest of the blue-eyed, blond-haired beauties of Riviere High School.”
Heather shoves his arm off her, spins, and power walks out the door. Logan and I follow, but I lose sight of Heather as students pour out.
Logan grabs my hand, pulls me off to the side. “I’m not comfortable with this assignment,” she says. “This is wrong for the very reason I said. Some people still believe in white supremacy. Look at the violence that happened in Charlottesville, Virginia, when the white supremacists held their rally. A woman was killed.”
Goose bumps rise on my arms. I step closer to Logan and keep my voice low. “I can’t do it. My grandpa saved a Jewish boy, and now Mr. Bartley wants me to argue in favor of murder? I can’t—” I cut myself off.
“Wait, back up. Your grandpa did what?”
“I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“Why not?”
The revelation weighs heavily on my shoulders. I trust Logan. If I share Grandpa’s story, she’ll take it to her grave. But I gave him my word. I don’t have the right to tell Logan, especially when Mom doesn’t even know.
“I can’t. I promised.”
“Your grandpa?”
I nod. “Before he died. He told me true stories, Logan, horrible stories. Until recently, I’d forgotten about them. What the Nazis did to his Jewish neighbors—” I swallow.
Mr. Bartley enters the hallway clutching his computer bag handle as if he’s carrying government secrets. Logan straightens, backs up a few steps until she touches the wall. He lifts his chin to acknowledge us. “Have a good evening, you two.”
“You too,” I mumble as he passes.
We track his steps, and only when he begins the descent to the main floor and disappears from view, does Logan speak. “I don’t understand the purpose of this assignment. I heard Mr. Bartley’s explanation, but it’s not right. Role-playing or not, history or not, an assignment requiring us to defend Nazis is wrong. Why would he want any of us to act like that?”
Nazis. I can still hear the bitterness in my grandpa’s shaky voice when he talked about Nazis. The way his mouth pinched, the pain that crinkled his brow when he told me the story of how he saved his Jewish friend. During one emotional moment, he stopped, struggled to maintain his composure as he gripped the sand block he was using.
This is not how I want to remember Grandpa. I try to conjure images of him standing behind our reception desk and welcoming guests, dancing with Nana with her hands covered in flour, or taking an early-morning walk together on the inn’s beach to watch the sun rise. But each one fades. I look at Logan. “We need to do something about this assignment.”