I glance out the window. Big flakes of snow fall diagonally, swirl in gusts of wind, adding to my deteriorating mood. It means more work for me and my family’s inn. I mentally add “shovel and salt the parking lot and sidewalks” to my to-do list. With a wedding party checking in tomorrow morning, I expect a late night, and instead of listening to Mr. Bartley, I go through everything I’ll need to do when I get home—extra touches to get ready, like arranging champagne, glasses, and Nana’s homemade chocolates for the bride and groom.

Mr. Bartley steps in front of my desk and frowns at my blank notebook. “Disappointing,” he murmurs, and continues down my aisle. I pick up my pen and glance at Logan to see if she heard. She’s glaring at Hitler’s image and has a full page of notes. On my right, Spencer flips his notebook up, showing me lines of text with red swastikas for bullet points. The word “Jew” has a red slash through it. He’s also drawn gallows. Stick figures wearing Jewish stars hang from ropes. I shake my head in disgust and mumble “asshole” under my breath.

I try to focus on what Mr. Bartley’s saying about the Final Solution, but Spencer’s gallows spark another memory. Grandpa had talked about gallows. I close my eyes, picture sitting with him in his workshop surrounded by wood shavings, sanding toys for Santa.

Grandpa told me that the Nazis were rounding up the Jews. A truck had stopped at their farm, checked their papers. The SS officers took their food, then warned his family to stay away from town. But Grandpa was worried about his Jewish friend. He wanted to find him. Even though his parents forbade him to leave the house, Grandpa snuck out after they fell asleep. He saw hundreds, maybe a thousand Jews in the town square forced to stand silent as several Nazis selected six boys for no reason and hung them from gallows. The rest of the story floods back into my mind like a tidal wave. I know what happened to his friend. I know what happened to the people in the town.

The memory leaves me shaken as Mr. Bartley scans the room.

“A demonstration,” he says. “I’d like those of you with blond hair and blue eyes to please stand up next to your desks.”