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.

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.