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.