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!”

Chapter 2: Cade

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.