Val Muller

About a year ago, I was honored to hear Aranka Siegal speak. She is a Holocaust survivor, and though her family begged her not to go to the speaking engagement (because of her age and the difficulties of travel), she insisted on going. When she found out she would be speaking to an auditorium full of teachers, she thought it was important to spread her message in the hopes that we would share it with today’s youth.

Last year, I read and reviewed a book about her childhood before the German invasion. (You can read the review here.)

The book Upon the Head of the Goat is subtitled, “A Childhood in Hungary, 1939-1944.” It details Aranka’s life (she goes by “Piri” in the books) from a summer living with her grandmother in the countryside to her return to the city. She watches as the Germans and Russians invade, and eventually she is taken to the ghetto to await the train that will take her away.

Without considering the Holocaust: the book provides a good taste of what life used to be like. I admire how resourceful Piri’s mother is, always finding ways of making or stretching food, always concerned for the well-being and cleanliness of her family. Without thinking about the Holocaust, I enjoyed being transported to a different time and place, and it made me think about all the modern conveniences we have—and possibly how they have made us ungrateful, as we take much for granted.

After hearing Ms. Siegal speak, however, I couldn’t get out of my mind all the stories she told us about life in the concentration camp—details that don’t appear in this book (the book ends just as she is taken away). Knowing what she would have to endure after the story in the book ends made reading it more emotional for me. For instance, in the Jewish ghetto, Piri finally finds a boyfriend, and she looks forward to all the rites of passage of being a young woman—things she’d looked forward to watching her older sisters and relatives. But even as she’s recounting these things, she tells us that she knew deep down that she would not experience them.

One sad example repeated in the book and in Ms. Siegal’s talk to us was about the bread dough. Her mother kept a can of bread dough, and each week she would use it to make new dough, but she would always keep a piece of it in the can. She’d use the little bit of dough to start next week’s bread–sort of like friendship bread. It was a chunk of dough she’d inherited from her own mother, and she would give each daughter a chunk of dough when they started families of their own. In such a way, the family would be making the “same” bread for hundreds of years.

But at one point in the story, after everything is taken away, and it’s clear the Jews will be rounded up, Piri’s mother loses hope and cooks all of the bread dough. She realizes that there is no reason to save it: the family will not have a normal life after this point.

And she is right.

This was particularly horrifying for me to process. There should always be hope, but the way the Nazis orchestrated the slow nudge toward the concentration camps made it impossible to keep any. Equally sad is how Piri is unable to find the faith that her grandmother held to—she cannot understand how a benevolent god would allow such atrocities to happen.

One quote struck me particularly. At the point in the story in which Piri and her family are in the Jewish ghetto awaiting the train to take them to the concentration camp, a family friend arrives. He was of privileged status, and it was thought he would not be carted away like the rest of the Jews. Everyone is surprised and shocked when he arrives. When asked whether it was better in another location, the friend answered, “Conditions for the Jews were the same everywhere, and the rest of the people took no interest because of their own fears and their own problems of survival.”

The whole thing reminded me—rightly so—of the novel 1984. The way the people were kept frightened by constant fighting, tired and afraid by constantly-changing “laws” and food rations… it all serves to make people feel powerless and small and—well, not quite human.

At the end of the book, right before the arrival of the trains, a small group of resistance fighters has managed to buy guns from Hungarian peasants. Piri discusses this with them:

“No two people can agree on any one plan. In a way, it is futile to attempt anything. We are such a small handful of men… we would be outnumbered ten to one, and the rest of their battalion is…a phone call away… Whatever plan we finally decide upon, it won’t get us very far.”

“Then why do anything?” I pleaded.

“Because a man just can’t stand by and let his family suffer without making some kind of attempt to protect them.”

Even during that discussion, it doesn’t seem like they truly understand the horrors that await. Piri, Aranka Siegal, has a spark in her. When I heard her speak, she made it clear that people in general are too complacent: they will follow orders that take away their freedoms if the orders are given slowly and gradually enough. While in the Jewish ghetto, she and her friends accept the curfew bell, taking it for granted and obeying it without much thought. It becomes almost automatic. When the trains finally, arrive, Siegal admits, “Watching all those people following so readily the German orders to leave their lives behind, I couldn’t help wondering what would happen if we were not so obedient.”

The book is an important read. It’s important to see how persecution of the Jews came slowly. It started off with minor rules and inconveniences, and it was nudged along slowly so that at the end, neighbors of the Jews felt badly, saying they never expected things to go so far. It reminds me about that parable about boiling a frog in water—do it slowly enough, and the frog will sit there until its own death. Even some of the Jews cooperated with the Germans at first—out of hope, perhaps, or fear. But in the end, they faced the same fate as the rest. This was one of the things Ms. Siegal emphasized in her speech to us: if we notice something that doesn’t seem right, we shouldn’t go along with it in an effort to be polite or to keep the peace. If we notice something that doesn’t seem right, we should speak up right away. If more people had done so, perhaps Hitler would have been kept in check. She was adamant about our need to constantly check our rights and make sure they were not being impeded.

It’s important that we read all kinds of history to see how things happen—how dictators rise to power, how prejudice gets started, how hatred catches fire. Perhaps if we read and learn enough, and think about it rationally enough, we will be strong enough to prevent the next great human tragedy.

I hope that I never live to see a time when humanity completely loses hope. In literature and film, we’ve interwoven the idea of hope despite all obstacles. Tom Joad and Casey in The Grapes of Wrath strive to improve humanity with all they have. But Orwell, living through World War II, saw it differently, and in 1984 he painted a grim picture of a future without hope because it was taken away in a slow, methodical progression.

I pray we never come to that.

I’m excited to be attending and presenting at the Longwood University 2015 Summer Literacy Institute.  In preparation, I wanted to read at least one book written by each author who will be attending.

The Dog in the Wood is a middle-grade book about a ten-year-old named Fritz. He lives in eastern Germany in April 1945. His Grandpa is a Nazi sympathizer, but his mother and older sister just want to run their farm without being bothered by Nazis or Russians. As the novel begins, it is announced that Hitler is dead, and the Russian soldiers will soon be arriving and invading.

The author notes that the novel is fiction, but the background for the story is based on research and eye-witness accounts. Because this is a middle-grade book, the author admits that the way the soldiers acted was toned down a bit (though there are hints at darker things occurring). She also notes, “Although the Germans who were adults during the Third Reich can be blamed for supporting a racist, violent, insane regime that brought on a destructive war of epic proportions, children were pawn in the events. They had to learn to live on despite their loss, grief, and fear.”

And this is exactly what Fritz does. He lives through the farm being taken, his home being invaded, and even his mother and hired help being arrested for false crimes. He shows bravery and conflicting emotions that would be expected of a child living through this time—when all he really wants to do is garden in peace… and be a kid!

I enjoyed how the author wove in symbols and images to help show Fritz’s development as the story progresses. Although the topic is grim, it was an enjoyable read in that it really helped to illustrate the difficulties of civilians trying to live during such a time. The content is slightly disturbing for young readers, but it’s also an important part of history.

I look forward to reading Upon the Head of a Goat, which details the experiences of a Holocaust survivor during the 1940s. Neither book is exactly “pleasure reading,” but they are important slices of the universal human condition.

I read this book on the recommendation of coworkers when we were discussing books about students who rebel. This is a cross between middle grade and young adult—there are bits in there that older kids would get, but the story is appropriate for middle grade.

The story follows a boy named Wallace Wallace, who made a star play on the football team. But since he refuses to lie (and praise a book he didn’t like), he has detention for English class, preventing him from joining his football teammates.

As he stays after school and is forced to watch the drama club rehearse for their play, he cannot help but use his brutally honest personality to offer suggestions about how to improve their play. The story uses multiple points of view, including Wallace, a “love” interest of his, and the drama teacher. At first the multiple perspectives were jarring, but by the end, they came together quite nicely. The novel was humorous and fast-paced, weaving together a mystery, a plot, and a love triangle. The title comes from the main characters objection to the classics read in school in which the dog dies (Old Yeller).

I liked Wallace’s honest personality and the way he stuck to his beliefs no matter what. Since it’s more of a middle grade book, the characters weren’t as developed as I would prefer (as in YA or adult books), but it was still an enjoyable read—and definitely something I would have loved as a kid.

I finally got around to reading this book. Being an English teacher has its downsides: when I assign independent reading projects, a lot of books are spoiled for me before I get to read them. This was one of them—many students read it several years ago, but I’d forgotten that I already knew the basic plot before I bought it and started reading.

Still, I’m glad I read it.

The book follows a freshman named Melinda. She’s an outcast at school because she called the police during a high-school party the summer prior, and everyone seems to hate her.

Spoilers follow.

Seriously.

If you plan to read the book, stop reading now.

So, hints are dropped (though I knew the truth because my students told me, so I’m not sure at what point a reader would actually figure it out) that Melinda was raped by a student who she first refers to as “It.” She had too much to drink at the party and was confused. Though she told him “no” at the party, he continued on, and she was too naïve to know what to do. She ended up blaming and hating herself.

Because she freaked out, she ran before the police arrived, and no one learned the truth, not the police, not her parents, not her friends. Everyone thinks she is simply a snitch.

The book follows her freshman year as she tries various coping techniques. I enjoyed how art class was woven in—the teacher assigns her the symbols of a “tree” to work with the entire year, and she uses her work on the tree project to help her reconcile her feelings.

It’s a YA read, so it’s easy and quick, and it’s an important reminder about how each of us brings baggage with us—and though we may seem like we are rebelling or acting out, there is sometimes a deeper problem about which we are too hesitant to speak.