White

The Sunday meal at her grandfather’s dark house featured a cast of recurring characters and events that, by age four, Sarah knew by heart. She always loved competing with her brothers to call out names and locations. They’d almost stopped trying, but her grandfather hadn’t noticed.

“Who took meals at my daddy’s table?” he asked.

“William Dudley Pelley, Dr. Wesley Swift, Reverend Gerald L.K. Smith,” Sarah called out.

Their great-grandfather was a dead American who had eaten a lot of meals with important people. Everyone that got mentioned was a source of pride, a champion of hardworking White folks. Pelley, who almost got the United States to back Hitler, was the founder of the Silver Legion (otherwise known as the Silver Shirts) and the reason why Grandpa Thomas wore them.

“Did you meet them, Grandpa?” Blair asked.

He didn’t answer, just waved the air, frowning as if someone had farted. “As you know, Swift started the Christian Identity movement.”

He waited for his grandchildren to nod—the obligatory response to any statement that began as you know.

“No offense to the old British Israel believers, but Swift knew we had to take matters into our own hands. Sometimes, God takes his sweet time bringing about the promised change.”

He glanced upward with an apologetic smile, as though he and God had an understanding and God was not to take offense. “Dr. Swift was a prophet, even if he was a little off on his dates. We weren’t rid of Jews by 1953, but I appreciated his optimism. Poor fellow died in a Mexican hospital. Better that than having some Jew doctor poison you.”

Rather than answering Keith’s question about why they were even allowed to be doctors, he moved on. “Jews are responsible for what evils?”

“Communism, both world wars, the Federal Reserve Banking system, homosexuality, abortion, the United Nations.”

The kids tried to out-shout each other. “No yelling. You missed tooth decay.” There was never a winner. The bucket of offenses was bottomless.

Sarah loved the bright yellow library, the books, and Mrs. Broder with her sparkly eyes and wiry grey hair. For her brothers, it had always been totally boring and they ruined it for her. When they were younger, Blair ran all over and Keith flicked his stupid marble and then crawled around after it. The moms looked at Sarah with patronizing smiles and made clicking noises off the roof of their mouths, like those poor Cartells with no mother, but really they meant, Why can’t they sit still and behave like my children?

The next Monday after school when Sarah was at the public library doing research for a project, Mrs. Broder pulled her aside and told her they got funding to hire a student.

“No one knows their way around here better than you. It’s not much money, but it beats babysitting.”

“I’ve never babysat.” She had no interest, and no one ever asked. “But the library, I’d work here for free.”

“No need. You’ve put in years worth of volunteer hours.”

Not exactly. But it was nice of her to say. Sarah was concerned that her father wouldn’t agree. He didn’t mind using the library as a free place to drop his kids or get dart targets, but this was different. Grandpa had nothing good to say about public libraries. They occasionally found their way onto the list of awful things Jews had created (the Jewy-decimal system—ha ha ha). It’s filled with lies, that’s why it’s called a liebrary.

“I’ll have to check with my dad. I have chores and I make dinner.”

“Leave that to me. Give me your phone number and I’ll call him tonight.”

Sarah was unsure how that would go. He wouldn’t be rude, but he might have all sorts of excuses. Mrs. Broder took the piece of paper and put a warm hand on Sarah’s shoulder.

She stiffened and the librarian moved away. She didn’t mean to go rigid. It was just what happened.

Sarah was washing up after dinner when the phone rang. She could hear her father in the other room saying things like, “Oh isn’t that nice. I hadn’t realized she’d learned so much about the library. She does love it there. Keeps begging me to paint her bedroom bright yellow.” Sarah groaned. “Well, every teenager should have a part-time job. Builds character. Next Monday. Sounds good. I’ll let her know you called.” Like a totally normal parent conversation.

“Looks like you’ll be working at the library,” he said proudly. Sarah surprised herself by hugging him.

“Oh, okay.” He patted her back. “Dinner’s still your job.”

“For sure.”

“Total nerd job for a total nerd,” Keith said when they were brushing their teeth. “Remember that time you got caught sticking your nose in the books? Oooh, these smell soooo good. And Mrs. Broder said they smelled like a thousand people had loved them, and you were like, ‘Ooooh ya.’ That was totally gross.”

Mrs. Broder clapped her hands in excitement. “You’re here. Officially. I got you a name tag.” It was metal and it read Sarah Cartell—Library Assistant. Sarah smiled back, hoping to match the librarian’s glee. Grown-ups were often hurt when she didn’t show enough enthusiasm, but she really was excited.

“How about we spend some time learning the ins and outs of reshelving, not that you don’t already know most of it, then you can pick anything you want and read or do homework.”

“I can do homework at home. I want to do library stuff.”

“Library stuff it is.” Mrs. Broder smiled.

All through Sunday service, Sarah worried about how her plan would play out. A few weeks ago, she’d decided to show Mrs. Broder one of her grandfather’s books, Hoax of the Twentieth Century. She’d looked through the card drawers and hadn’t found it under Holocaust (there was no section on the Holocaust that never happened), World War II, or German history. Even the microfiche on books published in North America didn’t reference the book.

She’d asked Mrs. Broder if they could meet, and the librarian had agreed. Sarah told her dad there was a special shipment that needed to be unpacked and shelved. He agreed to let her go once all the dishes were done. She’d gone by her grandfather’s house on Friday after school, grabbed the book from the attic, and dropped it off for Mrs. Broder so they could discuss it. Sarah wasn’t sure what kind of a response she’d get, but the fact that she had slipped the book into a brown paper bag, like a bum on a street corner hiding a cheap bottle of rye or cough syrup, suggested she knew it might not be positive.

It was raining when her dad dropped her off. Mrs. Broder left the back entrance open. The door to her office was unusually closed. Sarah knocked.

“Yes.”

She assumed that meant come in, although Mrs. Broder didn’t sound welcoming. Hoax was face down on the desk. Sarah felt a rush of panic that the spine might be broken.

She looked at Mrs. Broder. The expression of horror on the woman’s face didn’t suit her.

Sarah tried to sound normal. “Did you read it?”

“Enough of it. Where did you get it?”

“It’s my grandfather’s. But I’ve read it a couple of times.”

Mrs. Broder’s expression kept mutating. Now it looked like disgust. “So, you know what it’s about.”

“It’s about the invention of the Holocaust.” Sarah felt the words shrivel as they came out.

“Did he give it to you to read?”

“I took it myself. I first read it when I was six. I didn’t do too bad.” Was she trying to impress her? “Now I know this stuff inside out. He’s even tested me on it.”

“He must be very proud,” Mrs. Broder said.

“I tried to find this in the library, but it isn’t here, or in the system.”

“It’s banned here in Canada, Sarah. Any idea why?”

Sarah talked fast. “Because it’s hard to disprove such a massive hoax that most of the world has bought into? Because Jews have that much power. My grandfather says there’s a Jewish conspiracy, a cabal that secretly runs the world.”

“Any idea why the rest of your grandfather’s books aren’t here either? You went looking. You must have found other books on the Holocaust. We have quite a few. Did you look at them?”

Sarah stood frozen. “I know the church your grandfather runs, and the ideas he and his congregants believe come directly from God. I’ve heard the story about your grandmother, and I know that’s not where his hate comes from. But this, Sarah.” She points to the book. “This is an utter fabrication. It makes me sick. I thought you were different. You love the library and learning. You run to bring Felix Otonga his magazines. I see the way you look at his son.”

Sarah stared at the floor. There was nothing to say. Suddenly Mrs. Broder’s feelings and opinions mattered more than anything. No one else cared. Not about things like this. She could please her dad with a bull’s eye, never get her grandfather’s full attention. Her aunt was always busy trying to keep what was left of their family a family, by almost never talking. Mrs. Broder saw her. The woman let her stand there another minute. The muscles around her mouth gave slightly. If it was pity, Sarah was willing to accept it, would be grateful for it even.

“Sit.”

She dropped into the chair. The invitation to stay, at least for now, was the best she’d ever gotten.

“The world is full of hatred and mistrust based on prejudices and false beliefs about who people are and how they behave. Jews have always been a target.”

She knew Blacks kind of were, and Indians; she just wasn’t supposed to care. But Jews? Didn’t they own everything? What did they have to complain about?

“Do you know any Jews, Sarah?”

She hesitated. “No. Maybe Mr. Goldberg, my dad’s boss, but I’ve never met him.”

“I think you know others.”

Mrs. Broder must have wanted her to squirm because she waited. Sarah braced for the blow she suddenly saw coming.

“You know me.”

Sarah laughed then clapped her hand over her mouth. It wasn’t funny. It was crazy, because of course if someone in this story was going to be Jewish, it was Mrs. Broder.

The librarian’s horror and disgust were replaced by something else. Only someone who cared could look almost kind after saying they hated everything she believed in.

“I didn’t laugh because that’s funny.”

“I know that.” No matter how angry or upset the rest of her face got, Mrs. Broder’s eyes never hardened. She seemed to be offering Sarah a chance. And before she knew exactly what it would mean, Sarah knew she would take it.

She told Mrs. Broder about Sunday lunches and about competing with her brothers to win every pop quiz her grandfather threw at them, until they didn’t care anymore, so she kept on impressing him herself. She told her about the old church in the country and how he wanted her to lead it one day. She talked about Richard Butler’s Aryan Nation and Hayden Lake and how her grandfather expected the man and his followers to carry the armed insurrection across North America right to his home in Goderich, where they would stay with him in the cabins he stocked with food. Mrs. Broder was quite impressed with the list of problems that Sarah told her Jews were responsible for, including the invention of the public library.

“Well done us,” she said.

Sarah listed a few more things, including her grandfather’s growing anger and frustration that the world was clearly going to hell, and no one was doing anything to bring about the glorious change. The White Revolution. How stupid it was that a revolution was even necessary, one had only to look back a few decades to find the right track and get back on it.

“He doesn’t seem to actually do anything, though, does he?” Mrs. Broder asked. Sarah thought about it for a moment. It was true. Other than complaining and bossing his family around, he wasn’t even any good at inspiring others to do things. Sure, he blathered on at the pulpit and at his own table, but otherwise, he kept pretty much silent and yelled at others, mainly his sons, for not speaking out.

“That’s what a great preacher does. Inspire.” Mrs. Broder asked Sarah if she’d heard of the Reverend Martin Luther King Jr.

Only enough to know he’d be a good dart target—she and her brothers played darts, aiming at pictures of Blacks and Jews—but this was way too embarrassing to say. Mrs. Broder was noting down books and articles for Sarah to read. The list was growing longer. Their tea got cold. She reheated it and it got cold again.

Finally, they went out into the library, and she started pulling books off the shelves and passing them down, giving a quick summary of each. A pile accumulated on the table.

Night by Eli Weisel, The Diary of Anne Frank, Treblinka by Jean François Steiner, and Why We Can’t Wait, by Martin Luther King Jr. The Cartell worldview, held together by a homemade glue of conspiracy theory, biblical literalism, and crude stereotypes, started crumbling under their weight before Sarah opened a single one. They’d been at it for hours. “Call your dad and tell him you’re going to be a little longer. I’ll drop you home.”

“If my grandfather’s book is all lies, why would someone write a book like that?”

“A book legitimizes their values. For some people, all it takes is one. We humans have always believed things that seem easy to disprove. Take the most popular books of all—the Old and New Testaments. Filled with horrifying nonsense.”

“But you’re Jewish. The first one’s your bible.”

Mrs. Broder laughed. “The other one’s yours. I pick and choose what’s important to me. Most people do. Some swallow it whole, but that can choke you. We have made progress. We don’t sacrifice animals or stone women for adultery anymore.”

“At least not here.”

Sarah thought about the books she’d read. The importance of keeping separate. The fact that Jews, Blacks, and other immigrants took jobs away from White Christians. Was none of it true?

“It’s complicated.” Mrs. Broder pushed her palms into the small of her back. She’d been going up and down the step stool for the last hour. “Sometimes giving rights and opportunities to people who’ve always been denied them feels like trampling on the people who had them first. It makes them angry. And of course, there are lots of White folks who don’t have it great either. But it’s not because they’re White. It’s for all sorts of other reasons.”

“Maybe some people like how it feels to hate.”

“Some do. We get attached to our ways. And it’s comforting to have a target for frustration and disappointment.”

Sarah thought about all the photocopies of pictures to throw darts at, that she’d made at the library. One day, she’d tell Mrs. Broder. Right now, she felt run over by truckloads of things she’d never considered. Things right there on these shelves, in this place she loved but didn’t deserve. What a jerk she was, always thinking she was so smart.

Turns out she was simply good at memorizing and spewing bullshit. Mrs. Broder pulled her blue sweater across her body, like it might hold her up. “Don’t let it paralyze you, Sarah. You couldn’t have known any different.”

“Maybe I did know different. Maybe I just looked away.”

“That’s a lot of maybe. You’re only fourteen. Everything you believe won’t change in an afternoon. And your family will always be your family.”

Sarah thought about her dad’s insecurities, his beliefs—how nothing could topple them, but nothing made him stand up for them either. Out in the world, he denied everything and hid all his supposedly sacred beliefs behind his back, like they were stolen. That part she couldn’t bring herself to tell Mrs. Broder. Something made her want to protect him from looking wishy-washy, which was almost stupid. A few hours. Was that really all it took the librarian to dismantle everything Sarah believed was true? Had it always been that unstable? Maybe her dad’s shame, something he didn’t even know he felt, started that process long ago, making it easy to knock down. The idea of going home felt like stepping willingly back into a kind of jail. “Now what am I supposed to do?” Sarah almost laughed again.

Mrs. Broder sighed. “Whatever you can to feel safe and normal. The next couple of weeks will probably be the hardest. The contradictions will be glaring. You’ll feel like you’re constantly sneaking around, being untruthful.”

She didn’t say lying. Maybe she though the word was too harsh. But Sarah knew that’s what she’d be doing.

“It’ll settle. I promise.”

She couldn’t know that, but Sarah chose to trust her. Was there a book in the library on feeling normal? “So I’m supposed to fake it?”

“A bit. You still have to live your life. But you have this place.” She gestured around the library. “And you have me. I’m here.” She reached out and touched Sarah’s hand.

Sarah did her best not to flinch. I’m here. Those words gave her comfort. It was a feeling she almost didn’t recognize, something she never knew she needed or wanted.

It was almost dark. Neither of them had thought to turn on a light. Sarah stuffed three of the books into her backpack and turned to take another two. “Perhaps not all at once, dear. You can store the books here. Read them whenever you want. There are empty lockers in the office. Use them.”

Sarah started putting them all away, neatly, spines facing out. There was so much to learn and unlearn. All these facts and stories that countered all the lies she’d grown up with. She thought about what Mrs. Broder said about successful preachers like Dr. King. She needed to know who was out there preaching this hateful gospel, the one she’d been raised to believe.

“My grandfather and my dad may not accomplish anything. But lots of people do, like Richard Butler and probably hundreds or thousands of others. I need to start tracking them. Maybe even exposing them one day.”

“We can do that.”

We.

Sarah turned to put the last of the books away. She picked up Hoax of the Twentieth Century and slid it back into the paper bag, like it had cooties. It was the first of many times she’d feel Mrs. Broder’s protective eyes on her. The way out the librarian was pointing to, like an underground passage, had zero guarantees of reaching somewhere safe, and piles of risk. But now Sarah knew what she knew, and she couldn’t not know.