Carl was a tall, thin guy with blond hair. Alex, who was stocky and dark, was wearing earphones connected to a small tape player. "Something illegal going on in here?" Carl asked slyly, making his eyebrows bounce up and down.

"You made me waste a perfectly good cigarette," Amy complained.

"Tisk, tisk," Alex said, looking on disapprovingly.

"So how is the paper coming?" Carl asked.

"What do you mean?" Laurie asked in exasperation. "Neither of you has handed in your a.s.signments for this issue."

"Oh-oh." Alex was suddenly looking at his watch and backing away toward the door. "I just remembered I have to catch a plane to Argentina."

"I'll drive you to the airport!" Carl said, following him out the door.

Laurie looked at Amy and shook her head wearily. "Those two," she mumbled, making a fist.

CHAPTER 4.

Something bothered Ben Ross. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but he was intrigued by the questions the kids in his history cla.s.s had asked him after the film that day. It made him wonder. Why hadn't he been able to give the students adequate answers to their questions? Was the behavior of the majority of Germans during the n.a.z.i regime really so inexplicable?

That afternoon before he left school, Ross had stopped at the library and taken out an armful of books. His wife, Christy would be playing tennis that evening with some friends, so he knew he would have a long period of uninterrupted time to pursue his thoughts. Now, several hours later, after reading through a number of books, Ben suspected that he would not find the real answer written anywhere. It made him wonder. Was this something historians knew words could not explain? Was it something one could only understand by being there? Or, if possible, by re-creating a similar situation?

The idea intrigued Ross. Suppose, he thought, just suppose he took a period, perhaps two periods, and tried an experiment. Just tried to give his students a sampling, a taste of what life in n.a.z.i Germany might have been like. If he could just figure out how it could be done, how the experiment could be run, he was certain it would make far more of an impression on the students than any book explanation could ever make. It certainly was worth a try.

Christy Ross didn't get in that night until after eleven o'clock. She'd played tennis and then had dinner with a friend. She got home to find her husband sitting at their kitchen table surrounded by books.

"Doing your homework?"

"In a way, yes," Ben Ross replied without looking up from his books.

On top of one of the books Christy noticed an empty gla.s.s and an empty plate with a few crumbs from what once must have been a sandwich.

"Well, at least you remembered to feed yourself," she said, picking up the dish and placing it in the sink.

Her husband didn't answer. His nose was still stuck in the book.

"I bet you're just dying to find out how badly I beat Betty Lewis tonight," she said, kidding him.

Ben looked up. "What?"

"I said I beat Betty Lewis tonight," Christy told him.

Her husband had a blank look on his face.

Christy laughed. "Betty Lewis. You know, the Betty Lewis who I've never won more than two games in a set from. I beat her tonight. In two sets. Six-four; seven-five."

"Oh, uh, that's very good," Ben said absently. He looked back down at the book and started reading again.

Someone else might have been offended by his apparent rudeness, but Christy wasn't. She knew Ben was the kind of person who got involved with things. Not just involved, but utterly absorbed in them to the point where he tended to forget that the rest of the world existed. She'd never forget the time in graduate school when he got interested in American Indians. For months he was so wrapped up in Indians that he forgot about the rest of his life. On weekends he'd visit Indian reservations or spend hours looking for old books in dusty libraries. He even started bringing Indians home for dinner! And wearing deerskin moccasins! Christy used to get up some mornings wondering if he was going to put on war paint.

But that was the way Ben was. One summer she'd taught him to play bridge, and within a month not only was he a better bridge player than she, but he was driving her crazy, insisting that they play bridge every minute of the day. He only calmed down after he won a local bridge tournament and ran out of worthy compet.i.tors. It was almost frightening, the way he lost himself in each new adventure.

Christy looked at the books scattered about the kitchen table and sighed. "What is it this time?" she asked. "The Indians again? Astronomy? The behavioral characteristics of killer whales?"

When her husband didn't answer, she picked up some of the books. "The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich? Hitler's Youth?" She frowned. "What are you doing, cramming for a degree in dictatorship?"

"Not funny," Ben muttered without looking up.

"You're right," Christy admitted.

Ben Ross sat back and looked at his wife. "One of my students asked me a question today that I couldn't answer."

"So what else is new?" Christy asked.

"But I don't think I ever saw the answer written anywhere," Ben told her. "It just may be an answer they have to learn for themselves."

Christy Ross nodded. "Well, I can see what kind of night this is going to be," she said. "Just remember, tomorrow you have to be awake enough to teach an entire day of cla.s.ses."

Her husband nodded. "I know, I know."

Christy Ross bent down and kissed him on his forehead. "Try not to wake me. If you come to sleep tonight."

CHAPTER 5.

The next day the students drifted in slowly as usual. Some took their seats, others stood around talking. Robert Billings was by the windows, tying knots in the blind cords. While he was doing that, Brad, his incessant tormentor, walked past and patted him on the back, sticking a small sign that said "kick me" to his shirt.

It looked like just another typical day in history cla.s.s until the kids noticed that their teacher had written in large letters across the blackboard: STRENGTH THROUGH DISCIPLINE.

"What's that supposed to mean?" someone asked.

"I'll tell you just as soon as you're all seated," Ben Ross answered. When the kids were all in their places, he began to lecture. "Today I am going to talk to you about discipline."

A collective groan went up from the seated students. There were some teachers whose cla.s.ses you knew would be a drag, but most of the students expected Ross's history cla.s.s to be pretty good-which meant no dumb lectures on stuff like discipline.

"Hold it," Ben told them. "Before you make a judgment, give this a chance. It could be exciting."

"Oh sure," someone said.

"Oh sure is right," Ben told his students. "Now when I talk about discipline, I'm talking about power," he said, making a fist to accentuate the point. "And I'm talking about success. Success through discipline. Is there anyone here who isn't interested in power and success?"

"Probably Robert," Brad said. A bunch of kids snickered.

"Now wait," Ben told them. "David, Brian, Eric, you play football. You already know it takes discipline to win."

"That must be why we haven't won a game in two years," Eric said, and the cla.s.s laughed.

It took their teacher a few moments to calm them down again. "Listen," he said, gesturing toward a pretty, red-haired student who appeared to be sitting taller in her chair than those around her. "Andrea, you're a ballet dancer. Doesn't it take ballet dancers long, hard hours of work to develop their skills?"

She nodded, and Ross turned to the rest of the cla.s.s. "It's the same with every art. Painting, writing, music-all of them take years of hard work and discipline to master. Hard work, discipline, and control."

"So what?" said a student who was slouching down in his chair.

"So what?" Ben asked. "I'll show you. Suppose I could prove to you that you can create power through discipline. Suppose we could do it right here in this cla.s.sroom. What would you say to that?"

Ross had expected another wisecrack, and he was surprised when it didn't come. Instead the students were becoming interested and curious. Ben went behind his desk and pulled his wooden chair in front of the room so that all the students could see it.

"All right," he said. "Discipline begins with posture. Amy come up here for a minute."

As Amy rose, Brian mumbled, "Teacher's pet." Normally that would have been enough to start the entire cla.s.s laughing, but only a few chuckled. The rest ignored him. Everyone was wondering what their teacher was up to.

As Amy sat in the chair at the front of the room, Ben instructed her on how to sit. "Place your hands flat across the small of your back and force your spine straight up. There, can't you breathe more easily?"

Around the cla.s.sroom, many of the students were imitating the position they saw Amy taking. But even though they were sitting straighter, some couldn't help finding it humorous. David was the next to try his hand at a joke: "Is this history, or did I come to phys ed by mistake?" he asked. A few kids laughed, but still tried to improve their posture.

"Come on, David," Ben said. "Give it a try. We've had enough wise-guy remarks."

Grudgingly David pushed himself up straight in his chair. Meanwhile their teacher walked down each aisle, checking the posture of each student. It was amazing, Ross thought. Somehow he'd hooked them. Why, even Robert ...

"Cla.s.s," Ben announced, "I want everyone to see how Robert's legs are parallel. His ankles are locked, his knees are bent at ninety degrees. See how straight his spine is. Chin tucked in, head up. That's very good, Robert."

Robert, the cla.s.s nerd, looked up at his teacher and smiled briefly, then returned to his stiff upright position. Around the room the other students tried to copy him.

Ben returned to the front of the cla.s.sroom. "All right. Now I want you all to get up and walk around the room. When I give the command, I want you to return to your seats as quickly as possible and a.s.sume the proper seating posture. Come on, everyone, up, up, up."

The students stood up and started wandering around the room. Ben knew he couldn't let them go too long or they'd lose their concentration on the exercise, so he quickly said, "Take your seats!"

The students dashed back to their seats. There were b.u.mps and grunts as a few ran into each other, and around the room some kids laughed, but the dominant sound was the loud sc.r.a.ping of chair legs as the kids sat down.

In the front of the room, Ben shook his head. "That was the most disorganized mess I've ever seen. This isn't duck, duck, goose, this is an experiment in movement and posture. Now come on, let's try it again. This time without the chatter. The quicker and more controlled you are, the faster you will be able to reach your seats properly. Okay? Now, everyone, up!"

For the next twenty minutes the cla.s.s practiced getting out of their seats, wandering around in apparent disorganization and then, at their teacher's command, quickly returning to their seats and the correct seated posture. Ben shouted orders more like a drill sergeant than a teacher. Once they seemed to have mastered quick and correct seating, he threw in a new twist. They would still leave their seats and return. But now they would return from the hallway and Ross would time them with a stopwatch.

On the first try, it took forty-eight seconds. The second time they were able to do it in half a minute. Before the last attempt, David had an idea.

"Listen," he told his cla.s.smates as they stood outside in the hall waiting for Mr. Ross's signal. "Let's line up in the order of who has to go the farthest to reach their desks inside. That way we won't have to b.u.mp into each other."

The rest of the cla.s.s agreed. As they got into the correct order, they couldn't help noticing that Robert was at the head of the line. "The new head of the cla.s.s," someone whispered as they waited nervously for their teacher to give them the sign. Ben snapped his fingers and the column of students moved quickly and quietly into the room. As the last student reached his seat, Ben clicked the stopwatch off. He was smiling. "Sixteen seconds."

The cla.s.s cheered.

"All right, all right, quiet down," their teacher said, returning to the front of the room. To his surprise, the students calmed down quickly. The silence that suddenly filled the room was almost eerie. Normally the only time the room was that still, Ross thought, was when it was empty.

"Now, there are three more rules that you must obey," he told them. "One. Everybody must have pencils and note paper for note-taking. Two. When asking or answering a question, you must stand at the side of your seats. And three. The first words you say when answering or asking a question are, 'Mr. Ross.' All right?"

Around the room, heads nodded.

"All right," Mr. Ross said. "Brad, who was the British Prime Minister before Churchill?"

Still sitting at his seat, Brad chewed nervously on a fingernail. "Uh, wasn't it-"

But before he could say more, Mr. Ross quickly cut him off. "Wrong, Brad, you already forgot the rules I just told you." He looked across the room at Robert. "Robert, show Brad the proper procedure for answering a question."

Instantly Robert stood up next to his desk at attention. "Mr. Ross."

"Correct," Mr. Ross said. "Thank you, Robert."

"Aw, this is dumb," Brad mumbled.

"Just because you couldn't do it right," someone said.

"Brad," Mr. Ross said, "who was the Prime Minister before Churchill?"

This time Brad rose and stood beside his desk. "Mr. Ross, it was, uh, Prime Minister, uh."

"You're still too slow, Brad," Mr. Ross said. "From now on, everyone make your answers as short as possible, and spit them out when asked. Now, Brad, try again."

This time Brad snapped up beside his seat. "Mr. Ross, Chamberlain."

Ben nodded approvingly. "Now that's the way to answer a question. Punctual, precise, with punch. Andrea, what country did Hitler invade in September of 1939?"

Andrea, the ballet dancer, stood stiffly by her desk. "Mr. Ross, I don't know."

Mr. Ross smiled. "Still, a good response because you used proper form. Amy, do you know the answer?"

Amy hopped up beside her desk. "Mr. Ross, Poland."

"Excellent," Mr. Ross said. "Brian, what was the name of Hitler's political party?"

Brian quickly got out of his chair. "Mr. Ross, the n.a.z.is."

Mr. Ross nodded. "That's good, Brian. Very quick. Now, does anyone know the official name of the party? Laurie?"

Laurie Saunders stood up beside her desk. "The National Socialist-"