The Invisible Hero (16 page)

I'm so uptight about what's going on at school with Macca and his gang. They're criminals and they're getting patted on the head by all the adults. Where's the justice, for goodness sake? I should've taught that mob of drop-kicks a lesson. How would Lord Bloody Wog Rolo handle this?

Have just had a brainwave. Am playing around with a name for my own anti-Macca organisation. What about the Nobullshits association? No Bullying Shall Be In This School. I think this is a sort of acronym. A bit rough, but it will do for the moment. Oh, damn, Rolo has beaten me to it. Have just read that obituary again. Rolo also created an anti-monarchist BULLSHIT society – British Ultra Loyalist League Serving Historical Interests Today. But maybe this is Rolo's way of handing on the baton.

I'm devastated. Totally. I've just finished watching the DVD. I feel I got to know Sophie a bit. For twenty-one years old, she was more like my age – kind of inexperienced. She had a boyfriend who was a soldier far away at war. She loved Schubert's Trout Quintet – and so do Mum and I. She was brave and high-spirited. During her initial interrogation, she refused to betray any members of the group. She told her interrogator that Germany needed, ‘God, conscience and empathy'. Dad says that ‘empathy' is even better than sympathy because it means you feel the same feelings as other people.

Despite being terrified, both she and her brother dared to
speak out against the Nazi regime. Sophie's parting words to the judge were, ‘You will soon be standing where we are now.' She was as good as saying he would soon be on trial, himself.

My eyes are puffy from crying. Mum and Dad had to blow their noses and wipe their eyes while they watched, too. Even though Sophie knew she had been condemned to death, she thought she had ninety-nine days before this happened. Apparently, that was the general rule. And thinking you had a bit more time to live would give some hope that somehow the execution might be delayed or avoided. But straight after the trial, Sophie was told she was going to be immediately executed – and Hans and Christoph. And she didn't know what method of execution it would be 'til the last moment, but it was by guillotine. I thought that went out with the French Revolution? What would you think when you saw that huge great blade waiting to sever your head from your body? Your twenty-one-year-old head?

Some of Sophie's last words sound so bewildered and yet try hard to give meaning to her death. ‘How can we expect righteousness to prevail when there is hardly anyone willing to give himself up individually to a righteous cause? Such a fine, sunny day, and I have to go, but what does my death matter, if through us thousands are awakened and stirred to action?'

You know, I want it to have been worth it for Sophie, but what did she achieve? Did The White Rose or any of those resistance groups change history? As I watched the DVD, I kept thinking, ‘Keep a low profile, Sophie. Slow down. Keep out of trouble. Do it like me.' But she can't hear me and it's too late...

I just switched to Facebook a few minutes back. Hendrik was there wanting to know what I thought about the movie. I came straight out and told him, ‘Sophie died for nothing. I wish I'd never heard of her.'

‘Hey, come on, Raphaela. Had you thought that if you keep remembering someone, they are still alive?'

‘That's a pretty wishy-washy sort of “alive”.'

‘Tell to me, what does this “wishy-washy” mean?'

‘Weak,' I wrote back.

‘Well if your mother departs the house to do the shopping, is she dead? I mean, you cannot see or hear her, but she is still your mother.'

‘I sort of get you,' I wrote back. ‘On the other hand, I know she's coming back and I can give her a hug and she can answer my questions.'

‘My ethics professor here at Munich university has a copy of a wonderful letter on his office wall. I now have my own copy. It has great meaning for me. It was written by an Englishman, Henry Scott Holland. I will give you a quotation from it and maybe you will understand more what I mean:

‘That's incredibly beautiful,' I wrote back. ‘One of the most beautiful things I've ever read. I'm going to put it on my wall, too.'

‘So you see, Raphaela, now this Henry Holland has become part of your life. And if you talk to the class tomorrow about Sophie, you make her even more alive because she will live in more hearts.'

‘You sound so old and wise. Are you sure you aren't eighty years old? I can't believe you are twenty-one. I've been meaning to ask you, what are you studying? And where did you learn to think so deeply? I don't know any twenty-one year-olds who seem so mature.'

‘I study Medicine. Like Sophie Scholl's brother. And for your second question, my whole country learnt to think deeply. So there's another thing, Raphaela. After that terrible war, we knew we had to learn forever from this evil mess. All the Sophies and Hans, all the victims of the death camps, the innocent dead. It is painful, but we will not let ourselves forget.'

‘Okay, Doctor Hendrik, you've convinced me that Sophie lives on in you and me and whoever else knows and cares about her, but what did she achieve?'

‘Well, what about the fate of that sixth flyer? Did you think to yourself about that?'

‘Think what about the flyer – other than it got Sophie and the others into a lot of trouble?'

‘Someone smuggled it to Scandinavia and then to Great Britain. Later, allied aircraft flew over Germany and dropped millions of copies.'

‘What was on that flyer?'

‘I can only quote you one line, but it's good.
The day of reckoning has come for the most contemptible tyrant our people have ever endured.
'

‘This is just amazing. The White Rose got to have their say all over Germany!'

‘Jawohl.'

‘Hooray!'

‘Stay in touch, Raphaela. I like the things we talk about.'

‘Me, too.'

Tomrow is Presntashons. Im very sacrt but I now I hav to do it. I alays fale efen if I hav good iders. I hav known this feling so meny tims. The nite befor and nex morning you hav a rok on yor chest. You try not to car thet you ar goin to fale and mebe that felin is writn al ofa yor fac becos yor techers lok lik ther thinking ‘yer hopeless why botha'. Its wors with Mr kwale wen Mr Kwale sees me he smels blud like a bludhownd. And he has the powa.

The NOBULLSHITS Society is ready and prepared for tomorrow – and looking for more members than just me. Bring it on.

Have just been looking back through my journal for one last time. There's something totally weird. The thing I wrote in my last entry was about my Kenyan hero, Wangari Maathai, saying, ‘When all else fails you dig a hole, plant a tree and hope it survives.' The night I wrote that, I was blown away because of the mystery tree, Little Red. Then Phil, Mustafa, Imogen, Raphaela, Oliver and me started looking after it. Next came Little Red's poisoning and then Phil confesses that he's the tree hero. After that, we go all out with the Big Red campaign. The point is, the story has gone full circle. Just like Wangari said, things did fail and then we planted another tree and we're still hoping. Wangari's words have been a prophesy.

Just like my hero, the Antarctic explorer Shackleton, some of our class have been on a journey we just didn't expect. Phil, Raphaela, Mustafa, Ruth, me. And now Oliver Johnston, maybe.

Tomorrow will be interesting. I really mean that. I've become
sort of switched on by this project. I want to know about other people's heroes or villains.

I've got it in the bag. Quayle will give me an A grade. I have a PowerPoint presentation on my mate, Machiavelli. I've got dot points on cue cards. Canmore will have to be impressed.

The rest of my group is in good form. De Grekh has his talk on those two guys from Edinburgh who ‘procured' and sold dead bodies. Cheung says he's got his talk all stitched up. My bitch, Genelle, and I are – let's say – on very friendly terms. I haven't even asked her what she's doing for her presentation. Let's put it this way, I do not pursue the art of conversation with Genelle. We do other things. Genelle's idiot friends, Amber and Tiffany, will make fools of themselves when they stand up and give their talks. But they're useful to me, so I keep them loyal with a bit of flirting.

Today was Heroes and Villains speeches. Mrs Canmore was assessing them with Mr Quayle. They sat in the front of the class behind the teacher's desk, notebooks and pens in hand. We had put our names in a box and Mr Quayle put himself in charge of pulling out names.

Genelle's name was pulled out first. Her hero is Britney Spears. There was a general lifting of eyes to heaven. I couldn't believe it when Mr Quayle let Genelle get away with talking about a rock star as a hero. But all he said was, ‘You'll have to be strongly convincing, Genelle.' Well, if convincing is emotional, then Genelle would have got a reasonable mark. She clutched her notes to her chest and heaved like an opera singer about to sing a death song.

According to Genelle, Spears has been deeply misunderstood by the media and the public. ‘Persecuted' was the word she used. I can't be bothered with what Genelle would have called evidence. Thank goodness, the speech was pretty short.

I was ready for my name to come out of the hat next. It was time to tell the story of those brave young students from Munich, the members of The White Rose. I knew that when I got to the bit about Sophie being led to the guillotine, there'd be total shock in the room – just like I was feeling last night. I knew that lots of kids in that room would wonder if Sophie's sacrifice had been worth it. How was getting her head chopped off for distributing
leaflets going to wake up the ‘thousands' she hoped for? But this time, Hendrik's information had reminded me of something so important. I was bursting to share with the class the words from the White Rose's very last flyer and to inspire them: ‘The day of reckoning has come for the most contemptible tyrant our people have ever endured.'

I was going to finish my presentation by saying to the class, ‘Those six idealistic young German students had their voices heard all over Germany. And the message remains clear for all of us who struggle or will struggle against anything that is wrong. All tyrants will have their day of reckoning.' Then I'd look straight at Macca as I said this.

But life doesn't often turn out how you think it might. Macca's name got pulled out of the hat, not mine. Mr Quayle was smiling away. Macca is the golden boy. There was a PowerPoint display showing a portrait and three sculptures of Machiavelli, and the cover of his book,
The Prince,
and lists of all the famous people who have been inspired by this philosopher.

As I watch and listen, I begin to see how Macca has also been inspired by this cold, ruthless politician called Machiavelli. I think of the manipulation and strategies that are used by the power lovers in this school. Macca and his prime-time TV exposure; Mr MacKinnon and his sway in the school council and on Rotary; Mr Quayle and his ruthless little regime in the classroom. I understand the way so much pain in the world comes from people who think that the ‘end justifies the means' – getting what and where you want is more important than how you get there.

But I can also see for myself that it is the journey and the good friends you make on the journey that count – something the Maccas of this world will never understand. I remember the time Mrs Canmore told me about English and history being ‘soulmates'. She never did get to explain. But I can see now. People's stories make the past come alive – the bad and the good. I can picture myself talking to Machiavelli or Sophie Scholl.

Mid-thought, I heard Phil's name being called out. He's been keeping a distance between himself and us that I can't figure out, but I wasn't letting that stop me wishing him all the best luck in the world with his speech. He was going to need it. Although Mrs Canmore was smiling encouragingly, Mr Quayle was sneering as if he already had decided that Phil's speech was going to be a flop.

Phil looked as if he was in front of a firing squad as he stood in front of the class. His face was corpse pale. His dark hair flopped into his eyes, and it wasn't until he pushed it back that I saw the bandage on his right hand. He'd kept so out of the way since his return to school that I hadn't noticed his hand. I was glad he had proper palm-sized notes, but they shook as he held them. He cleared his throat and looked straight at Mr Quayle and Mrs Canmore.

‘Well if it isn't Mr Dugan who has decided to grace us with his presence,' sneered Mr Quayle with acid dripping from his tongue. You could see Phil getting more nervy.

‘What's your excuse this time for not being at school for the last few days? Granny sick again?'

‘Yes.'

‘Poor boy. Do I dare to ask if you have your speech prepared?'

‘Yes, sir. I've taken a bit of a different angle on heroes,' Phil began.

‘Not too different, I hope, Dugan. You can't afford to lose any marks,' boomed Mr Quayle. ‘Hero or villain, Dugan? Just get on with it.'

‘Hero, sir. Definitely a hero. I'm going to tell you about the life of the most heroic person I know. My nan.'

‘Stop right there, Dugan,' shouted Mr Quayle, his eyes bulging. ‘You are making a mockery of this term's work. If everyone in this class decided to do a talk on their great-aunt or their second cousin once-removed, we'd learn nothing about the true heroes of history. You can't give your talk. You've failed.'

‘But I can prove Nan's a hero, Sir.'

Mrs Canmore spoke then. ‘Mr Quayle, we've already muddied the water by allowing a talk on someone whom the history books have not recorded and will never have the slightest interest in – Britney Spears. Let Philip speak. We might be surprised.'

Mr Quayle turned on Mrs Canmore so suddenly that she shrank back. ‘Mrs Canmore, this integrated exercise between the English and History department has its limitations. With these speeches, I judge the content. You judge the manner.'

If the class had not been in front of them both, I know Mrs Canmore would have had her say, no doubt about it. But I felt for Mrs Canmore. It just wasn't okay for adults to have shouting matches in front of students. And if Mr Quayle was going to behave badly, I knew Mrs Canmore wasn't going to. Instead, she lowered her voice and said in a calm and reasonable way, ‘Mr Quayle, as you no doubt know, the word ‘integrate' derives from
the Latin word
integralis
meaning ‘whole' or ‘complete'. Without our making a mutually agreeable decision about Philip's talk, this joint project could hardly be considered ‘integrated'. In fact, we would have to declare at the next staff meeting that it wasn't Philip who'd failed, but our project that has failed.'

‘Hooray! Bravo!' I was thinking. I'm sure plenty of others were feeling the same. But Mr Quayle cut through my thoughts with a burst of childish temper. He reached across to the box, pulled out another name and said, ‘We'll sort that out later, I think. Ruth, your speech, please. Sit, Dugan!'

Phil said nothing. He looked shaky, but he stayed standing.

‘You heard me,' snapped Mr Quayle. ‘I've told you already. You've failed. Sit.'

‘No, sir,' said Phil quietly.

There was an eerie quietness in the room. I was sure there were lots of people, not just the Little Red group, who felt that Mr Quayle had gone too far and that Phil needed our support. But we were too afraid to speak out.

‘Suit yourself,' said Mr Quayle, shrugging.

Short of creating a scene or walking out, Mrs Canmore had to silently look on.

‘Okay, next victim,' joked Mr Quayle. ‘Up you get, Ruth.'

Ruth came out to the front. ‘In the name of the Kenyan Nobel Peace Prize winner, Wangari Maathai,' she said, ‘I am willing to suffer alongside the persecuted.' There was electricity in the air. You could feel something big about to happen. ‘I will not be giving my speech.' She walked across to Phil and stood right next to him.

Mr Quayle said, ‘Oh spare me these dramatics!', but then he shuffled papers with his head down. Although Mrs Canmore was trying to look neutral, you could see a brightness in her eyes.

‘Ah,' said Mr Quayle holding a slip of paper in his hand. ‘If it's not our bright young star, Raphaela! I can understand if Ruth is not interested in struggling to gain any marks for this term's assignment, going by her usual efforts and achievement. But I'm sure you, Raphaela, have higher academic ambitions.'

It had taken weeks to prepare for this speech. Despite my participation in the Little Red group, I was still the new girl and my life at Taunton High felt insecure. Philip and Ruth were used to having a hard time at school. They'd understand if I played it safe. I needed to step into the space Philip and Ruth had vacated. I deserved the A+ I knew I could get. And it would be worth it. The class had to hear about those brave German people, some of them almost as young as we are, who risked everything to stand against tyranny.

I stood up, walked to the front of the room, and looked around at my audience. Mostly, my eyes flowed over the faces, but some stood out. I saw Philip and Ruth standing slightly to my right, both trying to shrink themselves into nothingness. Genelle and Macca were sitting close, leaning up against each other, looking pleased with themselves. Sam just looked cold. And Charlie Cheung? There was a strange fury on his face. I didn't have time to scrutinise him more closely. I glanced across to Mr Quayle; he was tight-mouthed and impatiently tapping his pen on the desk.
Mrs Canmore looked in pain. Her face was screwed up and she had tears in her eyes. She was feeling Phil and Ruth's torment. She was battling inwardly, trying to know what to do that would make a stand for right against a terrible wrong. It was then I knew I had to help her. And Phil. And Ruth.

I didn't need to talk about Von Haeften or Sophie Scholl. I just needed to follow their example. During their trials, Von Haeften and Sophie would have been shaking with fear about what they were going to say in speaking out against the Nazi bullies. They would speak and then be put to death. My shaking and churning stomach was nothing compared to that, surely?

I took a deep breath and tried to say without a quaver in my voice, ‘As a show of support for Philip and Ruth, and in memory of the anti-Nazi resisters, Hans von Haeften, Sophie and Hans Scholl and all those who have stood against injustice all over the world, I will not be giving my speech.'

Mrs Canmore tried hard not to smile. Mr Quayle's face showed astonishment and then just as quickly it went an arctic cold.

‘Very well,' he said, ‘Sit down.'

‘No,' I said, trying not to let my voice shake. I stayed standing. ‘All tyrants will have their day of reckoning.' I loosely quoted that very last flyer of The White Rose. I tried to picture the millions of bits of white paper with their defiant message floating in the skies over Germany – truth and justice raining down. I felt like a goose, but if I sat I'd be obeying Mr Quayle. I felt more than a goose. That's really not an accurate comparison. I felt exposed. Like a naked image of me had been sent flying through cyberspace
for the entire world to see. I didn't know where to look, so I just focused on the wall behind Mrs Canmore.

‘As you wish,' said Mr Quayle with a sneer.
‘Day of reckoning,
you say? How quaintly put.' He bent his head over the box and pulled out another name. ‘Mustafa!'

Mustafa stood up, glanced at Phil, Ruth and me, and bowed low to the whole class. Addressing our two teachers, he said, ‘Your worships, my name is Lord Wog Gulecoglu. I am the founder of the NOBULLSHITS society, aka
No Bullying Shall be Allowed in this School.
'

Mustafa couldn't continue for the moment because the class roared, really roared with laughter. Kids were leaning sideways off their chairs. Mr Quayle's face and neck had flushed with red. His eyes were popping out of his head. He yelled over the top of the laughter, ‘Get on with it. And no foul language or you'll be down in the Principal's office, Mustafa. Who's your hero, for goodness sake?'

‘Ladies and gentlemen,' said Mustafa bowing a second time, ‘my hero is Lord Bloody Wog Rolo and...'

More laughter. More rolling round on chairs.

‘Sit, you attention-seeking exhibitionist!' Mr Quayle commanded.

‘Please do not deny me my right to honour my hero, Lord Bloody Wog Rolo...'

‘No swearing in class!'

‘It's his name, sir. Bloody Wog.'

‘I'll get you expelled, boy,' roared Mr Quayle, the tendons in his pit-bull neck bulging. ‘I
said,
no bad language!'

‘You can even take me to court if you want, sir. Bloody Wog was the legal name of my Australian hero.'

‘It's legitimate, Mr Quayle,' said Mrs Canmore with authority in her voice.

Mr Quayle was almost blowing bubbles like a fish hauled out of water. ‘Get on with it, then,' he muttered.

I've got to say, it was a relief to have this comedy show and to see Mr Quayle squirming like a trapped fart, but I was wondering if Mustafa was ever going to do the right thing and stand by us three.

‘As I was trying to say,' Mustafa calmly went on, ‘Lord Bloody Wog Rolo was an Argentinean immigrant who arrived in Australia in 1970. His parentage was Jewish-Catholic. He came to Australia because he thought it might be like Argentina, but more democratic. This country turned out to be not as just and fair as he'd expected, so he became an activist. His best known involvement was with BUGAUP...'

‘Language!' yelled Quayle. He thumped a fat fist on the desk next to him. ‘You're not going to mess me about for one more second. Sit down now!'

But Mustafa wouldn't sit. He then produced a pair of plastic handcuffs from his jacket pocket – the sort you buy from a toy shop. Holding the handcuffs in the air, he announced, ‘I came prepared for this – being denied my democratic rights. I was expecting your negative reaction to my hero. But the situation is more serious than I had anticipated. And metaphorically speaking – thank you, Mrs Canmore, for giving me one of your famous detentions for not knowing what a metaphor is – I'm ready to chain myself to the gates of the House of Parliament like Emily
Pankhurst and the suffragettes we learnt about last term. I hereby chain myself to my chair as a show of support for Phil Dugan.'