13 to Life Read Online Free PDF Page B

his hands together.
    “Today, students,” he began, “we will be examining a mystery of World War II. Wait! Before the groans start, let’s remember that World War II defined the roles many countries still play today. Although it was a relatively recent war—I know, I know, it was forever and a day ago, to you
whippersnappers.
” He stooped, squinted, and teasingly wheezed out the term before continuing with a wink, “There are portions of it that we historians still eagerly research. History is not dead!” He glanced at the room full of students and said, “Now that I’ve delivered our public service announcement, you may all groan.”
    Everyone but Pietr and I did. Pietr watched Mr. Miles and then glanced at me to judge my reaction. I loved history class and would never say otherwise. Mr. Miles was so sarcastic and quirky I felt I understood him best of all my teachers. He examined things from all angles—even the improbable ones. Like a good reporter should. I flipped open my notebook and prepared to take a lengthy amount of notes.
    Mr. Miles turned to the board and scrawled
Porrajmos.
“This is the word that is equated with the genocide of Gypsies during World War II. It translates to “the Devouring.” We’ve spent quite a bit of time on the war, the Holocaust, and its victims, but today I think we should deal with one of the oddities. . . .”
    He wrote:
Fearing the Forest.
“Man has always tried to tame the wilderness. We timber ancient forests, we strip-mine. . . . We have an instinctual fear of wild places and wild beasts, so we have historically tamed them so we feel more in control. This primitive fear impacts how we live and how we react in strange situations.”
    Pietr’s foot began to tap softly. He glanced at Mr. Miles, then at the clock, then at his notes. Then the clock, his notes, and Mr. Miles.
    Mr. Miles told us how, as Hitler sent extermination squads out after the remaining Gypsies and Jews, his troops balked at the idea of entering one forest. It was reportedly haunted, and the SS was superstitious. But Hitler didn’t grasp the meaning of
no
and made them go in.
    Pietr continued to fidget. He may have had a gift for attracting girls, but he also had the ability to make someone nervous. His leg began to shake, and then he began to drum the fingers of one hand on the desk softly as he wrote with the other.
    “Pietr,” I warned.
    He stopped and focused on taking notes. For six solid minutes.
    Mr. Miles explained that only two soldiers survived, and one didn’t last long. The accounts they gave were so garbled they landed the sole survivor in an asylum.
    Pietr was tapping again. Maybe
he
needed some time in an asylum. But an asylum might be quieter, calmer than here. I sighed, thinking about a quiet padded room with no drama. . . . Maybe
I
needed to be committed.
    I set down my pencil, flexed my hand, and refocused. Mysteries and oddities of history made great fodder for stories later. I didn’t intend to be a school journalist forever. And someone in an asylum was a person journalists wrote
about
—not a personwho did the
writing.
I probably shouldn’t view an asylum as a comfy vacation spot. Counselor Maloy might just be willing to provide me with a ticket to one.
    “What do you think wiped out so many soldiers in that forest? Why did the last man go insane?” Mr. Miles tapped the board. “Let’s brainstorm. Call out ideas—nothing’s stupid and nothing’s wrong in a brainstorming session,” he reminded us.
    Mr. Miles wrote
ambush, Special Forces, armed Gypsies,
and
traps
as fast as students said them. Then, as we loosened up and remembered Halloween wasn’t too far away,
ghosts, vampires,
and
werewolf
made the list. Mr. Miles paused. A few girls were giggling, a thin echo of the boys chuckling in the back.
    Mr. Miles said, “You may find it interesting that the one soldier who was questioned claimed things flew out of the trees and reported giant wolves swarmed out