It was my first day at college. I had spent three years in the army, two of them in Viet Nam. I missed my friends, especially the ones I could never see again. But I knew I had to get on with my life.

I looked forward to Modern European history. History had always fascinated me, the understanding of how the present was rooted in the past. The teacher, a holocaust survivor, would add a personal perspective. I had always disliked teachers who portrayed history as a series of past events acted out by dead people. As I entered the class, the professor, a neatly dressed man of about 60 greeted me, With his white goatee, three piece suit, and bald head, he reminded me of Lenin.

“Goot morning,” he said in German accented English. “Und you are. ..?”

“Vincent Tortorola.”

“Herr Tortorola.” He smiled. “Please haff a seat.”

“Thank you, Doctor Rosenblum. I’ve been looking forward to your class.”

“I hope I shall not diss-appoint you.”

The lecture hall, which sloped upward from the small stage toward the rear, had over 200 seats, but only about thirty students, all white. What a change from the group I had lived with for three years.

At precisely nine o’clock, Doctor Rosenblum began. After a few welcoming remarks, he launched into his lecture.

“Today, we’re going to discuss the events which led to the Nazi’s rise to power in Germany.”

He paused and looked over the class. There was a rustling of activity as many students, myself included, took out pads of paper on which to take notes.

“The treaty of Versailles,” he continued, “was imposed on Germany only under threat of a permanent occupation. It imposed severe political and military limitations, which led directly to massive unemployment und monumental inflation. When the German workers who were fortunate enough to haff jobs got paid, they spent their money immediately, because by nightfall, their money wass worth half what it wass when they received it. The Weimar government wass in a state of collapse.” He had pronounced the word Vie-marr, contemptuously.

Again, he paused. Several students nodded, aparently understanding the problems created by lack of jobs and inflation. I was fortunate in one sense. The G. I. Bill paid for my tuition and books and gave me some spending money.

“As you can see,” Rosemblum went on, “any group that promised a better life through political reform, no matter how radical, would be welcomed in such a circumstance. Consequently, the National Socialist German Workers’ Party, Nazis to you und me, rose from 12 seats in parliament in 1928 to 107 seats in 1930. Hitler wass appointed chancellor in 1933 und parliament passed the Enabling Act which gave him all the powers of a dictator.”

I looked up. Students were busy taking notes or whispering. He ignored them. The class was becoming boring. This was going to be another dry history lecture. I slumped in my seat.

“I suppose you think that I, as a holocaust survivor, would be bitter at my treatment. But I’m not. No, I was too young then, but now I have nothing but the greatest respect und admiration for the Nazis. You see, they tried to do something unique in the modern world. They tried to purge their society, to get rid of the unwanted dregs, those who burden a culture und corrupt it. Those who weigh it down und defile it.”

At this point I sat upright, my eyes wide open. This was not what I had expected.

“The Nazis were correct in wanting to purify their country. After all, look at the problems in this country, all caused by those who drag the rest of us down. The destitute, the criminals, the mentally retarded, the crippled, the insane. Und who pays in the long run? You und I, ladies und gentlemen.”

He smiled and looked around again. I raised my hand.

“Herr Tortorola, you haff a question?”

“Yes,” I responded. “What happened to your parents?”

“They were taken away. My father was a peddler with a hand cart und my mother cleaned houses. They were no better than Gypsies. But your ancestors agreed with the Nazis, yes?”

“My ancestors definitely did not.” I responded, angrily, remembering that my grandfather had almost died on Guadalcanal.

“Nevertheless,” he said, continuing to look at me, “the only way for a society to grow is to rid itself of those who drain it, who keep it down in the mud when it reaches for the stars.”

I looked around the room, thinking that someone would speak out, that someone would join me in opposing his statements. But they all looked down at their notebooks. Some of them even seemed to be writing what he had said. I had spent a year trusting my life to Blacks,Catholics, Jews, Protestants, Germans, Italians, and Hispanics. I considered myself a Christian. As looked at the silent students, I remembered what one of our chaplains had said: “For evil to triumph, it is necessary for good people to do nothing.”

“You’re out of your mind,” I shouted. “I can’t believe the university would allow this hatred. This is the United States. We have freedom here, and thank God, we don’t have to listen to this crap.”

I got up from my seat and left the classroom in disgust, slamming the door as I left. I was breathing hard, and I stopped a moment in the hall to catch my breath. The classroom door opened. I hoped to see other students joining me in my protest, but it was Doctor Rosenblum who approached me.

“Just a moment, Mr. Tortorola,” he said in a soft tone. “I understand your anger, and you are correct.”

I looked at him, my lip curled in disgust. “What do you mean?”

“Mr. Tortorola, you and I, we can never be Nazis. The rest of them,” he paused, pointing to the room we had just left, “they already are!”

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