The Alternate Lives of Dictators

The Alternate Lives of Dictators





“Mr. Mussolini, how long are we going to talk about Italy?”  It was the first week of March.  I felt as if I had to be the brave one in the class finally to ask this question. 

         “Until I feel that we’ve done enough justice to this wonderful, wonderful nation,” he answered bluntly.

         “But we started it back in October, and even before that, we only talked about prehistoric Italy.  I just don’t understand the jump from dinosaurs to the Roman Empire.”

         “It had the greatest empire and the greatest dinosaurs, Sammy.  You know, many dinosaurs’ names are Latin in origin.”

         “Right, I remember the test on them back in September,” I reminded him.  He always tried to fit a worthless piece of Italian trivia into every conversation.  “But this is a world history course.  I just don’t see how we’re going to cover any other part of the world in enough detail at the rate we’re going.  Besides, isn’t it common knowledge that civilization as we know it started in Sumeria?  That’s what we learned in middle school, anyway.”  I realized that I was sounding long-winded, but I thought that this was the fulmination of months of needlessly memorizing the Italian national anthem for our final oral presentation.

         “Some can argue that.  But is it really civilization as we know it?  If you ask me, the Renaissance is where our cultural world began, and the days of the empire are the foundation of our political thought.”

         “But I think that a high school junior ought to be aware that – “

         “Sammy, I don’t think I appreciate your speaking out in class like this.  I don’t need you to try to undermine my teaching methods.    Don’t forget what I remind you students of, every Monday in our first period class at 8:08 am:  I am right, and you are probably wrong.”

         He then continued the lesson on Machiavelli as if I had said nothing.  This was probably a good idea:  we only had the rest of the week to finish The Prince in its entirety.  My friend in the seat across from me suddenly jabbed me with his elbow.  “That was a stupid idea,” he whispered to me.

         “What?” I whispered back, puzzled.

         “Talking back to him like that - you know, ‘undermining his methods.’”

         “Oh, come on, Larry. Something had to be said.  This is ridiculous.  We’re going on spring break next week, and I still don’t know who won the French Revolution or what the heck a Spanish ‘Armada’ is.”

         “I think it’s a hat.”

         “It doesn’t matter.  This guy is so bent on Italian national pride that it’s forcing us to sacrifice our education.  I wanted to be a history major in college.  I actually found it interesting.  I’m gonna feel dumb now, compared with all those other kids who have taken courses that actually taught history – y’know, on a global level.”

“Well, I just don’t think it’s a good idea to stand up to him.  You know how strict this guy is.  He’s got a reputation.  Everything has to be in order.  Everything has to be his way.  You’re gonna get yourself in some trouble if you keep it up.”

         “Gentlemen in the back!”  Mussolini heard us.  “Is your conversation more important than my lecture on how Petrarch was the only reason Shakespeare even had a job?”

         “No, sir.”

         “I won’t expect this rudeness any more then, will I?”

         “No, sir.”

         “All right. Let’s continue.  Take your pencils out.  I want all of you to copy this sonnet.”  The entire class groaned.  “Oh, come on, people.  Shakespeare did it; you can, too.”  Luckily for us, the bell rang as soon as he finished this sentence, another one of his cheap shots at a different country’s triumphs.  “Don’t forget,” he said as we filed out of the room: “anyone with a green, red, or white shirt on for tomorrow’s test will receive a five-point bonus.” 

         “Look at that,” I said to Larry, pointing to my watch as we walked through the halls.  “The bell rang at 8:48.  Not a second earlier; not a second later.”

         “It’s amazing how Mr. Mussolini can set the bell schedule.  It’s a good thing they put him in charge of that. I wouldn’t want to stay any longer in his class.  Boy, if only the trains downtown were on time like that, huh?”

“Yeah, that’d be great.  But then I wouldn’t have an excuse to be late for school.”  We laughed.  We were in a good mood.  Art class was next, and it was a nice break from “world history.”

         We took our seats in art class, way in the back again, where we were assigned.  It was a considerably large class.  I guess that’s why Mr. Hitler put us in such straight and orderly rows.  Come to think of it, I don’t remember ever seeing a chair or desk out of place.  I was lucky to sit next to Larry.  He was a great artist.  It took me a while, though, to realize that you can’t really cheat off of the closest person in art class.  It’s not like sitting next to the math whiz in algebra class.  I didn’t mind, though.  Mr. Hitler always said that the idea behind the work was more important than the talent of drawing or painting.  I just stole Larry’s ideas.  Mr. Hitler didn’t seem to care.  I guess he liked everything to be the same. 

         “All right! Let’s begin!!”  Mr. Hitler always stood behind the podium, and he always raised his voice to speak.  Students walking past the classroom must have thought that he was constantly angry at us, but that’s just how he spoke.  In fact, he was an excellent speaker.  He really seemed at home in front of the class, lecturing us and giving us the morale we needed to start out next project.  “All of your projects last week were great!  You all have talent! I want to see more of this in the future!  Your projects this week can be even better if you all believe that you can do it!”  It was a very staccato and loud way of addressing the class, but he conveyed his point well.

         “Mr. Hitler, what will our projects be for this week?” one impatient student asked in the front row.

         “You will all draw a portrait of someone.  Anyone.  What I will be looking for is how well you convey your subject’s character in his or her facial expressions and demeanor.  Don’t forget that lighting and shading add a vital flair to any work of art.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” the inquisitive student said, confused.

         “Here,” the teacher said.  “I’ll show you an example.”  He pulled out his own portrait of Otto Von Bismark.  It was excellent.  He sure did look mean and stern.  I even thought I could see my reflection in the image’s realistically bald head.  The class “ooohh”-ed and “ahhhh”-ed politely.  “Now you don’t have to do a famous historical figure.  This was just an example.  You can draw anyone you like.”  I thought this was fortunate for me.  I was only familiar with a very limited number of historical figures anyway; and there weren’t enough pictures of Dante Alighieri to be my guide. “Here are your colored pencils and crayons,” the teacher said as he finally left us to our own creative devices.

         “Excuse me, sir?”  I asked.

         “What is it, Sammy?” he responded looking annoyed at my disrupting the order of the classroom.

         “These colored pencils and crayons only come in blue, yellow, and orange.”

         “Well, there aren’t any others, Sammy.  Work with what you have, and draw your portrait.”

         I didn’t understand the meaning of this at all.  No one else seemed to see the insanely illogical premise of using only three colors.  I decided not to ask any more questions, but remained confused.  Larry hit me in the shoulder again.

         “What’s your problem today, man?” he whispered sharply at me.

         “Three colors, Larry?  Three colors?”

         “Well, you can’t talk back to this guy, Sammy.  He’ll give you detention for sure.  You can’t question his style.  He’s an artist.  You know how they are.”

         Larry was right.  You couldn’t tell Mr. Hitler what was right and wrong. He lived in his own little artsy world.  Heck, he had even been in jail before.  I wouldn’t want to mess with him.  That was always interesting to me: an artist who has done time and still carries on with a steady job.  What a rebel.

         As we worked quietly on our projects for the rest of the period, I thought I should savor this drawing time.  It was a much needed cathartic preparation for our next class, religion.  I always dreaded this schedule of these three classes in a row, and religion was the worst, despite what anyone else said.  I thought about this in the halls as we walked all the way to the east end of the school.

         “I wonder what kind of writing assignment Fr. Stalin has for us this week,” Larry said as we walked into the classroom. 

         “I don’t know, but I’m really not looking forward to this class at all.”

         “Oh, come on,” he said.  “This isn’t nearly so bad as stupid art class.”

         “Yeah, that’s what everyone else says.  Don’t you see, though?  Fr. Stalin gives us so much more work.  And I don’t care what you or anyone else says.  He’s the strictest of the teachers.  He means what he says.  In fact, I think he’s a little too paranoid.  Remember that time he thought that Liz Smith was plotting to skip his class when she was really just talking to her friend about how she had to miss her dance recital for a doctor’s appointment?  He suspended her for two weeks on the grounds that she was conspiring against his class.  No one even knew she was in trouble until we started to wonder why she had been missing for six straight school days.  She’s a perfect angel; she would never do something like that.”

“Maybe she was just over-due then.”  Larry’s logic astounded me sometimes.

         “Larry, you just don’t understand.  This guy isn’t the -”

Fr. Stalin walked in before I could finish my sentence.  I cut myself off immediately, fearing the security of my healthy disciplinary standing.  As only a good religion student could do, I prayed that he hadn’t heard me.

“Okay.”  Stalin began the class.  “Sammy, in fairness, I believe it’s your turn.  Why don’t you go get the class book from the closet and hand a pencil to each student?  We wouldn’t want anyone without a pencil.  Oh, could you get the class notebook, too?  Larry, I think it’s your turn to begin to take notes on today’s lecture for the class.”

“Yes, sir,” I answered and retrieved the necessary materials.

“Thank you, Sammy,” the priest said politely upon my return.  “Liz, it’s your turn to read first from the book.  Read the first paragraph to us, and then pass it around.  Don’t forget your notes, Larry.  Make sure they’re clear enough for the whole class to understand.”

This process of passing around the book took far too much time out of class.  I didn’t understand this system.  Was this guy super-conservative?  Sure, this sharing system sounded like a great idea, a theory that’s worked since the kindergarten days.  When you actually took part in it, though, it seemed foolish.

“Fr. Stalin!” one student interrupted during the reading.

“Yes, Susan?”

“Bobby just stole my pencil!”

The teacher looked very annoyed.  The class knew something was about to happen. His eyes narrowed as he stared at her for a minute. “Susan, did you just say ‘my pencil’? First of all, Susan, these are the classroom’s pencils.  Not one belongs just to you.”  Susan looked worried, probably wishing she hadn’t said anything.  “Now, Bobby, as these are the class’s pencils, you haven’t just stolen from Susan; you’ve stolen from 24 other people.  See me after class.”  Bobby turned white.  The class was silent.  No one knew what was in store for Bobby.

“This whole system is completely messed up, Larry.”  I leaned over to speak to him quietly.

“Shhh,” was all he could say.

“Seriously.  We’re all afraid of this class now.  We’re too scared to work or do anything, because we’re questioning every move we make.  Why don’t you people see that this guy’s insane?  We probably won’t even see Bobby for weeks now.”

“Sammy!”  I heard the teacher’s voice come from all around me.  I felt myself quiver and sink into my (our) chair.  “You can leave now and wait for me in the office.  I think we have some things to talk about.”

“Yes, sir.” I shamefully left the classroom and slowly walked myself to the office.  I knew that anything I could say or any excuse I could fabricate would not save me now.  It was amazing how someone who studied so much about God would condemn so many people.  I think he was confused as to who was the real judge.