Chapter 46 — Teaching Companion

What it asks It asks the student to look at how the town felt about Mr. Fenchel before the war turned it. He had done hand tailoring in Salinas “For about twenty years,” and “he had an accent that made you laugh.” He passed the narrator’s house every day, and there had been a time when he spoke to everyone, “and everyone had answered.” Then: “Nobody had given his accent a thought until the war came along, but suddenly we knew. It was German.” The accent made people laugh, yet no one gave it a thought. The question picks up the chapter’s comic pages, where the narrator has just let the reader laugh at the Home Guard, the Minute Men’s buttons and the wrist-watches that “were just too silly.” It touches the hinge by asking whether something small was already there before the cruelty began.

One reading

A friendly laugh. For twenty years he was part of the street: a tailor in his shop, a man forever painting his own fence, a neighbor who spoke to everyone and was answered. The town laughed at his accent the way the narrator lets us laugh at the Home Guard, as at something of its own. The war put suspicion where there had been none.

• For about twenty years Mr. Fenchel had done hand tailoring in Salinas.
• He was forever painting his house and the white picket fence in front of it.

Another reading

A laugh that already marked him as different. People laugh at what is not quite theirs. “Nobody had given his accent a thought,” yet the war found the accent at once: “suddenly we knew.” What the town knew so suddenly had been in the laugh for twenty years; the war only gave it a name.

• He was short and round and he had an accent that made you laugh.
• Nobody had given his accent a thought until the war came along, but suddenly we knew.

Listen for

• Notices the pull between “made you laugh” and “Nobody had given his accent a thought.”
• Hears the “you” in “made you laugh”: the narrator puts the reader in the laugh too.
• Links this laugh to the comic pages before it: the Home Guard, the buttons, the wrist-watches.
• Says what changed in the laugh when the war came, not only that it changed.

If stuck

• How long had Mr. Fenchel worked in Salinas?
• What made people laugh about him?
• Can you laugh at someone and still count him as one of your own?

A strong answer A strong response names the kind of laugh and grounds it in the paragraph. One reader hears a friendly laugh: for twenty years Mr. Fenchel was part of the street, and the town laughed at him the way the narrator lets us laugh at the Home Guard. Another hears a laugh that already set him apart, so that the war only named a difference that was there: “suddenly we knew.” The best answers notice the pull between a laugh and “Nobody had given his accent a thought,” and the “you” that puts the reader in it.

What it asks It asks the student to notice how much the narrator tells about a man he says no one spoke to. Mr. Fenchel “sat all day on his table and he didn’t have anything to do, so he basted and ripped and sewed and ripped on the same piece of cloth over and over.” The paragraph before has him sitting “cross-legged on his table in the little shop on Alisal Street.” The next paragraph says, “I can see now in my mind his tubby loneliness and his face full of hurt pride.” Whether the town could watch his ruin, or the narrator builds the picture now, changes who carries it. The question feeds the hinge: it asks what the narrator knew then and what he knows now. The answer should not say what became of Mr. Fenchel; the chapter stops at the burned house.

One reading

He saw it, or anyone could have. The shop was on Alisal Street, and the tailor sat on his table there all day. The town knew his trade had died, because it was the town that stopped buying. Salinas did not need to imagine his ruin; it could watch it, and it kept on.

• All day he sat cross-legged on his table in the little shop on Alisal Street, and in the evening he walked home to his small white house far out on Central Avenue.
• And who wanted to wear a suit made by an enemy?

Another reading

He is picturing it now. A boy in his own front yard could not watch a tailor’s hands all day. The cloth sewn and ripped over and over is the grown man’s picture of an empty day, part of the same shame that still makes him sweat. He says twice that he can “see” Mr. Fenchel now. The detail is something he owes the man, not something he saw.

• Now no one spoke to him, and I can see now in my mind his tubby loneliness and his face full of hurt pride.
• I can see his face now, his startled innocent blue eyes.

Listen for

• Hears the rhythm of “basted and ripped and sewed and ripped”: work that undoes itself.
• Notices that the narrator says he can “see” Mr. Fenchel “now” twice.
• Says what difference it makes whether the town watched or the narrator imagines.
• Does not say what became of Mr. Fenchel.

If stuck

• Where did Mr. Fenchel sit all day?
• Why did he have nothing to do?
• What does the narrator say he can see now?

A strong answer A strong response says where the detail comes from and what follows from that. One reader says the town could see it: the shop was on Alisal Street, and Mr. Fenchel had no work because no one would wear “a suit made by an enemy.” Another says the narrator pictures it now, as he says twice that he can “see” the man. The best answers notice that either way the picture comes from someone who took part.

What it asks It asks the student to stay in the moment after the two words. Mr. Fenchel “tried to say something and then he began to cry. Didn’t even try to pretend he wasn’t. He just stood there sobbing.” Then: “And do you know?—Mary and I turned around and walked stiffly across the street and into our front yard.” “Stiffly” is the word the narrator used a moment before for how they stood to speak: “We stood stiffly side by side.” He stops to ask the reader “And do you know?” before he tells it, as if the turning away still surprises him. The question asks what held them back: the part they had come to play, or a shame that began the moment he cried. It feeds the hinge: the two of them saw what their words did, and the chapter shows the thirty men only at the fence and the house. The answer should not say what became of Mr. Fenchel; the chapter stops at the burned house.

One reading

They were still in the part. They crossed the street side by side, spoke in unison, and walked back the same way, “stiffly,” as if the act was not over until they reached the yard. To go to him would have meant saying in the street that the town was wrong, and the town had stopped speaking to him.

• We stood stiffly side by side and we said in unison, “Hoch der Kaiser!”
• We used every cruelty we could think of on Mr. Fenchel.

Another reading

Shame. They had planned the words, not the crying. A grown man who does not even try to hide his tears is more than two young people can face, and the shame that should have sent them to him sent them home. The narrator reports the feeling as soon as they reach the yard: “We felt horrible.”

• He tried to say something and then he began to cry.
• Didn’t even try to pretend he wasn’t.

Listen for

• Hears “stiffly” twice: how they stood to say the words, and how they walked away.
• Notices “And do you know?”: the narrator stops to ask the reader before he tells this part.
• Weighs what going to him would have cost them, and in front of whom.
• Keeps to the walk back; whether their act equals the thirty men’s comes last.

If stuck

• What did Mr. Fenchel do after they spoke?
• How did the two of them walk back to their yard?
• What would they have had to say if they had gone to him?

A strong answer A strong response names what held them and grounds it in the scene. One reader says the part they had come to play: they walked back as “stiffly” as they had stood, and going to him would have meant breaking with a town that used “every cruelty” it could think of. Another says shame: a man who “Didn’t even try to pretend” was more than they could face, and the feeling that should have sent them to him sent them home. The best answers notice “And do you know?” and ask why the narrator stops the reader there.

What it asks It asks the student to hear whose voice one sentence speaks in. The narrator reports the thirty men’s night plainly: they “collected in a bar and marched in a column of fours out Central Avenue,” tore down the fence and “burned the front out of his house.” Then the voice changes: “No Kaiser-loving son of a bitch was going to get away with it with us. And then Salinas could hold up its head with San Jose.” Neither sentence has quote marks. The chapter never says what “it” is. The question feeds the hinge: if the narrator is in the “us,” he stands with the thirty men as well as beside them.

One reading

The men from the bar, and the narrator is mocking them. He borrows their talk to show how hollow it is: there is no “it,” and the real point is the next sentence, a town keeping up with San Jose. The flat report of the march, “Hup! Hup!” and all, makes the men look foolish as well as cruel.

• One Saturday night they collected in a bar and marched in a column of fours out Central Avenue, saying, “Hup! Hup!” in unison.
• And then Salinas could hold up its head with San Jose.

Another reading

The whole town, the narrator included. The chapter’s “we” has been the town all along, and Mr. Fenchel was its German. The narrator can still speak in that voice without quote marks because it was once his. He and Mary said their own words about the Kaiser in the gutter.

• We had our own personal German.
• He was our German.

Listen for

• Notices that the sentence has no quote marks, so the narrator’s voice and the mob’s run together.
• Asks what “it” Mr. Fenchel was getting away with.
• Hears “Kaiser” again, after “Hoch der Kaiser!” in the gutter.
• Follows “our German” and “our own personal German” earlier in the chapter.

If stuck

• Where did the thirty men meet before they marched?
• What did they do to Mr. Fenchel’s house?
• What did the narrator and his sister say to Mr. Fenchel?

A strong answer A strong response names the “us” and grounds it in the paragraph and in the chapter’s “we.” One reader hears the bar: the narrator borrows the men’s words to mock them, since there is no “it” and the real prize is keeping up with San Jose. Another hears the town, the narrator included: Mr. Fenchel was “our German,” and he and Mary said their own words about the Kaiser. The best answers notice that the sentence has no quote marks.

What it asks It asks the student to set Mr. Fenchel’s first paragraph beside the chapter’s last. Early on: “It didn’t do him any good to bankrupt himself buying war bonds. That was too easy a way to cover up.” At the end, a man “whose life function is the making of money” makes money out of the war: “No one blamed a man for that, but it was expected that he should invest a part of his loot in war bonds.” The same act clears one man and condemns another. The question feeds the hinge by asking how the town judged, before the last question asks how to judge what was done.

One reading

The difference is who you are. The man who profits belongs, and Mr. Fenchel has an accent. The bonds were never the test, and nothing he bought could have passed it. Watsonville shows the same rule in one line: its victim was a Pole, and he had an accent.

• And who wanted to wear a suit made by an enemy?
• He had an accent.

Another reading

The difference is fear against ease. Suspicion turns every proof into more proof, so giving everything becomes “too easy a way to cover up.” Greed frightens no one; it is “natural,” so a share in bonds is enough. The narrator’s word “loot” shows he sees the double standard plainly.

• That was too easy a way to cover up.
• That is only natural, just as it is natural for a man whose life function is the making of money to make money out of a war.

Listen for

• Connects the two passages, which sit far apart in the chapter.
• Notices the narrator’s word “loot.”
• Notices “bankrupt himself”: Mr. Fenchel gave more, not less.
• Notices that the profiteer is called “natural” in the same breath as grief turned to pride.

If stuck

• What did Mr. Fenchel do with his money when the war came?
• What did the town say about it?
• What was expected of a man who made money out of the war?

A strong answer A strong response explains the double standard from both passages. One reader says it is about who you are: the profiteer belongs and Mr. Fenchel has an accent, so his bonds could never count, just as Watsonville’s victim “had an accent.” Another says suspicion turns any proof of loyalty into proof of guilt, while greed is “natural” and needs only a share. The best answers notice the word “loot” and that Mr. Fenchel gave until he was bankrupt.

What it asks It asks the student to test one word against the chapter. After Watsonville the narrator sums up: “We of Salinas did all of the things that are inevitably done in a war, and we thought the inevitable thoughts.” The list is rumors, panic, secrets and hoarding: “Nice quiet ladies clawed one another over a can of tomatoes.” Before it, San Jose had a spy scare that Salinas would not be “left behind” in, and “Of course that made Watsonville get busy.” But the next paragraph says, “It wasn’t all bad or cheap or hysterical. There was heroism too.” Some men “who could have avoided the army enlisted,” and others “objected to the war on moral or religious grounds and took the walk up Golgotha.” If some could choose, how much was inevitable? The student should not claim the narrator condemns all of the town’s war effort; he grants the heroism plainly.

One reading

It holds. The chapter shows a pattern that no one town controls: San Jose, then Salinas, then “Of course” Watsonville. The narrator tells his own part as something that happened through him; he cannot remember planning it, as if it planned itself. The last line says Salinas only thought it had invented any of it, even the sorrow.

• Of course that made Watsonville get busy.
• We thought we invented all of it in Salinas, even the sorrow.

Another reading

It does not. The objectors chose, and paid; the walk up Golgotha is the walk of someone who could have gone along. The men who could have avoided the army chose too. And the narrator’s shame only makes sense if he could have done otherwise; no one sweats for years over the weather. The word “inevitably” names what usually happens, not what must.

• Some men who could have avoided the army enlisted, and others objected to the war on moral or religious grounds and took the walk up Golgotha which normally comes with that.
• We felt horrible. I still do when I think of it.

Listen for

• States a thesis on whether “inevitably” holds, and tests it on more than one part of the chapter.
• Uses the objectors and “the walk up Golgotha,” and says what that walk costs.
• Notices the chain of towns: San Jose, Salinas, “Of course” Watsonville.
• Meets the strongest objection, the chain of towns or the objectors’ choice, whichever the thesis did not start from, and revises.

If stuck

• What does the narrator say Salinas did “inevitably”?
• Who in the chapter refused to go along with the war?
• What does “Of course” say about Watsonville?

A strong answer A strong response states a thesis on the word, meets the strongest objection, and revises. One thesis says it holds: the cruelty passes from San Jose to Salinas to Watsonville “Of course,” and the last line says Salinas only thought it had invented any of it. The strongest objection is the people who chose, the objectors and the men who “could have avoided the army,” and the narrator’s own shame, which needs a choice to make sense. A good revision might say the word describes what usually happens in a war, and the heroism paragraph shows it is not what had to happen. The best answers do not claim the narrator condemns all of the war effort.

What it asks It asks the student to turn the narrator’s honesty about grief back on the narrator. He grants “a great and almost sweet dignity in the sorrow” that comes “with the telegram,” and then says some people, “when their sorrow was beginning to lose its savor, gently edged it toward pride and felt increasingly important because of their loss.” He calls this “only natural.” Earlier he has told his own worst memory, “one of those memories of shame that still makes me break into a sweat,” and said, “We felt horrible. I still do when I think of it.” A shame told well may make its teller look good. The closing passage on sorrow is not off the subject: it carries the same honesty about what people do with a feeling.

One reading

It could, and the chapter gives the means. The confession makes the narrator the one honest voice in a cruel town: the others march and burn, he sweats and tells. He tells his shame as something his body still does, the sweat and the tight throat. Telling it this well is a kind of importance.

• My little sister and I did our part with Mr. Fenchel, and it is one of those memories of shame that still makes me break into a sweat and tighten up around the throat.
• And it is true that there were some people who, when their sorrow was beginning to lose its savor, gently edged it toward pride and felt increasingly important because of their loss.

Another reading

It does not. His shame has not lost its savor: he says “I still do.” He gives himself no excuse, says “we must have” planned it, and lets Mr. Fenchel’s tears stand without comment. The man who can name what grief turns into is watching for it in himself.

• We felt horrible. I still do when I think of it.
• He just stood there sobbing.

Listen for

• States a thesis and grounds it in both the sorrow passage and the scene in the gutter.
• Notices “lose its savor”: the edging toward pride begins when the feeling fades.
• Notices that he calls the edging toward pride “only natural,” and asks whether he leaves himself out of that.
• Meets the strongest objection and revises, and keeps the sorrow passage in the argument.

If stuck

• What does the narrator say some families did as their sorrow faded?
• What happens to the narrator’s body when he remembers that evening?
• Why might a person tell the worst thing he ever did?

A strong answer A strong response takes a side on whether the confession becomes a kind of pride, meets the strongest objection, and revises. One thesis says it could: the narrator becomes the one honest voice in a cruel town, and he tells his shame vividly, in the sweat and the tight throat. The strongest objection is “I still do”: his shame has not lost its savor, and he excuses nothing. A good revision might say the narrator guards against that pride by naming it in others first. The best answers keep the sorrow passage in the argument.

What it asks It asks the chapter’s own question. The narrator sets his act beside the mob’s in two sentences: “We were too young to do a good job on Mr. Fenchel. That took strong men—about thirty of them.” The two acts are built alike. He and Mary “moved slowly across the street side by side,” stood “stiffly side by side,” and spoke “in unison.” The men “marched in a column of fours,” saying “Hup! Hup!” “in unison.” One act was two words and left Mr. Fenchel sobbing where he stood; the other tore down the fence he was “forever painting” and burned the front out of his house. The two of them “felt horrible”; the chapter gives the men only a town that “could hold up its head with San Jose.” The answer should not say what became of Mr. Fenchel; the chapter stops at the burned house.

One reading

Smaller. Words are not fire. The two of them made a man cry; the men took the front of his home. And the two of them felt it at once, and the narrator still does, while the chapter gives the men only a bar and a boast. The narrator’s own “too young to do a good job” measures the difference.

• They tore down Mr. Fenchel’s white picket fence and burned the front out of his house.
• We felt horrible. I still do when I think of it.

Another reading

The same thing. Both were planned, both done side by side and in unison, both aimed at one man for his accent. Mr. Fenchel smiled and greeted the two of them by name; they were people he still trusted, so the words may have reached deeper than the fire. His “too young to do a good job” is less a measure than an accusation: the men finished what the town, the two of them included, began.

• He broke into a smile and said, “Gut efning, Chon. Gut efning, Mary.”
• We stood stiffly side by side and we said in unison, “Hoch der Kaiser!”

Listen for

• States a thesis on smaller or the same, and builds it from both scenes.
• Sets “in unison” in the gutter beside “in unison” on Central Avenue.
• Weighs Mr. Fenchel’s greeting by name: what the two of them broke that the men could not.
• Meets the strongest objection, the fire or the matching acts, whichever the thesis did not start from, and says nothing of what became of Mr. Fenchel.

If stuck

• What did Mr. Fenchel say to the two of them, and what did they answer?
• What did the thirty men do to his house?
• How did the narrator and Mary feel afterward?

A strong answer A strong response judges the two acts, meets the strongest objection, and revises. One thesis says smaller: two words are not a fire, and the two of them “felt horrible” while the men left only a boast that Salinas could hold up its head with San Jose. The strongest objection is that the acts are built alike, side by side and “in unison,” and that the words reached a man who still greeted them by name. A good revision might say the harm differs in size but the act comes from the same town and the same will. The best answers keep both the shame and the fire in view.