Atticus would snap off the radio and say, “Hmp!” I asked him once why he was impatient with Hitler
and Atticus said, “Because he’s a maniac.” This would not do, I mused, as the class proceeded with its sums.
One maniac and millions of German folks. Looked to me like they’d shut Hitler in a pen instead of letting him shut them up.
There was something else wrong—I would ask my father about it.
I did, and he said he could not possibly answer my question because he didn’t know the answer.
“But it’s okay to hate Hitler?” “It is not,” he said. “It’s not okay to hate anybody.”
“Atticus,” I said, “there’s somethin’ I don’t understand. Miss Gates said it was awful, Hitler doin’ like he does,
she got real red in the face about it—“I should think she would.” “But—” “Yes?” “Nothing, sir.”
I went away, not sure that I could explain to Atticus what was on my mind, not sure that I could clarify what was only a feeling.
Perhaps Jem could provide the answer. Jem understood school things better than Atticus.
Jem was worn out from a day’s water-carrying. There were at least twelve banana peels on the floor by his bed,
surrounding an empty milk bottle. “Whatcha stuffin’ for?” I asked.
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