Monday Morning, January 20, 2025 - Inauguration day

David's been awake since before dawn. Elena's in the guest room again.

Since early January she's been going back and forth—their bed some nights, the guest room others. He never knows which. Some nights she curls against his side and the relief embarrasses him. Other nights she kisses his cheek, says she needs space, and he lies there missing everything.

He thinks it's his fault. The careful neutrality she sees as cowardice.

He gets up, moves through the dark house. Light under the guest room door. Murmur of voices from her iPad. Inauguration coverage.

He doesn't knock. Goes to the kitchen, starts the coffee maker.

When Elena emerges, she looks like she hasn't slept. Dark circles, hair loose, wearing the old Berkeley Law t-shirt from when they met.

"You're watching."

"Can't help it. Coverage started early."

She pours coffee, stands at the counter instead of sitting.

"I need to get ready. Emergency clinic starts at eight."

"On inauguration day?"

"Especially on inauguration day." Long sip. "David, you could—"

"I have to finish the syllabus."

The silence that follows has the weight of two years of similar conversations.

Elena sets down her mug. "Your grandmother—"

"Don't."

"She would have wanted you to do something."

David closes his eyes. Miriam Brenner, who survived Auschwitz, who told him never again means never again.

"I'm teaching. That's something."

Elena moves past him. The shower starts running. When she emerges, she's transformed—professional clothes, the armor she wears to immigration court.

"The clinic goes until six. I'll be home late."

"Okay."

She pauses at the door, briefcase in hand. "What's the line for you, David? What would it take?"

The question hangs after she leaves. David listens to her car backing out, disappearing. Then silence.

The television murmurs while David spreads his work across the dining table. The morning shows have shifted to inauguration coverage. He can't help glancing up.

The speech—David takes notes out of habit. America First, attacks on elites, promises of swift action. Watching it in real time is different.

Then the executive orders start.

His phone buzzes. Washington Post: "Breaking: President begins signing executive orders immediately after inauguration."

Breaking News: Trump signs order declaring border 'invasion,' authorizing military presence at border.
Breaking News: Executive Order 14160 targets birthright citizenship—legal challenges expected.
Breaking News: Schedule F reinstated via Executive Order 14171—thousands lose civil service protections.

Breaking News: Trump signs order declaring border 'invasion,' authorizing military presence at border.

Breaking News: Executive Order 14160 targets birthright citizenship—legal challenges expected.

Breaking News: Schedule F reinstated via Executive Order 14171—thousands lose civil service protections.

He opens his laptop, navigates to the White House website. The orders are already posted. EO 14159, EO 14165, EO 14171. The language is precise, bureaucratic, devastating.

He pulls up his lecture notes from last semester's final class. His own words: "Hitler did not seize power through a coup. He was appointed chancellor through perfectly legal processes on January 30, 1933. Within weeks, he had consolidated authority through emergency decrees and the manipulation of existing institutions."

His coffee has gone cold. His hands shake when he reaches for the cup.

In the bathroom mirror—a man who looks older than his age. He splashes cold water on his face.

Never again be silent.

But silence is what academia rewards. Objectivity. Distance. Measured analysis of events safely in the past.

By late afternoon, David has rewritten the syllabus three times. Both versions still open on his screen.

The new version:

Week 4: Hitler Becomes Chancellor & The Reichstag Fire
February 10-14: Emergency Powers and Democratic Collapse
This week coincides with the first month of Trump's second term. We will not ignore this timing. Instead, we will use it. How did Hitler transform from chancellor to dictator in weeks? What role did emergency powers play? How did conservative elites convince themselves they could control him?
These are not abstract questions.

Week 4: Hitler Becomes Chancellor & The Reichstag Fire
February 10-14: Emergency Powers and Democratic Collapse

This week coincides with the first month of Trump's second term. We will not ignore this timing. Instead, we will use it. How did Hitler transform from chancellor to dictator in weeks? What role did emergency powers play? How did conservative elites convince themselves they could control him?

These are not abstract questions.

Everything he wants to say. Everything Elena would want. Everything his grandmother's memory demands.

Career suicide.

Conservative media would crucify him. The provost already nervous. His reputation—twenty years of carefully built credibility.

But Elena, who some nights still reaches for him in the dark, other nights can't be in the same room.

Marcus, documenting democratic backsliding while his advisor hides behind neutrality.

His grandmother: Don't be so smart you become stupid.

The cursor blinks.

The smart move is obvious: leave it alone. The December syllabus is good, rigorous, neutral. Changing it now—uploading a new version just before class—looks reactive.

But isn't that the point?

His finger hovers over "upload Class Portal."

I can change it later. Build trust first. Then, when students understand my rigor, I can be more direct.

That's what the German professors told themselves.

But you can't have a voice later if you're fired now.

The cursor waits.

He closes the revised syllabus. Opens the Class Portal. The old syllabus is there—uploaded December 18, downloaded by sixty-three students even though the class is capped at sixteen. The waitlist grows every day.

He leaves it.

The welcome email writes itself. He reads it twice. Adds nothing about reconsidering the syllabus. Nothing about current events. Nothing that signals he's noticed what happened.

Send.

Elena returns in the early evening, drained. She kicks off her heels, drops her briefcase.

"How many?"

"Eighty-three families. All asking the same question: should we run?"

David wants to go to her. Doesn't know how.

"I've been working on the new syllabus."

Elena looks at him. Waits.

"Starting with the Weimar Republic."

"Of course." The bitterness is new. Or maybe just newly visible. "Teaching about history while history is happening."

"I'm going to bed. Three hearings tomorrow."

She walks to the guest room. Closes the door gently. Not a slam. Just closing.

Later, David opens Twitter. His professional account—@ProfBrenner, 847 followers. His last post is from three days ago. Seventeen likes, three retweets. Safe academic discourse.

He scrolls. Colleagues sharing articles, historians offering context, carefully worded observations. Everyone walking the same tightrope.

He closes the app. Opens it again. There's another account he created in November. @HistoryEchoes1933. No profile photo, no bio, no followers. A blank space for thoughts he can't share under his real name.

He's never posted anything. Never followed anyone. It just sits there, anonymous, waiting.

His thumb hovers over the text field.

January 30, 1933: Hitler appointed Chancellor through legal process. Elite conservatives believed they could control him. January 20, 2025…

January 30, 1933: Hitler appointed Chancellor through legal process. Elite conservatives believed they could control him. January 20, 2025…

What comes next? He stares at the incomplete thought. The parallel is there, obvious, dangerous.

His grandmother's voice: When you see it, David, you say something. You don't wait until it's safe.

He deletes the text. Character by character, until the field is empty again.

Closes the laptop.

In the guest room, Elena shifts—the bed creaks. They used to sleep tangled together. Still do, sometimes. When she chooses their bed, he feels like they might survive this.

He lies alone, staring at ceiling shadows. Wonders what decides it for her—which nights she needs space, which nights she needs him.

Documents that seemed safely historical six months ago. Now they feel urgent.

David closes his eyes. His grandmother's voice follows him. Never again be silent, David. Promise me.

He'd promised. Never asked what keeping it would cost.

Outside, America sleeps through the first night. Inside, a man who teaches about the past lies awake.

The clock shifts to midnight.

Tuesday morning David is at his desk, watching steam rise from coffee, staring at two documents. Cursor blinking between them.

Classes start tomorrow.

He takes off his glasses, cleans them—nervous habit—puts them back. Two documents.

Left: HIST412_Syllabus_Spring2025_v1.pdf—uploaded to Canvas in December. Safe and scholarly.

Right: HIST412_Syllabus_Spring2025_REVISED.docx—the new version. The honest one. The dangerous one.

His phone buzzes. His History Department Head, Patricia Ortiz:

Patricia:

Early start? Or never stopped?

Patricia:

Early start? Or never stopped?

Early start? Or never stopped?

He smiles despite himself.

David:

Early. Coffee number two. You?

Patricia:

Three. Syllabus season. Though mine's just Cuban Revolution history. Safely in the past.

David:

Lucky you.

Patricia:

Your syllabus done? Students have it already, right?

David:

Early. Coffee number two. You?

Early. Coffee number two. You?

Patricia:

Three. Syllabus season. Though mine's just Cuban Revolution history. Safely in the past.

Three. Syllabus season. Though mine's just Cuban Revolution history. Safely in the past.

David:

Lucky you.

Lucky you.

Patricia:

Your syllabus done? Students have it already, right?

Your syllabus done? Students have it already, right?

He looks at the two documents.

David:

They have the old one from December. I'm… reconsidering.

Patricia:

David. We should talk before Wednesday. Coffee this morning?

David:

Everything okay?

Patricia:

Yes. No. Maybe. Just coffee. 10 AM, my office?

David:

I'll be there.

David:

They have the old one from December. I'm… reconsidering.

They have the old one from December. I'm… reconsidering.

Patricia:

David. We should talk before Wednesday. Coffee this morning?

David. We should talk before Wednesday. Coffee this morning?

David:

Everything okay?

Everything okay?

Patricia:

Yes. No. Maybe. Just coffee. 10 AM, my office?

Yes. No. Maybe. Just coffee. 10 AM, my office?

David:

I'll be there.

I'll be there.

He sets down his phone. Opens the December version—already uploaded, students reading it since they enrolled. Scholarly. Objective. Safe.

He clicks to the revised version:

Course Description: This seminar examines how democracies collapse. Using Weimar Republic and Nazi Germany as primary case study, we analyze mechanisms through which democratic institutions fail, how ordinary people enable authoritarianism, why intellectual elites so often stay silent until it's too late…
While historical focus remains 1919-1945, we will not pretend these patterns exist only in past. This course asks uncomfortable questions: When are historical comparisons appropriate? What do we owe victims of history? What is the purpose of studying authoritarianism if not to recognize it in our own time?

Course Description: This seminar examines how democracies collapse. Using Weimar Republic and Nazi Germany as primary case study, we analyze mechanisms through which democratic institutions fail, how ordinary people enable authoritarianism, why intellectual elites so often stay silent until it's too late…

While historical focus remains 1919-1945, we will not pretend these patterns exist only in past. This course asks uncomfortable questions: When are historical comparisons appropriate? What do we owe victims of history? What is the purpose of studying authoritarianism if not to recognize it in our own time?

Honest. Direct. Everything he wants to say.

Also career suicide.

His grandmother's voice: Don't be so smart you become stupid, shayna punim.

Email from Marcus Washington:

Marcus:
Hope you had a good break. Quick question: my defense is scheduled for May 2, but given current events, I'm wondering if I should adjust the US case study section. After yesterday's inauguration and Trump's executive orders, I'm thinking I might need to revise to include his first actions in office.
Would that be within scope?

Marcus:

Hope you had a good break. Quick question: my defense is scheduled for May 2, but given current events, I'm wondering if I should adjust the US case study section. After yesterday's inauguration and Trump's executive orders, I'm thinking I might need to revise to include his first actions in office.

Would that be within scope?

Marcus is doing what David can't—analyzing the present with the same rigor as the past. No hiding behind "too soon" or "need historical distance."

Another email catches his eye. Subject: "Concerned parent."

Robert Morrison:
Professor Brenner,
My son is in your class. He's the first in our family to go to college and we're proud of him.
I voted for Trump. All three times.
I worked at the factory here for a long time. Then it closed and moved to Mexico. Our hospital closed too.
I voted for Trump because he's the only one who seemed to care that my town exist.
We need secure borders. Americans need the few jobs available
Just want to make sure he's getting an education, not told he's a bad person.
Robert Morrison

Robert Morrison:

Professor Brenner,

My son is in your class. He's the first in our family to go to college and we're proud of him.

I voted for Trump. All three times.

I worked at the factory here for a long time. Then it closed and moved to Mexico. Our hospital closed too.

I voted for Trump because he's the only one who seemed to care that my town exist.

We need secure borders. Americans need the few jobs available

Just want to make sure he's getting an education, not told he's a bad person.

Robert Morrison

David reads it twice.

The father's right about one thing—rural America has issues that need to be addressed. And people like the Morrisons have real reasons to feel abandoned.

But Trump's executive orders today weren't normal politics either.

David types a brief response. Professional. Promises fairness. Sends it.

Still feels like he's hiding.

Movement from the guest room—Elena's awake.

"Starting with the Weimar Republic?"

He nods.

"Of course." She turns away. "I need more sleep."

The guest room door closes.

David arrives midmorning at the Department Head's office. Patricia's already there with two coffees from the good place off campus. Black, one sugar.

"Thanks for coming."

"Of course." He sits, takes the coffee. "What's about this?"

"How are you feeling about tomorrow?"

"Fine. Nervous. The usual."

"David." She gives him a look. "It's me."

He sighs. "I don't know. I've taught this course a dozen times but this time feels different."

"The syllabus you uploaded in December—are you still comfortable with it?"

David hesitates. "Students already have it."

"That's not what I asked."

He pulls out his phone, opens both files. "Here. The one they have. And… this one. The one I've been working on since inauguration."

Patricia reads. Scrolls. Her expression doesn't change, but David knows her well enough to see her thinking.

Finally, she hands the phone back. "The December version is good. Rigorous. Fair."

"But?"

"But it's also safe. The revised one is honest. It's what you actually think. It's also potentially radioactive."

"So I should stick with the old one."

"I didn't say that. What changed between December and now?"

"Twenty-six executive orders. Marcus writing a thesis about democratic backsliding while I hide behind scholarly neutrality and of course, Elena."

"Your grandmother."

David looks up sharply.

"What would Miriam want you to do?"

"She'd want me to be honest. To warn people. To not make the same mistakes the German academics made."

"And what do you want?"

David stares at his coffee. "I want to keep my job. I want students to trust me. I want to maintain credibility so I still have a platform later. I want to be brave without paying the price."

"That's not how it works."

"I know."

Patricia is quiet. "The provost called me yesterday. Asked if I was aware of any faculty planning to 'use the inauguration as a political platform.'"

David's stomach drops. "She's watching."

"She's nervous. The board is nervous. Everyone's waiting to see if universities become the 'resistance.'"

Patricia pulls a memo from her desk drawer, slides it across.

MEMORANDUM TO FACULTY
FROM: Office of the Provost
DATE: January 20, 2025
RE: Institutional Commitment to Intellectual Objectivity
As we enter a period of significant change in our national governance, the university reaffirms its commitment to intellectual rigor and scholarly objectivity across all disciplines.
Faculty are encouraged to teach course material with appropriate scholarly distance and balance. Classroom instruction should present multiple perspectives fairly, avoiding the appearance of institutional political advocacy.
Political statements—whether by faculty or students—that create the perception of university endorsement of particular candidates or policies risk our institutional independence and tax status.
We trust faculty will continue to model the rigorous, balanced scholarship that distinguishes our institution.
— Provost Margaret Dunn

MEMORANDUM TO FACULTY

FROM: Office of the Provost

DATE: January 20, 2025

RE: Institutional Commitment to Intellectual Objectivity

As we enter a period of significant change in our national governance, the university reaffirms its commitment to intellectual rigor and scholarly objectivity across all disciplines.

Faculty are encouraged to teach course material with appropriate scholarly distance and balance. Classroom instruction should present multiple perspectives fairly, avoiding the appearance of institutional political advocacy.

Political statements—whether by faculty or students—that create the perception of university endorsement of particular candidates or policies risk our institutional independence and tax status.

We trust faculty will continue to model the rigorous, balanced scholarship that distinguishes our institution.

— Provost Margaret Dunn

David reads it twice. The language is careful, administrative. The message is clear: watch yourself.

"When did this go out?"

"Yesterday. After the inauguration, before the evening news. She's circling the wagons."

"'Appearance of institutional political advocacy.' Translation: don't say anything that sounds like criticism."

"Translation: don't say anything that sounds like you." Patricia takes the memo back. "And yet, she also told me that tenure exists precisely to protect faculty from this kind of pressure. So she sent the memo to cover herself with the board. But tenure still means something."

David stares at the empty desk where the memo was. "So if I change the syllabus tomorrow—"

"You'd be ignoring the memo. Making a statement by refusing to self-censor." Patricia pauses. "Which is exactly what tenure protects. Which is also exactly what gives the board ammunition to argue you're being partisan instead of scholarly."

"So if I hand out the revised syllabus tomorrow—"

"You'll have a target on your back. Maybe not immediately. But yes."

David sets down his coffee. "Then I stick with the December version. Play it safe. At least for now."

Patricia doesn't respond right away. "Is that what you came here for? Permission to stay silent?"

The words hit harder than expected. "That's not fair."

"Isn't it? I can't tell you what to do. I'm your chair, not your conscience. But students learn from what you do as much as what you teach."

"What would you do?"

"My parents fled Cuba in '61 because they recognized danger early. They didn't wait for safe. They didn't strategize for later." She pauses. "But I'm tenured. I'm department chair. I have different risks."

"You're saying I should change the syllabus."

"I'm saying you should teach the class that matches who you are." She stands. "Elena's been at every protest since election night. Marcus is writing a thesis about democratic collapse. Your students already know where you stand, David. The only question is whether you're willing to admit it."

She pauses. "The provost mentioned you specifically yesterday—said a parent called concerned about bias."

David nods.

"I told the provost you're the most careful historian I know. That if anyone can teach this moment responsibly, it's you. I also told her that if any faculty are punished for teaching about authoritarianism while we're experiencing authoritarian patterns, I'll resign in protest. I meant it."

David stares at her. "Patricia—"

"I'm not asking you to martyr yourself. I'm asking you to not preemptively censor yourself out of fear. Teach the history. If it makes people uncomfortable because it resonates with the present, that's not bias. That's historical literacy."

David leaves Patricia's office midmorning, walks across campus to the library. Fourth floor carrel, away from students.

He opens his notebook. Starts writing:

At what point did "wait and see" become complicity?

At what point did "wait and see" become complicity?

His grandmother would know. She paid the cost.

His phone buzzes:

Elena: Lost the hearing. Client being deported. She has two US citizen children. Ages 4 and 6. They're staying here with an aunt. She's going back to Honduras where her ex threatened to kill her.

Elena: Lost the hearing. Client being deported. She has two US citizen children. Ages 4 and 6. They're staying here with an aunt. She's going back to Honduras where her ex threatened to kill her.

David closes his eyes.

David: I'm so sorry. Are you okay?
Elena: No. But I have three more hearings this week. Can't fall apart yet.
Elena: Still want to talk tonight?
David: Yes. Please.
Elena: Okay. I'll be home by 8.

David: I'm so sorry. Are you okay?

Elena: No. But I have three more hearings this week. Can't fall apart yet.

Elena: Still want to talk tonight?

David: Yes. Please.

Elena: Okay. I'll be home by 8.

He sets down his phone. Trump signed orders that will destroy families. Elena's client is being separated from her children. Tomorrow, David will teach about how Hitler came to power.

He opens his laptop. The careful syllabus. The honest one.

Then a new document:

SUPPLEMENTAL READING: ON HISTORICAL COMPARISON
How do we think about the past in relation to the present? When are historical comparisons illuminating, and when are they misleading?
We will study how the Weimar Republic collapsed and how National Socialism rose to power. We will analyze propaganda, institutional failure, elite complicity, and popular consent.
We will also think about why we study history at all. Is it simply to understand the past? Or is it to help us recognize patterns, understand mechanisms of power, and make informed decisions about our present?
I will teach you to think critically, to analyze evidence rigorously, and to grapple honestly with difficult comparisons. I will not tell you what to think. But I will not pretend that history is irrelevant to the present.
If that makes you uncomfortable, good. History should make us uncomfortable. If it doesn't, we're not paying attention.

SUPPLEMENTAL READING: ON HISTORICAL COMPARISON

How do we think about the past in relation to the present? When are historical comparisons illuminating, and when are they misleading?

We will study how the Weimar Republic collapsed and how National Socialism rose to power. We will analyze propaganda, institutional failure, elite complicity, and popular consent.

We will also think about why we study history at all. Is it simply to understand the past? Or is it to help us recognize patterns, understand mechanisms of power, and make informed decisions about our present?

I will teach you to think critically, to analyze evidence rigorously, and to grapple honestly with difficult comparisons. I will not tell you what to think. But I will not pretend that history is irrelevant to the present.

If that makes you uncomfortable, good. History should make us uncomfortable. If it doesn't, we're not paying attention.

He reads it once. Doesn't add it to the syllabus. Not yet.

Saves it. To have. To think about.

To maybe use tomorrow.

Wednesday morning David stands outside Room 204. The building is quiet, students still twenty minutes away.

He's not holding syllabi. Students already have them—downloaded in December. What he's holding is his laptop. Both versions still open.

Forty-five minutes to decide.

His phone buzzes:

Elena: Good luck today. I know it matters to you. And I know you'll do the right thing. Whatever that turns out to be.

Elena: Good luck today. I know it matters to you. And I know you'll do the right thing. Whatever that turns out to be.

He reads it twice, looking for the edge. Doesn't find it. She means it.

She's not telling him what the right thing is. She's trusting him to know.

David: Thank you. See you tonight. Real conversation.
Elena: Real conversation. I love you.
David: I love you too.

David: Thank you. See you tonight. Real conversation.

Elena: Real conversation. I love you.

David: I love you too.

He unlocks the classroom door. Long table, seventeen chairs in modified U-shape, whiteboards, windows overlooking the quad.

He writes on the whiteboard:

HIST 412 Part 1: TOTALITARIANISM IN EUROPE, 1919-1945
David Brenner, PhD
Spring 2025

HIST 412 Part 1: TOTALITARIANISM IN EUROPE, 1919-1945
David Brenner, PhD
Spring 2025

He opens his laptop. Both syllabi waiting.

Patricia: Students learn from what you do as much as what you teach.

Elena's client, deported to danger.

Marcus's thesis, documenting democratic backsliding.

His grandmother: Don't be so smart you become stupid.

But also: survive. Keep position. Keep teaching. Can't help if fired.

Cursor blinks.

David closes the laptop.

He needs air. One more moment.

He grabs his briefcase, steps into the hallway. He'll come back at exactly 10:00.

Takes a breath.

This is where it begins.