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Overview
Francis Joseph Cassavant is 18. He has just returned home from the Second World War, and he has no face. He does have a gun and a mission: to murder his childhood hero.
Francis lost most of his face when he fell on a grenade in France. He received the Silver Star for bravery, but was it really an act of heroism? Now, having survived, he is looking for a man he once admired and respected, a man adored my many people, a man who also received a Silver Star for bravery. A man who destroyed Francis’s life.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780307530813 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Random House Children's Books |
| Publication date: | 03/19/2013 |
| Sold by: | Random House |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 144 |
| Sales rank: | 1,021,180 |
| File size: | 2 MB |
| Age Range: | 12 - 17 Years |
About the Author
Date of Birth:
January 17, 1925Date of Death:
November 2, 2000Place of Birth:
Leominster, MassachusettsPlace of Death:
Leominster, MassachusettsEducation:
Fitchburg State CollegeRead an Excerpt
Oh, I have eyes because I can see and eardrums because I can hear but no ears to speak of, just bits of dangling flesh. But that's fine, like Dr. Abrams says, because it's sight and hearing that count and I was not handsome to begin with. He was joking, of course. He was always trying to make me laugh.
If anything bothers me, it's my nose. Or rather, the absence of my nose. My nostrils are like two small caves and they sometimes get blocked and I have to breathe through my mouth. This dries up my throat and makes it hard for me to swallow. I also become hoarse and cough a lot. My teeth are gone but my jaw is intact and my gums are firm, which makes it possible for me to wear dentures. In the past few weeks, my gums began to shrink, however, and the dentures have become loose and they click when I talk and slip around inside my mouth.
I have no eyebrows, but eyebrows are minor, really. I do have cheeks. Sort of. I mean, the skin that forms my cheeks was grafted from my thighs and has taken a long time to heal. My thighs sting when my pants rub against them. Dr. Abrams says that all my skin will heal in time and my cheeks will someday be as smooth as a baby's arse. That's the way he pronounced it: arse. In the meantime, he said, don't expect anybody to select you for a dance when it's Girls' Choice at the canteen.
Don't take him wrong, please.
He has a great sense of humor and has been trying to get me to develop one.
I have been trying to do just that. But not having much success. -->
The gun is like a tumor on my thigh as I walk through the morning streets against the wind that never dies down. April sunlight stings my eyes but the wind dissipates its heat, blustering against store windows and kicking debris into the gutters.
At Ninth and Spruce, I pause and look up at the three-decker and the windows of the second floor, where Larry LaSalle can be found at last. Does he suspect my presence here on the street? Does he have a premonition that he has only a few minutes left to live?
I am calm. My heartbeat is normal. What's one more death after the others in the villages and fields of France? The innocent faces of the two young Germans appear in my mind. But Larry LaSalle is not innocent.
The steps leading to the second floor are worn from use and age, and I think of all the people who have climbed stairs like these, who have worked in the shops and come home heavy with weariness at the end of the day. As I stand at the door of Larry LaSalle's tenement, I touch the bulge in my pocket to verify the existence of the gun. The sound of my knocking is loud and commanding in the silent hallway.
No response. I wait. I rap on the door again, hand clenched as a fist this time.
"Come on in, the door's not locked," Larry LaSalle calls out. That voice is unmistakable, a bit feeble now, yet still the voice that cheered us at the Wreck Center.
Hesitant suddenly, uncertain--his voice giving reality to what I must do--I step into the tenement and into the fragrance of pea soup simmering on the black stove, steam rising from a big green pot.
He is sitting in a rocking chair by the black coal stove, and narrows his eyes, squinting to see who has come into his tenement. He is pale, eyes sunk into his sockets like in the newsreel at the Plymouth, and he seems fragile now, as if caught in an old photograph that has faded and yellowed with age. His eyes blink rapidly as if taking quick pictures of me. Is there a glimmer of fear in his eyes? My heart quickens at the possibility.
"Francis, Francis Cassavant," I announce. It's important for him to know immediately who I am. I don't want to waste any time.
"Ah, Francis," he says, his eyes flashing pleasure because he doesn't sense my mission.
"Come in, come in," he says, the old enthusiasm back in his voice.
He rises slowly from the chair, steadying therocker as he lifts himself up. As he holds out his hands in greeting, I go forward to meet him. We shake hands. At the last minute, when it seems we might embrace as old friends and comrades, teacher and pupil, I pull away. His white hands clutch the air before he clasps them together and settles back into the chair.
"Sit, sit," he says, indicating the chair next to the window opposite his own.
"Take off your jacket," he says. "Your Red Sox cap, too, and your scarf . . ."
I don't move. I don't take off anything. I don't plan to stay long, only long enough to carry out my mission.
"Don't be afraid to show your face, Francis. That face, what's left of it, is a symbol of how brave you were, the Silver Star you earned . . ."
an excerpt from Heroes
My name is Francis Joseph Cassavant and I have just returned to Frenchtown
in Monument and the war is over and I have no face.
Oh, I have eyes because I can see and eardrums because I can hear but
no ears to speak of, just bits of dangling flesh. But that's fine, like
Dr. Abrams says, because it's sight and hearing that count and I was not
handsome to begin with. He was joking, of course. He was always trying
to make me laugh.
If anything bothers me, it's my nose. Or rather, the absence of my nose.
My nostrils are like two small caves and they sometimes get blocked and
I have to breathe through my mouth. This dries up my throat and makes
it hard for me to swallow. I also become hoarse and cough a lot. My teeth
are gone but my jaw is intact and my gums are firm, which makes it possible
for me to wear dentures. In the past few weeks my gums began to shrink,
however, and the dentures have become loose and they click when I talk
and slip around inside my mouth.
I have no eyebrows, but eyebrows are minor, really. I do have cheeks.
Sort of. I mean, the skin that forms my cheeks was grafted from my thighs
and has taken a long time to heal. My thighs sting when my pants rub against
them. Dr. Abrams says that all my skin will heal in time and my cheeks
will someday be as smooth as a baby's arse. That's the way he pronounced
it: arse. In the meantime, he said, don't expect anybody to select you
for a dance when it's Girl's Choice at the canteen.
Don't take him wrong, please.
He has a great sense of humor and has been trying to get me to develop
one.
I have been trying to do just that.
But not having much success.
Reading Group Guide
1. The title of this novel could be meant ironically. In other words, this may be a book about “heroes” who are not true heroes. How many examples of such non-heroes do you see in the book?
2. The book begins with Francis’s shocking statement that he “has no face.” In the context of the story, what are other metaphorical expressions about “face” that are relevant? How do these apply to Francis?
3. What is your definition of a hero? Francis feels that he is “a fake.” When he threw himself on the grenade it was not to save his comrades but to end his own life. Is a heroic act still heroic even if it’s done for the wrong reasons?
4. Francis says about the bombing of Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941, “We had discovered in one moment on a Sunday afternoon that the world was not a safe place anymore.” (p. 79) What was the significance of that event for America? What happened as a result?
5. Forgiveness is a major theme in many of Cormier’s novels. Trace how each of the three main characters forgive and are forgiven, and how they are affected when forgiveness is withheld and when it is granted. Which is harder–to forgive someone else or yourself?
Interviews
Before the live bn.com chat, Robert Cormier agreed to answer some of our questions:Q: Your books are often much more darkly honest than many novels written for a YA audience. What draws you to write such deeply psychological tales? Is there a line beyond which subject matter is too serious or dark for a young adult audience?
A: I am drawn to dark themes because I am sent to the typewriter by things that affect me emotionally, that disturb me, upset me, haunt me. They may be personal or something, say, I've read in the newspaper. I think that no theme should be taboo in young adult books -- if properly handled. By properly, I don't mean prettified or toned-down but honest, true, and moral.
Q: What inspired you to write about World War II now? Was there an event in particular that got you thinking about this story?
A: Heroes was inspired by the 50th anniversary of D-Day, when newspapers and television brought back the events of that memorable day. I was not involved, but people I knew here in my hometown were. Some came forth after half a century and talked about it. I had also visited the Normandy beaches recently and was overwhelmed by the echoes of what happened that day.
Q: Have you seen the new Steven Spielberg film, "Saving Private Ryan"? What do you think of his portrayal of World War II?
A: I've seen "Saving Private Ryan." It is without a doubt the most honest portrayal of the D-Day landing ever filmed for the public. It haunted me for days afterward.
Q: Although it's clear that you haven't had the same experience as your main character, how much, if any, of Heroes reflects your own experience? Is the character of Francis based on a real person?
A: As to Heroes, Francis returned from the war is entirely fictional. Francis before the war, at the Wreck Center, is somewhat of a self-portrait (Ping-Pong is the only sport I've been good at!). What I tried to do was to show ordinary young men performing heroic acts without knowing they were being heroic.
Q: Go to your nearest window and describe for us what you see.
A: Because my wife, Connie, and I, are at our summer place, my window looks out over a placid pond with an island almost in the middle of it, tall pines guarding the waters, on which only small boats and canoes are allowed. The peaked roofs of two cottages emerge from smaller trees across the way. Some lily pads give what I like to think is a touch of Monet to the pond. I sometimes see a blue heron in shallow water near the opposite shore, but that spot is vacant and kind of lonely today.