Newark Minutemen. Leslie K. Barry

reading my innermost thoughts,” I say. “How does he do it? How does Führer Hitler understand what we need?”

      Like an unexpected serpent, Führer Kuhn is at my side. I flinch. Our eyes unite, and it feels like the beginning of a song we will sing together. I almost feel like this man will die for me.

      “He is us.” The Führer’s voice drones. “He agrees with our pleas to raise Germany from the ashes. He agrees with our desire to eliminate our enemy.” The pencil he’s been stroking clacks against the floor. He reaches down to retrieve it.

      In this moment, my mind blinks like the flash of a camera and breaks the spell. Is Führer Hitler shaping the truth? Or is his truth shaping me? My thoughts jerk like a live wire. I reconcile everything I know. On one hand, Hitler promises to raise Germany from the ashes. My father has said that often enough. There are promises of good food for everyone, lights for homes, care for the sick. But Hitler asks for sacrifice. We must work where he tells us to, eat what he wants us to, use words he expects us to. And we must not do certain things. Like read certain books or have certain friends. If we don’t do as he says, we are selfish. Maybe that’s right for Germany, I’m not sure. He promises he will eliminate the enemy who caused the problems. But in the same breath, he vows to destroy them no matter what it takes. Are these our ideas? Or are they his?

      “Hitler is a humble man who just wants to improve life for his fellow man,” Führer Kuhn says. After all, he’s put everyone to work and given everyone health care and schooling. That’s more than Roosevelt’s done.” Führer Kuhn crosses his hands behind his back. “Now Krista, we can do the same thing here. We can stop the rich from getting richer. We can stop tax deals that burn holes in our pockets. You can join me near the top. You can be one of the founders of a new America, a nation who puts ourselves first.”

      This all sounds nice. But I know that words can be tricky. Apples are red, right? Not always. Apples can be green, too. He’s making the answer seem so simple. With Führer Kuhn, there’s more going on than meets the eye. Or maybe I’m just opening my eyes? The floor creaks as I step back. He’s not just an ambassador of German culture. He wants to be Adolph Hitler in America. My chest rumbles.

      LONGIE ZWILLMAN:

      Barbershop. Hawthorne Avenue. Newark, NJ

      Irving snaps a white sheet over me. I close my eyes and relax in the leather-upholstered chair to get a haircut and a shave at his barbershop on Hawthorne Avenue. The spring air blows through the propped open front door and wafts around the scent of cherry and butternut pipe smoke mixed with hair tonic. Yael should be joining me any second.

      The other two oak chairs are occupied with men waiting for their turn. In other seats around the shop, men read the paper and drink coffee. Everyone’s talking about something. I hear bits of news about the Yankees, a new type of pen they call a ballpoint, unemployment creepin’ back up to nineteen percent, the new Snow White film that’s made upwards of $8 million, Howard Hughes piloting around the world in record time, some secret Orson Welles project, and of course all the talk about Hitler building Germany.

      As Irving wraps a hot towel around my face. I sink into my seat. “Hey, Irving. FBI Director Hoover thanks you for your horse yesterday.” I tell the barber. “How did ya pick longshot Lawrin to win the race?”

      “I didn’t pick the horse,” Irving replies. “I bet on that new jockey, Eddie Arcaro. He’s gonna be a great.” Irving massages my face with a lemony cream.

      “I’m saving my dimes for Seabiscuit to beat War Admiral at Pimlico,” I tell him.

      Irving’s always got an opinion. “I don’t know, Longie,” he says. “With his jockey Red hurt, I’m not betting Seabiscuit is making the Belmont and probably not Pimlico.”

      Irving wraps more hot towels and I’m floatin’ on a cloud. I swear, I get more sleep here than in my own bed. “We’ve got a few months yet,” I mumble.

      “That boy’s not gonna race again,” he argues. “His chest is caved in from that horse falling on him.” Irving removes the towels, and this time, he massages my face with cocoa butter. Smells like melted Hersheys. Then he works up the hot lather and scrapes my beard with a single sharp blade razor. “But if Red can get back in the saddle and boil Seabiscuit’s juices outta the gate, he might take the win.”

      A man with a knife at my neck talking about cutthroat wins makes me feel alive. And it’s at that moment, I hear a fiery conversation through the open door.

      YAEL:

      Outside Barbershop. Hawthorne Avenue. Newark, NJ

      I stop on the sidewalk next to the red, white, and blue pole in front of Irving’s Barbershop. I’ve been coming here ever since Pop overruled Mama and had my curls cut when I was three. I still remember when I asked my father why the pole was the same color as the American flag. I thought he was pullin’ my leg at the time, but turns out his fable was true. He told me in the times of knights and armor, barbers were like doctors. The red color was for bloodletting; the white for bandages, bones, and teeth; the blue for blood in the veins. Pop’s dream was to be a doctor.

      Now all I see through the propped wood and glass door is men socializing while they get a shave and a haircut for thirty-five cents. I smile. It’s a lifestyle. I see Longie spread out on his favorite leather chair in the back with a hot towel over his face. He’s expecting me.

      “You got messed up last night,” an oddly familiar female voice rings out from behind me right before I enter.

      I stop short. “Who the heck?” Turnin’, I recognize my stalker, Krista, the blonde pigtailed Nazi. I’m suddenly a mess of conflicting emotions—angry, curious, and attracted. I squint my bruised eye. “Hah! I think we did your Hitler boyfriend up pretty good.”