“These bums are hitting below the belt,” Benny says. “This Nazi crap is banned now.” Benny spins the most feared fist in the business into the palm of his hand. He’s a one round knockout guy.
“Nazis here in America don’t give a rat’s ass, Benny,” Nat growls. He shakes his fist. “That Jew-hatin, Negro-muggin’, homophobic Kuhn wants to bust up anyone who doesn’t walk or talk Aryan. Do you think I fall into that group?” He rubs his many-time broken nose and gets some laughs.
My sure-footed friend, Harry, raises his voice above the chatter. “So what do ya need, Boss?” The room settles like boilin’ kettle water that’s been turned down. Harry’s the type of guy who leads, then follows.
Longie scans the room and speaks slowly. “Tonight, we need the skilled fists of the Newark Minutemen for a commando attack against an American-Nazi rally.” He walks around the front of the table and leans back against it. “Only yesterday, FBI Chief Hoover told me that their Bund is stockpiling weapons.” Surprised grunts rise from the crowd.
“KA-POW!” Al Fisher punches the air.
“We got one job that Longie pays us for,” Nat says. “Stop Hitler’s Nazis from takin’ over America.”
The boxers cheer.
When I punch my fist into my hand, it sounds off like a gunshot through the racket. Overseas, Hitler’s rampin’ for another Great War, and at the same time, he’s settin’ up shop right here in our backyard. If Hitler controls America, he’ll be able to roll a red carpet across France into the United Kingdom. My neck hairs bristle. I watch my frustration pass to the others like a flu spreadin’ through a grammar school.
“The bums are everywhere,” Puddy says. He’s rockin’ from side to side, like he’s duckin’ the fire in his belly.
Nat rests his elbow on Al’s shoulder and side-eyes Maxie. “Ya ready to stop chasin’ skirts and get blood on your knuckles, Maxie-boy?”
Maxie chuckles low in his throat. “What ya think boys?” His eyes hop from boxer to boxer. “Let’s just send the rumor we’ll be there, and those Nazis will scatter, right Puddy?”
“The saps will doggie paddle back to Germanland,” Puddy spouts back.
The rallying cheers drown out even the sound of my own heartbeat.
“The American Nazi Bund marches to their leader, Führer Fritz Kuhn,” I yell. “If we take him down, we take down the American Nazis.” And I’ll swallow my words if I’m wrong.
“Hear, hear!” the cheer goes up. I scan the clamoring room. The veins in Abie’s thick neck pulsate. The ones in Benny’s clenched jaws flush his face. If I wasn’t standin’ face to face with these boxers, I’d swear they were wild horses rearin’ to break through a rodeo gate.
My own heart is kickin’ too. “Führer Kuhn triggers street fights,” I say. “He trains with guns, he indoctrinates German-American youth. He’s not playin’ by the rules.”
Longie pulls some pamphlets off his briefcase. He moves into the center of the crowd, lighting life into the force of men. “The Bund’s been floodin’ the country with propaganda,” he says. “Until now, Kuhn’s been beating around the bush, but now he’s getting down to business.” He hands out the papers to the boys. “Fresh off the presses from Germany, his campaigns call for cleansing the entire world of Jews, Bolsheviks, homosexuals, blacks, Eastern Europeans, beggars, and whores or anyone who doesn’t look or think like a German Aryan. This whole thing’s spreading like a virus.”
The boxers scan the blasphemous words in the paper. A pregnant pause fills the room. Even I have to stop and remind myself that a Jules Verne time machine hasn’t shot me back to some medieval war.
Nat breaks the shock with some of his own seismic blast. “So who’s up for a battle?” he yells.
“We’ll be there, Longie!” the obedient boxers thunder. Their chime of voices sails through the voluminous room, rebounds against the high ceiling and crashes back down against their chiseled shoulders. But like the ancient mounts indulging the storms beatin’ against them, they persevere. I never get tired of watchin’ these men and their buoyancy. There’s endless stories behind each scar on their bodies. They’re unafraid to weather the storm for others, no matter the price. It’s because they know they’re part of many generations, livin’ and past.
Longie returns to the table and clicks open the briefcase. He pats the bricks of cash inside. “Pay the boys, Puddy.” Longie lobs one over to him.
Puddy riffles through the package of fresh dough that flings over a sniff of sweetness at me. The only smell I like better is new cars. He brags, “A little better pay than the twenty-five cents minimum.” He counts out the allotments and distributes the cash to each boxer.
“Yael!” Arno calls and throws me a pack of hundreds. “Recruit forty more to the militia. We need firepower.”
I pocket the dough and smile at the guys. “Hey, I got twenty thousand boxers chompin’ at the bit to join the Newark Minutemen and clobber Hitler Nazis.”
“You’re my kemfer,” Longie whispers to me privately. I’m touched that he considers me a fighter who goes beyond the call of duty. He gives me a rousin’ pat on the back. “I can always count on you just like I could your pop, Joseph.” Hearin’ the name of Pop clogs a golf ball in my throat. I breathe faster and hold my breath at the same time. Because if I don’t, I’m gonna’ sob like a baby.
“Ya know I have one goal, Boss,” I say. “Some call it vengeance.” I flip my palms up. “Some call it justice. Either way, I’ll deliver what’s due.” Longie witnesses the glassiness over my eyes but won’t let his gaze retreat. He reminds me that he harbors my soul.
Thankfully, Nat Arno barks orders. “Tell our guys to break legs and arms. We promised the G-men no heads, unless they miss, of course.” He puffs his cigar fast and fierce and turns the air sweet like apples with his smoke. “Marinate them bastards.”
Longie cautions Harry to keep us outta the news. “Make sure the reporters’ palms are greased,” he says. The last thing I want is fingers pointing.”
Harry nods. His muscles stretch his t-shirt so tight, they rupture the seam.
“I’ll stash cable wire and lead pipes in bushes,” Abie informs, ever efficient.
Al Fisher holds up his fists. “Here’s all the lead pipes I need.”
“Don’t get that pretty face messed up, Al,” Nat says, jabbin’ back. “Ya think ya lazy brother Maxie can help knock out those sons-of-sailors?”
Two lead pipes slip from Maxie’s jacket sleeves into his hands. “KAY-O!” Maxie shouts his signature slang for knockout, and we bump shoulders.
There are some who say it’s impossible to stop what’s already comin’. Yet, not too long ago there was a ship they said was impossible to sink. It was called the Titanic. The hard lesson I learned from that was never underestimate impossible. If anyone can stop it, we can.
KRISTA:
Krista’s Apt. Nye Avenue. Newark, NJ
The bedroom Heidi and I share is right next to the foyer of our small Nye Avenue apartment in the Second Ward of Newark. It’s not hard to hear my father curse out there when my bedroom door is open.
“Gott verdammt!” he yells. We are going to be late for Führer Kuhn’s American Nazi Bund rally!”
It’s also easy to see everything he’s doing through my bedroom mirror. As I braid my