LITMIR.BIZ

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watch a group of wild men flip over a car. It lands with a metallic screech that burns my ears.

      “Look! Hundreds of Kuhn’s soldiers are attacking the people.” Harry’s arm points toward the entrance where a horde of stormtroopers fan out into the crowd swingin’ pipes and bars.

      The protestors swing back with their bars, chairs, belts, and anything else not tied down. From my view, it’s hard to distinguish the actions through the chaos because there’s so many things happening at once. Arms and legs rotate like cranks on butter churns, bodies crumble to the ground like flakes off toast, and glass from car windows sprays through the air like icy snowflakes in a storm.

      From four directions, firecrackers shoot ear-splittin’ pops. The wind coils so hard, we can smell the gunpowder from three stories up. Harry and I read each other’s minds. In sync, we grab our baseball bats. “We’re going down, Boss,” I say. We hop over the side railing and scale the outside of the brick building.

      At street level, we struggle to find an empty space of concrete to plant our feet. We are swept up with the protestors. They charge with battle cries toward City Hall. To our left, crowbars smash windows. To our right, hatchets slash tires. Bund members are torn from their cars and beaten. Harry and I snake through the press of people. We hit a police fortress that stops us cold.

      A thuddin’ noise grabs my attention and I turn. The cops are whackin’ protestors with billy clubs. A steely-eyed giant of a copper flings a body at me, warnin’ me to stay back. I almost take his dare when out of the blue, Puddy grabs my arm and waves Harry over. Puddy steers us toward Nat who is up on the hood of a car. Abie swings a trashcan cover next to Nat’s head. Golf balls clatter against it like a machine gun. Maxie, Al and Benny surround our commander. They bat back bodies like they’re thwackin’ cow carcasses.

      “Divide into four units of eight,” Nat shouts. I can barely hear him. “Flank the police echelon. Team leaders stay mobile, don’t get boxed in.” He swings his fist in a circle signaling units to infiltrate. “Bring down their Gestapo, those stormtroopers.” He points at the Nazi soldiers. The arms and clubs of the Newark Minutemen blur as they fight the SS throng.

      Through the City Hall war zone, Harry and I duck under flyin’ fists to unite with our commander. “Nat!” I yell and knock on my head. I point at the roof and basement.

      Nat leans toward Abie and Maxie and aims his fist at the roof. His hat soars off his head. The two Minutemen head to infiltrate the building through the air ducts. With a shake of his hand, Nat deploys Al and Benny toward the basement opening. Hopefully there’s a good path down there that leads up to the main hall.

      Sirens scream and red lights stop us in our tracks. A police escort pulls up to the entrance. Other cops block demonstrators. Harry and I squeeze through the barricade. In front of us, six American Nazis exit a car and march within feet of us.

      Harry elbows me and cocks his head to one side. “Why does that Nazi wear his iron cross medal from the Great War?” Regalia drips from the beefy man’s uniform. The fortyish-lookin’ leader must be a high-rankin’ officer.

      “I guess no one told him the Germans lost that one twenty years ago?” I snicker.

      A jiggly woman shuffles beside him. I assume it’s his wife. Behind the couple, two Nazi wanna-be soldiers escort two young women who can’t be more than eighteen years old. The taller boy in front struts with his blonde partner.

      “Harry,” I say. “That girl’s red dress and black sweater goes so nicely against the Swastika flag.” The blonde hooks her green eyes into mine. I can’t help but stare back. Hard to say whether she’s attacking me, consuming me, or grabbin’ a lifeline. The other guy brings up the rear with his pigtailed partner.

      Like a dang whale knockin’ a ship, two stormtroopers clock me in the back. Off balance, I fling around and hurl a punch. The Trooper ducks and pops me in the jaw. I go flyin’ into the inner circle and crash right into the looker with the red dress who then dominoes into her Nazi boyfriend. The guy rights his gal, grabs my shoulders, and rams me into the street. My head hits the concrete, firing a spike of pain below my eyes.

      “Axel!” she yells at him.

      I shake myself. Blood pools in my mouth.

      The girl offers her hand.

      Her hand?

      This is awkward. But I take it. She clutches me in her soft grasp.

      The Nazi boyfriend isn’t happy. He rips the girl away. “Krista! Don’t touch that!” Then he hauls her up the steps and through the doors.

      My palm is warm. I search for the red dress. It’s gone.

      Harry slaps my empty hand and hauls me up by the collar. “Forget her, Yael,” he says. “She might be hot, but she’s from yenemsvelt, a different world.”

      My ears ring with the weight of his words or the bang from the concrete. I can’t tell.

      FRITZ KUHN:

      Private Tavern Room. City Hall. Union City, NJ

      My elite eight stormtroopers escort six special American Nazi Bund guests into the private tavern room attached to the Union City Hall coliseum for the reception before the rally tonight. Our secret police, modeled after Hitler’s Schutzstaffel SS Guard, rob my breath. But I breathe anyway. Because Adolph will be proud of me when he learns that this evening, over five hundred German-American Nazi Bund members will fill the room of City Hall to hear me speak in one of the stronghold cities of our people.

      The anteroom is packed. My guests of honor weave past my beer-guzzling divisional Führers, the foam slipping down the frosty sides of their steins. But my night is cramped. Thousands of misguided protesters clamber outside, demonstrating tonight’s message of True Americanism. They can’t see the threat to everything we hold dear. I even have to strain to absorb the violin playing one of my favorite Wagner pieces. Through the large window, I survey the police as they hold the hooligans back. Apparently, freedom to meet means nothing to that mob. Soon, even the naysayers will understand that the intention of the German-American Nazi Bund remains loyal to the ideas of George Washington. Pride ripples down my spine as the sight of my fighting stormtroopers outside brings memories of my own service on the Great War battlefield. It’s a shame it took so long for others to appreciate me, but now they eat up my values.

      Just now, my special guests entered the room. Here’s my most trusted Kamerad, Günther Brecht. I haven’t seen him in a while. He’s been back and forth to Germany on a high-level mission. He snakes through the top brass as he escorts his replacement wife, Wilhelmina—a bit too many strudels on her hips for my taste—and family to our rally. Tonight, we will ready thousands of followers for Hitler’s inevitable takeover of America. My smile hides behind my lips.

      And behold! Günther’s golden daughter, Krista. She sways around guests, guided by the arm of her young escort, offering her hand as her father introduces her. Her presence is beyond her years. She reminds me of my own daughter back in Chicago with my wife and son. I miss them, but I have a responsibility bigger than myself. Plus, the freedom’s not so bad and the fringe benefits are galvanizing. Now, my smile double crosses me.

      Krista is a key to our strategy. She doesn’t even know yet, but the crisp uniformed arm she grasps belongs to her own arranged match, Axel Von du Croy. He is the son of one of Hitler’s high command in Berlin. She might be a tad young, but Axel’s maturity is well beyond his nineteen years. He can handle her. He’s certainly mature enough to stand beside his father in the Fatherland. When Axel heads to Berlin with Krista, their union will bridge the American-German Bund to Nazi headquarters. My mind jitters just thinking how this will strengthen ties. On the other side of the coin, Günther has warned me that Krista’s an unpredictable one, always questioning the hierarchy of races and challenging her role as a Nazi woman. Even tonight, I eye with a shudder of distaste. That American red dress needs to go. It’s rebellious! All the more reason to ingrain the wild youth living in America with ideals of the homeland.

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