LITMIR.BIZ

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not as stupid as I am brave, my options are limited. Blockin’ the aisles, seven hundred brown-shirted, swastika wielding, high-booted Hitler replicas are poundin’ their boots against the coliseum floor to the beat of the drum corps. Many of them are not much older than me. Addin’ insult to injury, the mockin’ color guards wave their swastika flags side by side with American ones. I clamp myself to the floor. Let’s face it. At this point, I have one choice. Pray no one kills me.

      Beads of sweat simmer on my brow. Any false hopes of escape are dashed as a glint bounces off the brass knuckles of my worst nightmare, Axel Von du Croy. The light licks my good wool suit. Well, my only suit. Behind the uniformed soldier, his fixer, Frank Schenk, pokes another Gestapo-type stormtrooper and grabs a third. He leads a squad through the masses toward us, disrupting unified party cheers of Free America. Free America. Free America.

      But we, they call us the Newark Minutemen, are trained boxers. We won’t be knocked out without a fight. Our members are scattered throughout The Garden. To the left are Maxie and Al Fisher, Nat Arno, and Abie Pain. Nearby are Puddy Hinkes, Harry Levine, and his cousin Benny. And then there’s me, Yael Newman. The eight of us muscle against the press of fanatics, forcin’ our way through the crowd. We wedge between Hitler disciples and chafe against Nazi regalia. The evil glares tell me we’re not makin’ friends. We clamber over seats, step on black boots and duck under Hitler salutes. We’re searchin’ for the other members of our militia to gain a foothold that will help disrupt this ominous occasion. I’m countin’ on the rest of our scattered troops to slide their hidden iron bars down their sleeves into their fists. As I dodge a swastika-banded arm, my own bar falls again. But this time, I catch it breathlessly before it sets off alarms. Harry and I hurry toward the swarmin’ center aisle.

      An amplified German accent booms. “Fellow Americans. American Patriots. I do not come before you tonight as a stranger. You will have heard of me through the Jewish-controlled press as a creature with horns, a cloven hoof, and a long tail.” I glance up at the stage. Below the towering portrait of George Washington, the Hitler uniformed Bund leader, Führer Fritz Julius Kuhn, leans into the microphone at the podium.

      The hard-faced, square-jawed Führer pronounces what he calls a unified Germandom in America. “We Gentiles are fighting for an Aryan-ruled United States, insulated from dirty blacks, Japanese, Chinese, vermin Jews, dishonest Arabs, homosexuals, Catholics, and even useless cripples and alcoholics.” This shadow-Hitler party is putting democracy up for negotiation. There’s no doubt. I’ll bet my right arm that the Nazis are gonna start another world war.

      Around me, the shoulder-belt wearin’ audience raises Hitler salutes to the six-foot, two-hundred plus pound bully. They’re cheering a man who is dehumanizing people. Peerin’ into the crowd, I cringe at the notion that so many good German-Americans who could be my own neighbors have bought into the Nazi stance. Sure they have inherited the high cheeked look. But it’s more. They have assumed that stiff carriage, that humorless expression. That mind that screams discipline and punctuality, rules and obedience. A heart that freezes everything they touch, like a tongue that freezes on an icy flagpole.

      Kuhn commands his Aryan audience to demand that the government be returned to the American people. “We, the German-American Nazi Bund, will protect America against Jewish Communism parasites,” he says. My teeth clench. He’s a master at twisting thoughts. “We will protect our glorious republic and defend our Constitution from the slimy conspirators and … WE WILL MAKE AMERICA GREAT.”

      Führer Kuhn stuns me with his words. From the next aisle, the commander of our Newark Minutemen, prizefighter Nat Arno, waves at me to keep movin’. But my distraction is costly. In the time it takes me to blink, khaki arms trimmed with a black spider woven on a red armband lock around me. They drag me toward the exit to the tune of a female voice singin’ the American anthem. “Oh, say can you see, by the dawn’s early light, What so proudly we hailed at the twilight’s last gleaming—”

      CHAPTER 1

      Put on The Gloves

      February 20, 1933

      YAEL:

      Yael’s Apt. Hawthorne Avenue. Newark, NJ

      It’s dark, but the light seeps through my closed eyes.

      “Farshiltn!” my mother swears.

      One eye peeks at Mama across the room. She picks up a worn leather bag in the kitchen near the scratched enamel gas stove. She zips the bag closed and tip-toes toward me.

      My small bed creaks when she sits down. She runs her fingers through my hair. “Good morning my ‘golden kherd farshlofn kop,” she says the ending in Yiddish. Translated, that means blond-haired sleepy head. I stir under the scratchy blanket but pretend I’m not really awake. My Ma, Esther, whispers, “Your katzisher-kop of a father forgot this.”

      I open my eyes.

      She holds up the leather bag.

      I can’t help myself. I giggle.

      She puts her finger to her mouth to shush me so I won’t wake my two older brothers. Our beds are close, packed into the converted living room we share as our bedroom in the third story apartment above the candy shop. Ma and Pop sleep in the only bedroom. Ma used to curse at us in Yiddish when we jumped on her bed, tellin’ us to never forget we were born in there and to not knock the portrait of our Russian grandfather off the wall. Then we’d make her laugh. But she’s not laughing now. “I need you to take this to Papa at the docks,” she whispers. “He’s working for Mr. Zwillman. It’s his food and clothes.” She sets it next to the bed.

      “How many days will he be gone this time?” I ask.

      Mama holds up five fingers and plants a kiss on my head. My brothers would never let her do that, but I’m gonna let her until I turn thirteen in a few months. “Dress warmly,” she says. She plonks Pop’s worn boots and socks next to the bed and hands me some change. “Geyn, geyn,” she says. “Take the trolley so you won’t be late for school.” She returns to the kitchen and her chores.

      I swing my legs off the bed and press the change into the pocket of the pants I wore to bed. My feet scuffle against the cold floor until I pull on the scratchy socks and slide into the oversized boots. Our drafty apartment warns me about the unfriendly morning I must face, so I sneak my brother Dov’s sweater off his bed. I tug it over my head and come face to face with boxer Benny Leonard. Not the real life Benny Leonard. But the photo of my icon on the cover of Muscle Builder magazine that’s taped on the wall above my bed. My father says Leonard is a more important Jew than Albert Einstein since more people know who he is. Pop’s promised to take me to a match. I’m gonna be a boxer just like Leonard. He attacks like a machine gun. Perfect aim. Rapid fire. And he believes he’s gonna win. I slip on a coat and gloves and grab the leather bag. As I open the door, Mama pulls down a wool newsboy cap over my ears and pushes a cream cheese sandwich into my empty hand.

      YAEL:

      Third Ward and Newark Bay Docks. Newark, NJ

      On the trolley toward the docks, I clutch the suitcase between my legs so it won’t bounce. The window is frosty, but I can see Prince Street of the Third Ward where we used to live. Carts begin to line the curbs next to the shops. Pop says in this part of town they still don’t have hot water upstairs in the apartments like we do.

      We pass the live poultry market where I often shop with Mama to buy chicken for Friday dinners. When we’re at the market, Ma sticks her hand in the cage and picks the chicken with the most fat on the bottom. The butcher chops it’s head off and plucks the feathers. My oldest brother, Marty, can’t stand all the blood splattered in the sawdust, but it doesn’t bother me.

      The trolley clacks past dry goods stores, soda fountain shops, movie houses, bakeries, breweries, and synagogues. We stop for passengers. As bodies pack the trolley, the accents of Russians, Irish, Germans, and Italians collide. I can’t help but breathe in the hodgepodge of baked bread mixed

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