LITMIR.BIZ

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and clips my cheek with a crisp left punch. I hear a click in my neck and the room tilts. My body stumbles to catch up with my head. I recover and then hook my right into Harry’s long torso above the Star of David emblem on his boxin’ shorts.

      In the noisy gym of the YMHA in the Third Ward of Newark, the ding of the practice bell signals us back to our corners. The splinters of the wooden stool prick my thighs. I close my eyes and cover my throbbin’ face with a water-soaked towel. For a kid like me, boxin’ for Longie Zwillman is my only option for work. But it suits me. I hear jump-ropes whip the floor, gloves thud against stiff pads, and fists snap speed bags with the racket of a typewriter. The clamor fires adrenaline through my drained body. The rank sweat and smoke-filled air fuels my determination.

      I spend most days at the Y. For me and my community, our world revolves around life here and lets us escape the despair of the Depression. On any given day, five thousand members pass in and out of the million-dollar, three-story Georgian building on High Street. Through the arched doors, across the marble floor, and past the reception counter enter boxers, swimmers, bowlers, and every type of ball player and performer. Below the vaulted ceiling, in front of the double glass-paneled library doors, the massive lobby sizzles with Yiddish cursin’ mothers, old men playin’ chess, kids chasin’ around couches, teens flirtin’ at the soda bar, and babies cryin’. The building houses everything from a swimming pool to a woodworking shop, bowling alley in the basement, theater stage and of course, the boxin’ gym. But there’s more here than meets the eye.

      I whiff the musk cologne that skids across the dense air before I hear the click of the Oxford shoes against the wooden gym floor. The scent forces my swollen eyes to flip open. I swipe the soggy towel off my face. No matter how exhausted y’are, when Longie Zwillman shows up, ya jump to attention. Mobster Abner Longie Zwillman is the godfather of Newark, New Jersey. At thirty-four, he’s the youngest boss the Jewish Mafia’s ever had. And he’s the most revered, especially by me. When Nazis murdered my pop five years ago, back in ’33, and Mama died from the news, Longie took guardianship over my brothers and me. After all, my father had been one of his most loyal workers. Pop wore that same cologne.

      Longie stops in front of an oak table and flops his large briefcase on it. Prize-fightin’ boxer Nat Arno swags at his side, a cigar dangling from his mouth. Longie scans the room, tallying his army of boxers, thirty men building their bodies, three more in one ring, two more in another, and Harry and me in the center. Thirty-seven in total.

      The boxin’ arena is the heart of Longie Zwillman’s covert operation. Just after the whole thing went down with Pop’s murder, the FBI knocked on Longie’s door. That’s when Longie’s mobsters and the FBI formed an unholy alliance to plug Hitler from seedin’ his budding Nazi army in America. Longie’s prize-fightin’ boxers have become America’s secret weapon against the threat of the German American-Nazi Bund. They call us The Newark Minutemen.

      Nat Arno, the thirty-two-year-old commander of Longie’s underground Minutemen militia, crosses his massive arms and signals me, Harry, and the rest of his lieutenants, including the cocksure Maxie and Al Fisher, the tough Benny Levine, brash Puddy Hinkes, and concrete-jawed Abie Bain. Eight leaders in all. We respond and fall in beside him.

      Other boxers join around us, their husky breath announcing their presence, their muscles flecked with blood and skin glossed with sweat. The younger ones sprint like golden retrievers called for dinner and hunker close to their idols. The veterans mark their space with solid stances, rollin’ their shoulders and crackin’ their knuckles.

      While the militia gathers, Longie turns to the swayin’ Puddy Hinkes. “Hey, ya get the dough to Mayor Ellenstein?” Longie tosses his fedora on the table and his wavy, dark hair glistens.

      “Aye, Aye, Mr. Zwillman,” the waggish Hinkes says. Like a regimented soldier, he salutes Longie. Puddy’s a regular. When he’s not punchin’ middleweights out, he’s cheerin’ for his buddies.

      Bodies chafe around me. The burn of static electricity rubbin’ against the thick air singes my nose.

      “What codes have you picked up in the Bund’s newspaper?” I hear Longie ask Harry. Longie removes his jacket. He dresses it over the arms of a young man in a baggy suit.

      Harry tugs a white t-shirt down over his dark, thick hair and slides it onto his glistening body. “There’s rumblings about a shortwave radio show from Germany tomorrow,” Harry says to Longie. “I’ll listen in and report back, Boss.” In addition to Yiddish, Harry grew up hearin’ German around the house and can read stuff between the lines. Before Germany’s march on Austria even happened, he found the announcement in the American Bund newspaper. He even showed Longie a photo of Jews washin’ the streets with toothbrushes. Harry pulls out an apple from his gym bag and crunches his teeth into its skin.

      Longie nods as he catches his own reflection in the mirror behind the speed bag. He straightens his tie. He’s not called the Gatsby of Gangsters for nothing.

      “Abie! Did you pay protection dough to the cops this week?” Nat Arno yaps in a tough New Jersey accent, as if he’s askin’ if a sucker punch is kosher.

      “Roger that, Nat.” The raspy voice of Abie Bain rises above the racket. Ten years ago, Abie stepped into the ring. He was too young to even shave. He made his name when he challenged “Slapsie Maxie” Rosenbloom for the Championship at Madison Square Garden. Now, he’s a feared fighter for the cause, and I’m proud to call him my brother.

      “Fellas! Everyone here?” Nat shouts out in his gravelly voice. He claps Abie’s titan shoulders and other boxers tense to attention. Back in the day, Longie boxed too. He gets respect. I know he’s got mine. He’s the only man who could even have come close to fillin’ my father’s shoes.

      Longie spreads his arms. “I’m lucky to be surrounded by the best soldier militia Newark, and America for that matter, can muster.” Longie’s not just givin’ us a cock and bull story. He means it. Hails and cheers rock the gym.

      Nat tosses his suit jacket on a chair and rolls up his sleeves. At five-foot-six inches, he commands like a giant. “Here’s what we got, boys. Our cops tell us the German-American Nazi Bund is meetin’ downtown tonight at City Hall Tavern. And none other than their leader, Führer Fritz Kuhn will be there.”

      The room booms as we all digest this staggering news. Some of the glistening bodies flex their muscles. Others cover their skin with shields of clothes, readying themselves.

      “The American Hitler?” The eyes of lightweight sensation Maxie Fisher pop open. Maxie and his older brother Al started their boxin’ careers beatin’ off thugs tryin’ to steal their family groceries. Now they not only box, but they also serve Longie.

      “I’m shinin’ my spiked shoes.” Al Fisher shuffles his foot. Given his ninety-eight percent win record, he’s not someone you wanna fool with.

      “That’s a skull I wanna crack.” Puddy knocks his own head with his hand. “Ouch!” he exclaims, bringin’ on laughs from the boys. Thank goodness for Puddy’s flippancy. He keeps us sane.

      “They think they own the place,” I say. It’s bloodcurdling how Kuhn marches his Hitler boys right through towns from New York to San Fran,” I say. It makes my blood curdle. In contrast, I try to imagine American soldiers struttin’ through Berlin. They’d be dragged into a back alley and walloped like butcher meat.

      “Kuhn’s soldiers move like a bunch of geese swinging their legs straight in the air,” Abie says. “It’s ludicrous.” He turns his whole body toward me. The muscles in his neck bulge so much he can’t just twist his head.

      Maxie swings his leg up to mimic the kick. “It’s called the Stechschritt.”

      “Don’t underestimate it,” Harry says. Heads nod around the room and voices grunt agreement. I know what my buddy’s gettin’ at. My pop told my brothers and me that the goosestep marchin’ on their old villages meant you would be crushed if you stepped out of line. And not just by boys in uniform. Supermen.

      Nat

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