LITMIR.BIZ

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that we’ve moved next to the Bund’s Newark office around the corner from our old Hawthorne Avenue apartment, I can’t remember a time when Papa isn’t wearing his Nazi uniform from Germany. I have to admit—years ago, when we lived in Germany, my heart filled as I ran alongside my marching father. I remember the smell of his new leather jackboots and singing the songs. But now, it’s kind of embarrassing when I’m with my American friends. Heidi says to be proud of his station in life and his patriotism. After all, he believes a lot of our cities are full of criminals and no longer the real America. He’s sworn an oath to right the wrong.

      My father sucks in his large belly and pushes his belt through the buckle with the godly inscription Gott mins uns. He pulls the leather tight to slip the prong through the last hole in the belt. He’s exactly what his reflection shows, an obedient follower of people who think they’re the superior race doing good for the world. Good thing no one can see the real me. My ideas are so different.

      “Schnell!” He yells in our native language.

      Outside my bedroom door, my stepmother, Wilhelmina, trots to my father’s side, fumbles with his overcoat and closes his popped button.

      “Aufhoren!” he yells. “Quit bothering me.” He slaps her hand away. “Where are Heidi and Krista?”

      In our cramped room, Heidi leans her back toward me so I can zip up her black cinched-waist silk dress. She likes the trendy hourglass shape to offset her tall, lean body. She leans over my shoulder and primps her plaited blonde hair in the mirror. Her eyes gleam in horror.

      “What’s wrong?” I cringe and close my eyes, nervous that my dreaded fear, a spider, is crawling somewhere on me.

      Heidi reaches under my arm and unhooks the little safety pin that holds the black thread of the store price tag. She wags it in front of my face. “What would you do without me, little sister?” She leaves our room and struts to our father’s arm. “We are ready, my Vater,” she says.

      As usual, Papa compliments her. “You look beautiful, my tochter. I can’t believe my little girl is already eighteen.” He steps back and admires her. Then, not surprisingly, he fires a command through my door. “Krista! Hup hup!” He’ll probably remind me that a seventeen-year-old young lady should be more prompt. It’s not his anger that’s the worst. I get it. Since my mother died giving birth to me, Heidi fills his void while I’m just a constant reminder of his pain. It’s his random fury and iron grip that make me, and everyone else for that matter, quiver. Plus, I’m not sure he likes it when I question his Nazi views. It’s not that I don’t think he’s smart. I do. I just give my honest opinions. But he says I’m arrogant to think I know better than the brilliant minds who lead us.

      I saunter into the entrance hall in my red Elizabeth Hawes knock-off dress from the latest Wrigley chewing gum ad. I don’t care about style like Heidi does. I just like that the red dress puts a little sparkle into my drab life. “I’m ready.”

      Three sharp knocks clacking on the front door gives my father an excuse to dodge doting on me. “Krista and Heidi. Your boyfriends are finally here!” he complains and opens the door to our house. He receives Heil Hitler salutes from our two uniformed escorts. “Axel and Frank,” he says. “We must hurry if we are to keep our standing with the American Hitler. Like all good Germans, Führer Kuhn expects reliability.”

      Papa has always expected the punctuality of the German rail in his home. He says the rail was created in the image of the German people. They both perform, keep order, and complete their tasks. Without punctuality, there would be no discipline he says, and vice versa.

      CHAPTER 3

      In Your Corner

      YAEL:

      Across from City Hall. Union City, NJ

      “Watch out! Incoming!” Harry spreads his arms to shield me from missiles that shoot past our bodies on the third-floor open patio. More bombs zoom past us, whistle to the ground below, and explode in a melee of scorchin’ yellow flares on the sidewalk in front of the demonstrators. Smoke smudges the lights shinin’ from Union City Hall across the street. Hundreds of people scream and scatter like chickens with their heads cut off. Usually, I let fear blow by me, but my legs are shakin’. That took me off guard.

      I point up. “Holy Moly!” I say to Harry over the ear-splittin’ noise below. “Someone’s launchin’ bricks from that rooftop.”

      On the street below, a raucous crowd is amassing to demonstrate the rally of American Nazi Bund leader, Führer Fritz Kuhn. They wave signs with messages like Stop Fascist Terror, Keep America Free. We hear their chants of “Deport Fritz Kuhn! Nazis Want War.” The crowd is bigger than I imagined it would be.

      Harry and I drape ourselves over the iron patio rail of Dr. William Kalb’s apartment to inspect the damage below. A bit older than Longie, Dr. Kalb is the left to Longie’s right. They both fight Hitler’s risin’ party here more than anyone I know. But while Longie uses the Minutemen and good old-fashioned knuckles and iron bars to knock out Nazis in America, the Doc works boycotts to stop sales of anything from Bayer aspirin to German cameras to Woolworths’ malt shakes. Dr. Kalb tells us if we can stop the sale of German goods in American stores like Sears, Montgomery Ward, FAO Schwartz, and Abercrombie & Fitch, we can strangle money flowin’ to build up German tanks and subs.

      Taken by surprise, I jump when someone slaps my back. A puff of dust clouds from my jacket. “Sorry we’re late, boys,” Longie says over the clamor below.

      I swing around to find both Longie and Dr. Kalb.

      “Had to sneak up the back way around that crowd out there,” Longie says. He’s in his fine fashion that puts movie stars to shame. That suit’s gotta cost at least twice my $75 threads.

      Dr. Kalb’s a little more conservative with his dark gray relaxed fit and six-button vest. I shout to him over the noise. “Nat and the rest of the gang thank you for lettin’ us base camp from your place.” I shake his chiseled hand. “Scopin’ the scene from up here gives us an edge to plan our attack.” I point across the street to a door. “Look up on top of the building. There’s a roof entrance into the Hall. And down there, near the basement steps, a window.”

      “Also, crashing through those side windows will give us the element of surprise,” Harry says.

      “I like it,” Dr. Kalb says, wrinkling his forehead. “You Newark Minutemen got tactics, unlike the thugs-for-hire in New York. They just pummel the bad guys until they don’t move anymore.”

      “Who wouldn’t want our prize-fighting boxers as their militia?” Longie says. “We got more boys winning in the ring than anyone in the world.”

      Dr. Kalb unbuttons his suit jacket and reads his pocket watch. “The secret is the juice running through these boys’ veins,” he says in his forthright tone. “They’re kids like I was, who cut their teeth fighting Russian Cossacks. As a boy, I watched mothers hacked to death with machetes and baby brothers splatted against the wall.” The contrast of the blood and guts he’s describing against his clean-shaven, compassionate reputation is dizzying. “We’re the fierce kids who battled with guns, knives, and bombs. Became a prime militia.” I know these stories from my father, but to hear them again fills my ire like an empty gas tank.

      “We’re also the battle-hardened survivors of the Great War who reclaimed Palestine from the Turks,” Longie says. Our leaders are describing the boxers and their sons who are the Newark Minutemen. I swell with pride whenever Longie compares us to King David’s mighty warriors. The timin’ is lucky that Longie’s got an army of boxers he can pivot into a band of soldiers for the FBI.

      Suddenly, there’s more commotion from below. We all look down. I holler over the racket, the whistling wind makin’ it even harder to sound out the words. “There’s gotta be five hundred American Nazis marchin’ through the main doors of City Hall.”

      The scene below has turned into chaos. Crowds of

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