Читать книгу Newark Minutemen - Leslie K. Barry - Страница 16

I bounce out of the corner of the boxin’ ring and throw my body weight behind my right-cross into Harry’s cleft chin. He barely flinches. I draw my hand back and left-jab my towering best friend twice in the ribs. Nothing. We shuffle in the center ring of the Y, preparing our bodies for what lies ahead. He extends his long arm 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 snorts. “The goosestep is right out of a Dr. Seuss cartoon.”

But it’s much more, I realize. It makes men stop thinkin’. I picture the lineup of zombies. The unit obeys like a human missile. I cross my arms.

“There’s no doubt that Kuhn’s building an army in America for Hitler with Gestapo Troopers to boot,” Longie says. “There’s a lot of good Germans in America, but he’s reeling in any of them who are on the fence.”

“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.