Читать книгу Newark Minutemen - Leslie K. Barry - Страница 17

The bedroom Heidi and I share is right next to the foyer of our small Nye Avenue apartment in the Second Ward of Newark. It’s not hard to hear my father curse out there when my bedroom door is open.

“Gott verdammt!” he yells. We are going to be late for Führer Kuhn’s American Nazi Bund rally!”

It’s also easy to see everything he’s doing through my bedroom mirror. As I braid my hair, creating the German-born look Papa will be proud of, I watch his reflection brush lint off the national emblem above his right breast pocket. He evens his white-braided collar tabs on his uniform and pulls down his gray-green wool tunic. Now 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.