Читать книгу Newark Minutemen - Leslie K. Barry - Страница 18

“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 people flow down the avenue, squeezed together, restricted from their free movements, but pushin’ like a beast without a brain. My eyes blink against a gust as I watch a group of wild men flip over a car. It lands with a metallic screech that burns my ears.

“Look! Hundreds of Kuhn’s soldiers are attacking the people.” Harry’s arm points toward the entrance where a horde of stormtroopers fan out into the crowd swingin’ pipes and bars.

The protestors swing back with their bars, chairs, belts, and anything else not tied down. From my view, it’s hard to distinguish the actions through the chaos because there’s so many things happening at once. Arms and legs rotate like cranks on butter churns, bodies crumble to the ground like flakes off toast, and glass from car windows sprays through the air like icy snowflakes in a storm.

From four directions, firecrackers shoot ear-splittin’ pops. The wind coils so hard, we can smell the gunpowder from three stories up. Harry and I read each other’s minds. In sync, we grab our baseball bats. “We’re going down, Boss,” I say. We hop over the side railing and scale the outside of the brick building.

At street level, we struggle to find an empty space of concrete to plant our feet. We are swept up with the protestors. They charge with battle cries toward City Hall. To our left, crowbars smash windows. To our right, hatchets slash tires. Bund members are torn from their cars and beaten. Harry and I snake through the press of people. We hit a police fortress that stops us cold.

A thuddin’ noise grabs my attention and I turn. The cops are whackin’ protestors with billy clubs. A steely-eyed giant of a copper flings a body at me, warnin’ me to stay back. I almost take his dare when out of the blue, Puddy grabs my arm and waves Harry over. Puddy steers us toward Nat who is up on the hood of a car. Abie swings a trashcan cover next to Nat’s head. Golf balls clatter against it like a machine gun. Maxie, Al and Benny surround our commander. They bat back bodies like they’re thwackin’ cow carcasses.

“Divide into four units of eight,” Nat shouts. I can barely hear him. “Flank the police echelon. Team leaders stay mobile, don’t get boxed in.” He swings his fist in a circle signaling units to infiltrate. “Bring down their Gestapo, those stormtroopers.” He points at the Nazi soldiers. The arms and clubs of the Newark Minutemen blur as they fight the SS throng.

Through the City Hall war zone, Harry and I duck under flyin’ fists to unite with our commander. “Nat!” I yell and knock on my head. I point at the roof and basement.

Nat leans toward Abie and Maxie and aims his fist at the roof. His hat soars off his head. The two Minutemen head to infiltrate the building through the air ducts. With a shake of his hand, Nat deploys Al and Benny toward the basement opening. Hopefully there’s a good path down there that leads up to the main hall.

Sirens scream and red lights stop us in our tracks. A police escort pulls up to the entrance. Other cops block demonstrators. Harry and I squeeze through the barricade. In front of us, six American Nazis exit a car and march within feet of us.

Harry elbows me and cocks his head to one side. “Why does that Nazi wear his iron cross medal from the Great War?” Regalia drips from the beefy man’s uniform. The fortyish-lookin’ leader must be a high-rankin’ officer.

“I guess no one told him the Germans lost that one twenty years ago?” I snicker.

A jiggly woman shuffles beside him. I assume it’s his wife. Behind the couple, two Nazi wanna-be soldiers escort two young women who can’t be more than eighteen years old. The taller boy in front struts with his blonde partner.

“Harry,” I say. “That girl’s red dress and black sweater goes so nicely against the Swastika flag.” The blonde hooks her green eyes into mine. I can’t help but stare back. Hard to say whether she’s attacking me, consuming me, or grabbin’ a lifeline. The other guy brings up the rear with his pigtailed partner.

Like a dang whale knockin’ a ship, two stormtroopers clock me in the back. Off balance, I fling around and hurl a punch. The Trooper ducks and pops me in the jaw. I go flyin’ into the inner circle and crash right into the looker with the red dress who then dominoes into her Nazi boyfriend. The guy rights his gal, grabs my shoulders, and rams me into the street. My head hits the concrete, firing a spike of pain below my eyes.

“Axel!” she yells at him.

I shake myself. Blood pools in my mouth.

The girl offers her hand.

Her hand?

This is awkward. But I take it. She clutches me in her soft grasp.

The Nazi boyfriend isn’t happy. He rips the girl away. “Krista! Don’t touch that!” Then he hauls her up the steps and through the doors.

My palm is warm. I search for the red dress. It’s gone.

Harry slaps my empty hand and hauls me up by the collar. “Forget her, Yael,” he says. “She might be hot, but she’s from yenemsvelt, a different world.”

My ears ring with the weight of his words or the bang from the concrete. I can’t tell.