Читать книгу Newark Minutemen - Leslie K. Barry - Страница 19

My elite eight stormtroopers escort six special American Nazi Bund guests into the private tavern room attached to the Union City Hall coliseum for the reception before the rally tonight. Our secret police, modeled after Hitler’s Schutzstaffel SS Guard, rob my breath. But I breathe anyway. Because Adolph will be proud of me when he learns that this evening, over five hundred German-American Nazi Bund members will fill the room of City Hall to hear me speak in one of the stronghold cities of our people.

The anteroom is packed. My guests of honor weave past my beer-guzzling divisional Führers, the foam slipping down the frosty sides of their steins. But my night is cramped. Thousands of misguided protesters clamber outside, demonstrating tonight’s message of True Americanism. They can’t see the threat to everything we hold dear. I even have to strain to absorb the violin playing one of my favorite Wagner pieces. Through the large window, I survey the police as they hold the hooligans back. Apparently, freedom to meet means nothing to that mob. Soon, even the naysayers will understand that the intention of the German-American Nazi Bund remains loyal to the ideas of George Washington. Pride ripples down my spine as the sight of my fighting stormtroopers outside brings memories of my own service on the Great War battlefield. It’s a shame it took so long for others to appreciate me, but now they eat up my values.

Just now, my special guests entered the room. Here’s my most trusted Kamerad, Günther Brecht. I haven’t seen him in a while. He’s been back and forth to Germany on a high-level mission. He snakes through the top brass as he escorts his replacement wife, Wilhelmina—a bit too many strudels on her hips for my taste—and family to our rally. Tonight, we will ready thousands of followers for Hitler’s inevitable takeover of America. My smile hides behind my lips.

And behold! Günther’s golden daughter, Krista. She sways around guests, guided by the arm of her young escort, offering her hand as her father introduces her. Her presence is beyond her years. She reminds me of my own daughter back in Chicago with my wife and son. I miss them, but I have a responsibility bigger than myself. Plus, the freedom’s not so bad and the fringe benefits are galvanizing. Now, my smile double crosses me.

Krista is a key to our strategy. She doesn’t even know yet, but the crisp uniformed arm she grasps belongs to her own arranged match, Axel Von du Croy. He is the son of one of Hitler’s high command in Berlin. She might be a tad young, but Axel’s maturity is well beyond his nineteen years. He can handle her. He’s certainly mature enough to stand beside his father in the Fatherland. When Axel heads to Berlin with Krista, their union will bridge the American-German Bund to Nazi headquarters. My mind jitters just thinking how this will strengthen ties. On the other side of the coin, Günther has warned me that Krista’s an unpredictable one, always questioning the hierarchy of races and challenging her role as a Nazi woman. Even tonight, I eye with a shudder of distaste. That American red dress needs to go. It’s rebellious! All the more reason to ingrain the wild youth living in America with ideals of the homeland. Günther must stay vigilant.

Two steps behind, Krista’s older sister Heidi, a classic beauty, sets her purse on a table and urges her escort to fetch a drink. Must be her boyfriend, Frank Schenk. Günther has described him to me, and we’ve discussed Heidi’s role with Herr Schenk. I have higher hopes for her. An obedient one like her could be useful.

As Günther approaches, I seize the command expected of a German Führer. “Herr Günther Brecht. Dear blood brother from Hitler’s Beer Hall Putsch.”

Günther, adorned in his decorated Nazi uniform, clicks his heels and tosses a Heil Hitler salute. “1923!” His jowls joggle.

As I flip a salute back, my Iron Cross medal from the Great War swings from my buttonhole. I steady it. My fingers warm when I think of the foresight Emperor Wilhelm II had back in 1914 when he stole the ancient Teutonic knight’s design for bravery. There’s an immortality beaming from it.

Günther’s own medals rise when he puffs out his chest. “We almost brought ‘em down. That double-crossing Weimar Republic. Barely escaped the bloody fate of the sixteen.”

“At least our sacrifice was not in vain,” I say. “We planted the seeds of Austottung of the Jews mit Stumptf und Stiel.”

Günther chuckles. “Ja! Extermination of the under-races from root to branch.”

We exchange a hefty handshake and clap each other on the back. “In Germany marches us!” I say. Then together, we approach Bund Secretary James Wheeler-Hill. Günther’s family tags behind like his own mini-brigade. I envy that man. He has it all.

“James. Good to see you again,” Günther says as he and my secretary slap each other’s shoulder. “Your national youth camps are well-oiled revenue machines.”

I stretch my arm toward James. “Secretary Wheeler-Hill. May I introduce Günther’s exquisite wife, Wilhelmina, and their ripe Fräuleins, Heidi and Krista.”

Krista’s nostrils flare, and I get a first-hand glimpse of that rebelliousness. That’s okay. She’s got that caramel and salty layering to her that can be magical. Once I have a moment with her, I will wrap her around my finger. She will be the inspiration for all American Nazi girls.

The Secretary gleams into the girls’ eyes as he grasps a hand from each. “Führer Hitler believes our most important weapon for Nazism in America is our youth.” His voice doesn’t match his strapping body. His iron jaw lets out a sound as sweet as a Kristy Kreme doughnut. “A pleasure,” he says. Our nickname for the thirty-five-year-old is Little Napoleon because he often rests his hand inside his jacket.

Heidi feeds the man’s ego with a beaming smile while Krista delivers a poker-face to the guy old enough to be her father. I blush just thinking about how she’ll soon understand her female responsibilities.

“Führer Kuhn,” Günther interrupts. “I believe you also know the Von du Croys from Germany. May I present their son, Axel Von du Croy.”

Krista’s escort, Axel, steps forward. Up close, the boy in his starched uniform is as debonair as I imagined. His stiff neck and haughty eyes knock aside his peers. He doesn’t even need to try. The soldier clicks his heels.

My chest hums. Much nicer to receive this respect than the belligerence in my early days here. I knew in my bones that I had what it took. But I had to let the people running the show swallow their own tails. They laughed at me at first. Ach! If I’d been in their shoes, maybe I would have, too. After all, I spoke English like a boar and had just two coins to rattle in my pocket. My own father’s to blame for the biggest snub, though. I still want to bury him alive for turning me to the Polizei just because I took a few coats from his friend’s factory. Even my mother didn’t forgive him for shipping me to Mexico to avoid jail. The greatest tragedy though, Adolph wouldn’t talk to me for years.

But payback is sweet. When the founding leaders were punished and shipped back to Germany, I emerged like a snake with a shiny new skin. I delivered the organization in America that would have taken Germany years. My heart pounds each time I recall the applause.

Axel’s body remains stiff, waiting for my cue. “A pleasure, Herr Von Du Croy,” I say. “A tragedy what the Jew Communists did to your family’s lands after the Great War. However, I hear your rightful property may be recovered.” If only my son could be as impressive as this boy. All he does when I telephone is complain about money and his mother. My greatest fear is that he may be a homosexual.

“Ya! As soon as the papers go through, Krista and I will marry and take our place,” Axel answers. Over his shoulder, his gray eyes give Krista an appraising glance. The alliance brokered between the Von du Croys and Brechts will advance my power and breed an American-German dynasty.

Heidi bounces on her toes and squeals. “Krista! You’re getting married!”

Krista starts coughing. Her hand covers her throat to settle the fit.

Without even looking at Krista, Axel reaches back and swats her back. “Vater wants me to take my place against the enemies who committed the Dolchstosslegende and—”

“Stabbed us in the back during the Great War,” I finish his sentence.

“Exactly! He says our destiny will save the world from diabolical Bolshevism.” Axel is a soldier with clarity and purpose.

“Marriage! Good news, Axel.” Frank slaps his back. “The best man is always the last to know.” He forces a grin.

“This time the wife is the last to know,” Krista mutters under the clattering of the room. But I hear her. As Wilhelmina squeezes her elbow, Krista beams a blistering glare at Axel. That defiance again.

I sigh. A smart girl would know this is her shining moment. Krista could learn a thing or two from her step-mother about the female’s role in the Reich. She will soon accept that a German man leads his woman as well as his country. She’s young, yet. And she’s bright. By tomorrow she will appreciate this gift.

“BundesFührer Kuhn,” Günther bellows over the noise. “One night soon, we shall celebrate. Tonight, we are here for you and our future.” He flashes a smile. His teeth have yellowed over his five years in America.

I spread my black leather jackboots. “I believe in a real democracy and America doesn’t have one right now,” I say. “Tonight, we speak of Freeing Amerika.” The energy in the room buzzes between my fingertips. The crowd jerks and paces like caged tigers on caffeine, anticipating my promises. The stroking inside me is so much more than pride. It’s dignity.

Führer Frederick Vandenberg appears. He’s the leader of Camp Siegfried, my showcase camp and the Kron juwel of the multi-million dollar German Bund corporation. He peeks over his thick round glasses. His words spill over his thin lips. “The only thing Amerikan freedom brings to this country is shacks and soup lines. Millions are out of work. Roosevelt’s New Deal only creates jobs like apple sellers and shoe shiners.”

“Kamerads!” I extend my arm. “Please welcome Frederick Vandenberg, Camp Siegfried’s brilliant Führer. And a friend of liberty.” Frederick’s receding hairline makes him look older than his actual years. His perennial red cheeks reveal his drinking habits. But his ruthless work ethic makes him as efficient as the German railway. As the group salutes him, I smile and nod at Vandenberg’s patriotic red, white and blue swastika on his lapel. “Führer Vandenberg’s right,” I say. “Democracy won’t revive Amerika.”

“This country is a broken down skeleton!” Vandenberg says. The body of the apple cheeked forty-something twitches with each word he speaks. He faces Axel and Frank. “Boys! Are you ready to help re-nourish this decaying country!” he says.

“Aryans will stop the degeneration,” Axel says, nodding.

“I look forward to contributing at Camp with you this summer, mein Führer,” Frank chimes.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a smirk from Krista when Frank speaks. She’s obviously not impressed with Heidi’s choice in partners either. Smart girl. I do like her.

Behind Vandenberg is his director of youth, the debonair, Theodore Dinkelacker. I wave him over. “Also, may I introduce the Youth Director for Camp Siegfried, Theodore Dinkelacker.”

Without a hair out of place, the man bows to his colleagues and then to Günther’s daughters. Heidi blushes. Caught between deference and jealousy, Frank puffs his cheeks.

I am anxious to connect everyone. I point to another officer. “Look who’s here from Andover, New Jersey. Camp Nordland Führer, Hermann Schwartzman.” His tight belt around his thick middle shows his wife’s been feeding him well. “He’s the most decorated German veteran in America. Naturally, he’s my choice for training our stormtroopers.”

Schwartzman’s garrison hat slips as he tips his hairless head to greet us.

I encourage discussion between my guests. But my priority is to rally around the ein kommender Politiker, the up-and-coming German Nazi, Axel Von du Croy. Axel will have the ears of important people in Berlin. “If you need anything, I have a direct line to our Führer Hitler,” I say. “Germany depends on me to unify our racial brothers.” Axel concentrates on my every word. “We are producing everything we need right here in Amerika. Our presses print anti-Roosevelt, anti-Semitic news. Our tailor makes uniforms in Queens.”

“Sounds less risky than smuggling them in on German ships,” Axel says.

“You are astute. Please, come by my New York office on 85^th. Or better yet, the office on Nye Avenue in Newark.” If I can engage Axel in the day to day, my connection will be that much stronger. I can smell der Kaffee.

“Danke, mein Führer.” Axel stiffens his neck.

“Fritz, how often will our girls see you at Camp Siegfried this summer?” Günther asks. He puts his arm around Heidi.

“I‘ll be up in Long Island a lot setting examples for our youth. In fact, you will all join me for the Camp Siegfried reception in a few weeks before the Götterdämmerung Assembly.” I hook my thumbs in my Sam Browne belt.

“You will visit, Herr Brecht,” Vandenberg says. “Our camp mimics our sacred homeland with much nostalgia.”

“And plus, the knockwurst is the best in the country.” James says, rubbing his stout stomach.

The group bellows.

“Axel’s favorite celebration at Camp Siegfried is Götterdämmerung,” Krista says, stone-faced. “Burning the old world for the new.”

“The celebration revitalizes us each year, Fräulein Brecht,” I say. It’s great to see my youth appreciate traditions.

“Do you agree with the myth, mein Führer?” Krista asks. “That war is the path to renewal.” She taps her foot, impatient for my answer. Her rebellious twinkle celebrates our mission.

“Your reflection shows your dedication and reveals the answer,” I answer. Her charisma is enchanting.

The panic-stricken Chief of Police Jenkins storms into the tavern. He stops short and his eyes scan our swastikas and Hitler uniforms. He’s impressed. Then he addresses the business at hand with me. “Mr. Kuhn. There are thousands of protestors invading the building. You need to leave or else the police can’t be responsible for your safety.”

“Leave?” I cry. “Those Commies should leave this country. They are terrorists. I will not leave for five thousand of them.” I pound my fist against a cocktail table so hard that an empty glass teeters, rolls, and shatters against the floor.

“We don’t have to leave!” James says. “We have freedom of speech rights.”

The chief of police reminds us that after the last American Bund riot when our members sang “Our greatest Joy Comes when Jewish blood flows through the streets,” laws changed. The words made the courts decide that Freedom of Speech did not apply to corporations. The discrimination toward us Germans irks me.

Dinkelacker yanks Axel and Frank. The three of them leave to investigate.

“We’ve got all these convoluted laws that convict us of hate if we say anything against race or religion,” I say to James. These laws have shaken the core of democracy.

“It’s ridiculous. The Great War laws still haunt us,” James says. “Germans are being convicted for so-called disloyal comments. This is an un-American attack against our liberties!”

“This is happening in Newark, Union City, North Bergen, and West New York,” Günther pines. “It’s now illegal to wear our Nazi uniforms, give the Heil salute, or display our dear swastika.” He wags his head in disgust. “Ein Unglück kommt selten allein.” In other words, when it rains it pours.

With a clattering of boots, Axel and Frank rush back into the Hall. “Mein Führer,” Axel rasps. “There are ten thousand protesters yelling, ‘Kill Kuhn.’”

“The Newark Minutemen thugs are moving in,” Frank adds. A ring of perspiration wets his garrison hat.

My blood boils and I unholster my gun. “You mean those flipping boxers that gangster Longie Zwillman calls his FBI militia? He can lick my arsch!”

The doors fling open and attackers swarm the room.