Newark Minutemen. Leslie K. BarryЧитать онлайн книгу.
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 85th. 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.
YAEL:
Private Tavern Room. City Hall. Union City, NJ
Our swingin’ bats shatter the City Hall Tavern windows like a cascading ocean wave. The crash seizes my heart faster than a gunshot blast. The guests of Kuhn, who had just a moment ago been juicin’ up for a rousing night, now squeeze their eyes to block the shards and slivers of glass sprayin’ them like cactus spine.
Harry, Puddy, and I barge through the openings under cover of the rainin’ glass. We strike a wall of stormtroopers who fight back with just as much vigor. Nat and the rest of the Minutemen pour in and ambush like seasoned lions—focused, fierce, bloodthirsty. The good news for us—Führer Fritz Kuhn won’t have his Bund rally anytime tonight.
As Al creaks open a floor trapdoor, a stormtrooper raises his belt buckle to whack him. Behind the trooper, Nat points to the Nazi’s back and wallops him with his bat. The trooper flies faster than a Babe Ruth baseball sheddin’ its canvas. The loser twirls in front of me and I deliver a left-handed knockout punch.
As the heads of Al and Benny emerge from below ground, they sing “Peek-a-boo.” Their arms wrap around high black boots. Troopers topple, crunching glass against the floor.
Our pal Puddy is toe to toe with Trooper Frank. Three more Troopers join the sparring. Harry and I come to the rescue. The Nazis hear us before they see us and scramble like pigs bein’ rounded up for slaughter. Puddy winds up and knocks Frank out. We didn’t even have to get our hands dirty on that one.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch something comin’ at me. Just in time, I duck out of the way of Trooper Axel’s lead-lined rubber hose. On the backswing, it wraps around my bat. I pull tight, and hurl him into a fightin’ scrum. Around me, the grunts and smacks make me wince. I glance up and raise a fist to signal the boys above. The distraction gets the better of me because the next thing I know, a jolt of pain rips though my ribs. The taste of iron swishes in my mouth, and I drop to my knees. My muscles ripple in anticipation of another blow when I hear the chime, “Doy-resn.” Abie soars down and flattens the crow-body broodin’ over me. I hear bones crunch. Next to me, Maxie lands on uniformed shoulders and rides the soldier like a swashbuckler. Abie throws a punch to the swayin’ Nazi’s breadbasket and Maxie slides down just before the guy splinters a wooden table to pieces.
The heavy-duty German officer from earlier hunkers behind Kuhn’s guards. He covers his head with one arm and maneuvers his stout wife around the twisted limbs on the floor. From a heap of bloodied torsos, Heidi grabs the shoulder belt of her shaky boyfriend Frank and hanks him up. She huddles them both behind the guards to safety.
The other daughter, Krista, hangs in the crux of rowdy bedlam. In a flash, my eye spots a blurry object rocketing toward her red dress. I spiral through the air and bat it away. A brick. It would’ve bruised her badly. Steps away, her boyfriend ducks out under the diverted weapon. From the ground, I growl at the girl. “Get