Newark Minutemen. Leslie K. BarryЧитать онлайн книгу.
he admires her.
I draw a triangle on the frosty window with the finger that sticks out of my glove and wipe away the film inside the shape. Through the cleared glass, I spot men waitin’ in the soup lines. Their knees judder against their baggy clothes like a car engine without enough fuel. Jobs are rare these days. My father and uncles are lucky. They’re bootleggers for Longie Zwillman. Pop calls Longie the King of the Jewish mob. Pop makes good money at the docks where runner boats drop booze. That’s illegal. The cops don’t bother him, though, because Longie takes care of everyone. With my finger, I add an upside-down triangle to make a star.
Just as I arrive at the foggy Newark bay docks, an old war truck swerves around me. “This ain’t a place for a kid!” the gunman hangin’ off the side yells at me. The curlin’ fog reminds me of ghosts clawin’ for my throat. Through it, it’s hard to spot any ship riggin’. I can only see the tips of bouncin’ bows. I balance myself along a braided boat line that guides me down the dock toward Pop’s runner boat at the end of the pier. I swing the suitcase to pitch me forward. As I near the boat, the mist shifts just enough for me to see my tall father. Next to him another man scratches the red stubble across his face. They’re securing ropes over the side of their boat.
When Pop opens a thermos and fills two cups, I’m close enough to sniff the roasted coffee, but he still doesn’t know I’m here. The opportunity is too good to pass. I smile to myself and spring into the boat, landin’ with a bang. Pop and the man swing around with guns aimed at my head. I dodge the flyin’ coffee just in time.
“Drek!” Pop curses. “Yael Newman! You know better than that.” He and his mate tuck the guns back under their shirts into their waistbands. Red-faced, he won’t look at me.
With my heart in my throat, I try to break the ice. “You forgot your clothes bag, Pop. I brought it for ya.” I hold his scuffed suitcase high like a trophy. My brother’s sweater swings across my knees.
After an awkward moment, Pop pulls the bag, along with me, into his arms for a hug. “Danks my son. I would have frozen and starved. Then what good would I be to Mr. Zwillman?” He slides the suitcase and pumps my cap over my eyes and back up again. The crow’s feet that bloom into a dozen crinkles around his eyes when he smiles warm me. When my father smiles, nothing in the world can hurt me.
“Joseph,” Pop’s friend says. “Longie Zwillman wouldn’t abandon you. He’s as loyal as any Jewish mob boss can be.”
“Longie takes care of his own,” my pop says. “Yael, this is my pal, Ruby.” He nods toward his partner.
Ruby extends his hand toward me, shakes it, and will not let go. “Oy vey,” Ruby says in his heavy Yiddish accent. “Your father’s right. You are very strong. I can see why you want to be a boxer.”
Suddenly, we hear heavy boots clomp against the wooden dock. Through the haunting fog, we see three men dressed like German soldiers appear and disappear. They remind me of that Grim Reaper flick with the creeper who has black holes for eyes. Their military coats sway in the wind. Adolph Hitler’s new German party haunts everyone now, even in America.
“Quick, Yael, hide,” Pop whispers, nudgin’ me. “Get under the bow.”
I scramble inside the shelter and close the canvas cover from inside. I hear Pop and Ruby’s coffee cups rattle inside the crate.
Peerin’ through a rip in the canvas, I see my hat floatin’ on the deck. With a pinch in my chest, I hear the men’s boots scrape to a stop.
“Gut morning, Kamerads,” the soldier says in a heavy German accent.
“May we help you?” my father asks. He lifts his flat, tweed cap, runs his hands through his wavy copper hair, and replaces the hat.
“How considerate,” the soldier cajoles. “I like a man with hospitality.” He squeezes the peak of his military cap.
The canvas slit is just big enough for me to see him and his tall, sinewy partner jump down into the boat. Their high black boots splash the water. With a hitch in my throat, I bend my eyes toward the dock and view the knees of a brawny third soldier.
“That’s a Yiddish accent I hear, yah?” the leader in the boat says. He trudges toward me. Before I know what hits me, a cold splash spurts through the opening and thwacks my eye. I bite my fist. He’s so close that any tweet will give me away. “My doctor in Berlin was Jewish,” he adds. “But our new German Chancellor, Führer Hitler, scared him out of town.” Through blurry vision, I see him whip a full-faced grin to the soldier on the dock.
The taller soldier behind him roams around. He checks under seats and opens crates. The black swastika on his blood-red armband plugs a lump in my throat. He rubs his sharp chin and points to the ledge of the boat. “It’s okay for me to sit here, sir?” His wry, amused voice solicits my father’s permission. As the soldier sits on the ledge without waitin’ for an answer, Pop rubs the stubble on his square jaw. The man spreads his legs. “I hope you will excuse our intrusion.” He apologizes in that fake polite way.
At the front of the boat, the leader hops up on the bow above my hidin’ place. His loud landin’ jolts me. “So, meine Freunde,” he says. “Please, have a seat. Relax on your nice boat.” He unbuttons his overcoat and the flaps slap against the canvas. Even from where I crouch under the cover, the mud on his boots reeks of rotten eggs.
Pop and Ruby follow orders and sit across from the other intruder on the boat ledge. This soldier also unbuttons his dark coat to reveal his military Sam Browne belt, supported by a narrow strap passin’ diagonally over his right shoulder. He reaches with his long arms, removes the thermos from the crate, and pours himself coffee. “Nothing like a hot cup of coffee,” he says. He wipes germs off the cup with his sleeve. “Grateful for your hospitality.” His eyes close as the muddy liquid passes between his lips. “Let me ask you,” he inhales and only then does he open his eyes. “As Americans, do you believe in democracy?”
Without a word, Pop clenches and opens his fists.
“Democracy gives you free choice, yes?” the soldier says with a condescending edge.
I hear Pop ignore him with all his might. After livin’ under the boots of Russia, my father knows the importance of bein’ able to say what’s on your mind. My throat clogs, fightin’ a scream that wants to shatter this transparent intruder into dust.
“My Kamerads and I believe in free choice, too. Don’t we?” the soldier says. He flips his head toward each of his men. “So, we are going to give you free choice today. You can choose. Hmh? You can freely surprise us with the treasures hidden on your boat. Or, we can tear you and the boat limb from limb.” He spreads his arms and smirks. “You choose.”
A cold sweat runs down my spine. They’re threatening my pop. I see his jowls bulge. He won’t let these terrorists win.
“You’ve made a mistake,” Ruby says. “There’s nothing we can do for you.”
A thin metal pipe dangles in my line of sight. It’s so close, my breath fogs it’s skin. The man sittin’ above me rubs it. My heart pops. Does he know I’m down here? I watch the steel Luger pistol roll between his hands. Then, with one swift movement, I hear him bang the grip of the barrel on the wooden bow above my head twice, flip it over, and clack the muzzle against the plank. My chest pounds. I hold my breath, imagining a bullet exiting through the gun, splintering the wood and burying itself into my skull.
Pop springs.
The soldier on the ledge of the boat aims his weapon at him.
Ruby whips out his gun and aims it at the leader above me.
The third partner on the dock aims his gun down at Ruby. “Halt!” he shouts.
The man from the ledge of the boat jumps up, seizes the gun from Ruby, and shoves him back into his seat. He pats Pop’s waist, finds his pistol, and disarms him.
Pop raises his hands