Facing the Enemy, page 12
It’s not like I have a crystal ball.
Finally, I see a camper, maybe ten years old,
alone by the lake. “Thomas, Thomas
Anspach? Have you seen him?” I say
in my best-ever German.
The camper looks me up and down,
“Ja,” he says. “He’s in the isolation cabin.”
He smiles. “He’s been bad.”
“Where is this cabin?” I ask.
He points to the trees.
Why doesn’t he ask me who I am
and what I am doing here?
“You a relative of his?” he says.
He thinks I’m German!
“Yeah, something like that,” I say.
KNOCKDOWN
BENJY
I race around the lake.
I can’t feel my feet anymore.
I’m sweating as if I’ve fought
ten rounds, maybe twelve,
in the ring. I can feel the sweat
running down my face, my chin,
my neck, my stomach. My face
must be red and I want to vomit.
But I don’t have time for that.
I spot something between the trees,
a sort of shack. The door has
a chain lock. I start pounding
on the door. “Tommy, Tommy,
are you in there?”
A voice calls out, too weak
for me to be certain it’s him.
I survey the shack. No windows.
How to get to him? I could slide
between the ropes if this were
a ring, but wooden slats?
Wait, one of them seems to be
loose. I kick at it, push all my
welterweight against the rotting
wood. It gives way and I crash
onto the dirt floor.
I pick myself up the way Pop
taught me to do after a knockdown,
like I’m made of rubber, all bouncy.
There in the corner is a huddled
mass. “Tommy, is that you?”
I inch over. The place smells
like the Newark subway station,
of piss and neglect. I kneel down.
“Tommy.”
GOT HIM!
BENJY
“Pup to Pop! Pup to Pop!
Come in, Pop!” I let go of
the Talk button for a moment
to wipe sweat from my forehead.
“Found him!
A shack in the woods on the left
side of the lake.”
Tommy says nothing. I don’t think
he can. I wish I had thought
to bring a canteen or something.
We’ve got him, though.
We rescued Tommy.
THE SHACK
BENJY
One of the Minutemen picks the lock,
a skill he learned working for Longie Zwillman.
Pop picks up Tommy like a bundle of wood.
We run.
Mr. Arno’s fingers pull through
the brass knuckles. The other Minutemen
do the same. Some of them hold clubs, too.
I know we’re going to run into the sentries,
the campers too. I don’t know how
we’re going to outsmart the opposition.
We need another diversion. “There!”
I yell. In the field is a hay truck. “We
can commandeer it, at least to the gate!”
MAKE A RUN FOR IT
BENJY
Finding Tommy was like finding
a needle in a haystack. Now he’s in the haystack,
resting comfortably, I hope. Mr. Arno’s
driving the hay truck at breakneck speed
toward the gate. We rumble along the grass
with half the camp, all the camp, running
alongside us, behind us, yelling shouting,
“Get off our property!”
“You don’t belong here!”
I expect the police to show up
any minute. I’m not too fond of them
since the Bund meeting.
Then I hear over the public-address system,
“Stop them! They’ve kidnapped
a camper!” Mr. Arno floors it
and before we know it, we’ve outpaced
the opposition. We’re at the gate.
We transfer to the car
and take off like bank robbers,
only we’re the good guys.
ON THE WAY HOME
BENJY
I have sore, searing thoughts
swirling in my head, asking how could Tommy
once believe in this bunk, the junk they poured
into his muddled brain. I know he sees it
now for the canker sore it really is.
WE STOP AT TOMMY’S HOUSE
BENJY
Tommy’s coherent now,
he’s had some water and some food.
We pull up in front of his house.
“I don’t want to go in,” he says.
“You’ve got to, son,” Pop says.
“Benjy and I will help you.”
Pop helps him out of the car
and up the front stairs. He
rings the bell. I’m holding
Tommy up. He’s still
pretty weak.
Mr. Anspach answers the door
with Mrs. Anspach right behind
him. She gasps and covers her mouth.
She reaches for Tommy. “My boy,” she cries.
I follow them into the parlor
where she clears a place on the sofa
for him to lie down. Pop
and Mr. Anspach enter the room.
“What has happened?” Mr. Anspach
asks Pop. “He got in trouble
for disobeying the uniform rules,
even though it’s against the law to wear them,” I say.
“He was locked up
in an isolation cabin, no food or water.”
Mrs. Anspach rushes in with a pot of tea.
She holds Tommy’s head while she forces
him to take some sips.
“This cannot be so,” Mr. Anspach says.
“It’s true,” Tommy murmurs. “I tried …
I tried to tell you. You didn’t want to listen.”
Mr. Anspach looks at Pop, one adult
to another. Pop says, “It’s true, all right.
Just look at this poor boy.”
By the time Pop and I leave, Tommy is asleep
in his own bed and Mr. Anspach
is shaking his head and pouring another beer,
muttering something about Jewish propaganda.
SKIN
TOMMY
The skin I was in doesn’t suit me anymore—
No khakis, marching, or salutes
The skin I was in proved only a veneer
like the cheap, chipped counter at Sol’s deli
The skin I was in buttoned me up tight,
my heart, my lungs, my lips, my thoughts
The skin I was in has molted like a snake’s.
I scrub until stars and stripes shine bright.
MOTHER’S TEA
TOMMY
“Gerhard, look what’s been done to him!”
“Gerhard, he is your son!”
“Gerhard, Rudi is dead. Tommy is alive.
Barely.”
Mother makes me some tea,
because she knows I like
it with six sugar cubes
when I’m sick.
She sits on the side of the bed
and puts the back of her hand
against my forehead.
“Tell me everything,”
she says, cradling my head
in her arms.
I STILL REFUSE
TOMMY
Father, I obeyed you before when you wanted me
to return to Nordland. I won’t go back this time.
You’ll do what I say as long as
you live under my roof.
You don’t know what goes on there.
It’s all a front, all a façade.
What do you know?
You’re just a child.
I may be a teenager, but you
didn’t raise me to be stupid.
Do you want me to tell you
about how I was locked up?
How the camp director threw me
into this shack because I refused
to disobey the law?
You must have done something wrong.
It’s illegal in New Jersey, Father,
to wear Nazi uniforms.
(He shrugs.)
Oh, Father, open your eyes!
Read a real newspaper!
Listen to real news!
There’s going to be war!
Worse than the Great War!
Worse than you or I could ever imagine!
HERE’S THE DEAL
TOMMY
If you make me go back, Father,
I’ll keep running away
and I won’t come back here.
I’ll go somewhere else.
You’ll never find me.
You’ll be as dead to me
as Rudi is to you.
If you make me go back, Father,
I’ll find a way to stay in touch
with Mother but never with you.
I won’t have a father
and you won’t have a son.
Hitler’s not the only one
who can make ultimatums.
THE DECISION
TOMMY
You have to go back, Father says,
I’ve paid for your summer
and for our cabin.
You have to go back, Father says,
I have a reputation to uphold.
You have to go back, Father says.
Then the decision is made, I say.
I’ll pack my things and leave.
I throw my clothes into a paper bag
and let the back door bang behind me.
I HIT THE STREETS
TOMMY
Father will know if I go to Benjy’s.
I walk around Weequahic,
keeping to myself until it’s time
to meet Benjy at Sol’s.
“Staying with Mr. Arno is a good idea,
right?” I ask, as Benjy hands me
the address. I’m proud of myself
for thinking of Mr. Arno. No one
can hurt me with him around
and Father would never think
of looking for me with a Minuteman.
“Still,” I say, “I worry about my mother
and how she’ll worry about me.”
Benjy buys me a soda, but I can’t drink it.
“Maybe I should send you
to my grandma.”
“I’ll still have to show up for school
in September,” I say. “I need to talk
to my mother.”
MY BUBBE TO THE RESCUE
BENJY
Ma talks to Tommy’s mother.
Ma talks to Grandma.
But it’s my bubbe who comes to the rescue.
At her house, she says to Mrs. Anspach,
“You’re always welcome.”
She gestures to the empty
parlor full of framed family photos
and doily-covered surfaces.
“I got plenty of space
and I like people to talk to.
And maybe this means I’ll see
my grandson more often!”
She pinches my cheek.
“And you know,” she continues,
“the high school is only a spit away.”
I love my grandma!
SHADOWS
TOMMY
I can lose myself in Superman comics,
slurp down an ice-cream soda,
but I can’t forget Nordland.
I still see shadows of swastikas,
hear Sieg Heil! salutes, taste
the bitterness of hatred.
But I’m on safe ground now,
growing my hair longer,
and hanging out with Benjy.
I just wish I could wake up
in my own room, the sun streaming in,
the garbage cans banging into each other.
If only I were bigger
If only I were stronger
If only I were older
Maybe Father would listen to me.
MONKEY IN THE MIDDLE
BENJY
August 22, 1939
“Reich and Soviet Agree on No-War Pact”
—United Press, August 22, 1939
Imagine this:
In the boxing ring of Europe,
Hitler’s Germany in black trunks
and Stalin’s Soviet Union in red trunks
put up their dukes, looking like
they’re going to throw serious blows.
But instead they unlace their gloves
and shake hands in the middle of the ring.
In the middle of the ring
is Poland, that country that
lies between Germany and the Soviet Union.
Hitler looks at Poland.
Stalin looks at Poland.
Then they look at each other
and smirk. They’re about to play
monkey in the middle,
while the rest of the world
looks on from the spectator seats.
IT’S STARTING
TOMMY
August 22, 1939
It won’t be long now. I imagine saying to Father.
Front-page headlines are full of
war!
German guns sixteen feet long
with plenty of firepower
roll toward Poland, Father.
I want to thrust the paper
in front of your face,
bend your head to the printed letters.
It’s real!
Will you believe me now?
GRANDMA TRIES TO REPAIR THE WORLD
BENJY
August 27, 1939
Bubbe carries a chocolate-frosted
layer cake with sixteen flaming candles
into her dining room.
“You’ve outdone yourself, Mama,”
Pop says to Bubbe as he takes
his third slice of the birthday cake.
“You are an excellent baker,”
Mrs. Puterman,” Tommy’s mother says.
“You must give me the recipe.”
“What recipe?” Bubbe asks. “A little
of this, a little of that.” She pinches
my cheek and then Tommy’s.
“And a lot of love.”
SOMEONE’S MISSING
TOMMY
I keep looking at the front door,
waiting for Father to come
to his senses, to come
to the door and apologize to me.
I keep looking at the front door,
hoping we can be a family again
and put Nordland and Nazism
out of our lives for good.
I keep looking at the front door
until Mother turns my head away
and says, “Eat your cake.”
THE WORLD SPINS TO WAR!
BENJY
August 30, 1939
Newspaper headlines are screaming,
streaming, war is coming:
Hitler’s given an ultimatum to Poland
to return land lost in the last war.
Poland calls up its military reserves!
IT’S DONE
TOMMY
September 1, 1939
Done!
Nordland’s lost its license
to sell liquor on camp grounds.
Done!
German tanks thunder through
fields and cobblestoned streets
of western Poland.
While New Jersey makes its way
to being Nazi-free,
the world has a long way to go.
WAR!
BENJY AND TOMMY
September 2, 1939
“Poland Bombed”
“Warsaw [Poland] Calls for Britain’s Aid” —Paterson Evening News,
September 1, 1939
Ladies and gentlemen,
the fight of the century
In this corner, Nazi Germany and pals
Italy and the Soviet Union.
In the opposite corner, Poland.
Both sides lace up their gloves
Hitler throws an explosive
Fog and smoke everywhere
Is Poland still standing?
To help Poland,
England, France, and Canada
climb over the ropes,
declarations of war tucked
into their gloves.
I NEED TO TALK TO FATHER
TOMMY
September 5, 1939
I want to come home, sleep in my own room,
although Grandma Puterman is like my own Oma,
and I am grateful for her care.
I need to talk to Father.
I need to see if he’s ready to hear
the truth now that there’s war
and not just rumors of it.
Mother arranges the visit.
I ring the doorbell
and my stomach
is getting pummeled
from the inside.
A VISIT WITH FATHER
TOMMY
Father answers the door
and gestures toward the parlor.
Not a beer in sight. No bottle
of schnapps on the shelf above the radio.
“I haven’t had a drink since you left,”
he says. “Maybe I mean more to you
than you thought,” I say. He nods
and offers me a glass of apple juice,
pours a glass for himself.
“I’ve had plenty of time to think
in the last few weeks,” he says. “But
I cannot change my ways. I cannot
change what I believe in. I understand
you feel differently.” My stomach
pulls in like I’ve been punched hard.
I expected my father to be reasonable.
He says, “Since you are my son, and under age,
Finally, I see a camper, maybe ten years old,
alone by the lake. “Thomas, Thomas
Anspach? Have you seen him?” I say
in my best-ever German.
The camper looks me up and down,
“Ja,” he says. “He’s in the isolation cabin.”
He smiles. “He’s been bad.”
“Where is this cabin?” I ask.
He points to the trees.
Why doesn’t he ask me who I am
and what I am doing here?
“You a relative of his?” he says.
He thinks I’m German!
“Yeah, something like that,” I say.
KNOCKDOWN
BENJY
I race around the lake.
I can’t feel my feet anymore.
I’m sweating as if I’ve fought
ten rounds, maybe twelve,
in the ring. I can feel the sweat
running down my face, my chin,
my neck, my stomach. My face
must be red and I want to vomit.
But I don’t have time for that.
I spot something between the trees,
a sort of shack. The door has
a chain lock. I start pounding
on the door. “Tommy, Tommy,
are you in there?”
A voice calls out, too weak
for me to be certain it’s him.
I survey the shack. No windows.
How to get to him? I could slide
between the ropes if this were
a ring, but wooden slats?
Wait, one of them seems to be
loose. I kick at it, push all my
welterweight against the rotting
wood. It gives way and I crash
onto the dirt floor.
I pick myself up the way Pop
taught me to do after a knockdown,
like I’m made of rubber, all bouncy.
There in the corner is a huddled
mass. “Tommy, is that you?”
I inch over. The place smells
like the Newark subway station,
of piss and neglect. I kneel down.
“Tommy.”
GOT HIM!
BENJY
“Pup to Pop! Pup to Pop!
Come in, Pop!” I let go of
the Talk button for a moment
to wipe sweat from my forehead.
“Found him!
A shack in the woods on the left
side of the lake.”
Tommy says nothing. I don’t think
he can. I wish I had thought
to bring a canteen or something.
We’ve got him, though.
We rescued Tommy.
THE SHACK
BENJY
One of the Minutemen picks the lock,
a skill he learned working for Longie Zwillman.
Pop picks up Tommy like a bundle of wood.
We run.
Mr. Arno’s fingers pull through
the brass knuckles. The other Minutemen
do the same. Some of them hold clubs, too.
I know we’re going to run into the sentries,
the campers too. I don’t know how
we’re going to outsmart the opposition.
We need another diversion. “There!”
I yell. In the field is a hay truck. “We
can commandeer it, at least to the gate!”
MAKE A RUN FOR IT
BENJY
Finding Tommy was like finding
a needle in a haystack. Now he’s in the haystack,
resting comfortably, I hope. Mr. Arno’s
driving the hay truck at breakneck speed
toward the gate. We rumble along the grass
with half the camp, all the camp, running
alongside us, behind us, yelling shouting,
“Get off our property!”
“You don’t belong here!”
I expect the police to show up
any minute. I’m not too fond of them
since the Bund meeting.
Then I hear over the public-address system,
“Stop them! They’ve kidnapped
a camper!” Mr. Arno floors it
and before we know it, we’ve outpaced
the opposition. We’re at the gate.
We transfer to the car
and take off like bank robbers,
only we’re the good guys.
ON THE WAY HOME
BENJY
I have sore, searing thoughts
swirling in my head, asking how could Tommy
once believe in this bunk, the junk they poured
into his muddled brain. I know he sees it
now for the canker sore it really is.
WE STOP AT TOMMY’S HOUSE
BENJY
Tommy’s coherent now,
he’s had some water and some food.
We pull up in front of his house.
“I don’t want to go in,” he says.
“You’ve got to, son,” Pop says.
“Benjy and I will help you.”
Pop helps him out of the car
and up the front stairs. He
rings the bell. I’m holding
Tommy up. He’s still
pretty weak.
Mr. Anspach answers the door
with Mrs. Anspach right behind
him. She gasps and covers her mouth.
She reaches for Tommy. “My boy,” she cries.
I follow them into the parlor
where she clears a place on the sofa
for him to lie down. Pop
and Mr. Anspach enter the room.
“What has happened?” Mr. Anspach
asks Pop. “He got in trouble
for disobeying the uniform rules,
even though it’s against the law to wear them,” I say.
“He was locked up
in an isolation cabin, no food or water.”
Mrs. Anspach rushes in with a pot of tea.
She holds Tommy’s head while she forces
him to take some sips.
“This cannot be so,” Mr. Anspach says.
“It’s true,” Tommy murmurs. “I tried …
I tried to tell you. You didn’t want to listen.”
Mr. Anspach looks at Pop, one adult
to another. Pop says, “It’s true, all right.
Just look at this poor boy.”
By the time Pop and I leave, Tommy is asleep
in his own bed and Mr. Anspach
is shaking his head and pouring another beer,
muttering something about Jewish propaganda.
SKIN
TOMMY
The skin I was in doesn’t suit me anymore—
No khakis, marching, or salutes
The skin I was in proved only a veneer
like the cheap, chipped counter at Sol’s deli
The skin I was in buttoned me up tight,
my heart, my lungs, my lips, my thoughts
The skin I was in has molted like a snake’s.
I scrub until stars and stripes shine bright.
MOTHER’S TEA
TOMMY
“Gerhard, look what’s been done to him!”
“Gerhard, he is your son!”
“Gerhard, Rudi is dead. Tommy is alive.
Barely.”
Mother makes me some tea,
because she knows I like
it with six sugar cubes
when I’m sick.
She sits on the side of the bed
and puts the back of her hand
against my forehead.
“Tell me everything,”
she says, cradling my head
in her arms.
I STILL REFUSE
TOMMY
Father, I obeyed you before when you wanted me
to return to Nordland. I won’t go back this time.
You’ll do what I say as long as
you live under my roof.
You don’t know what goes on there.
It’s all a front, all a façade.
What do you know?
You’re just a child.
I may be a teenager, but you
didn’t raise me to be stupid.
Do you want me to tell you
about how I was locked up?
How the camp director threw me
into this shack because I refused
to disobey the law?
You must have done something wrong.
It’s illegal in New Jersey, Father,
to wear Nazi uniforms.
(He shrugs.)
Oh, Father, open your eyes!
Read a real newspaper!
Listen to real news!
There’s going to be war!
Worse than the Great War!
Worse than you or I could ever imagine!
HERE’S THE DEAL
TOMMY
If you make me go back, Father,
I’ll keep running away
and I won’t come back here.
I’ll go somewhere else.
You’ll never find me.
You’ll be as dead to me
as Rudi is to you.
If you make me go back, Father,
I’ll find a way to stay in touch
with Mother but never with you.
I won’t have a father
and you won’t have a son.
Hitler’s not the only one
who can make ultimatums.
THE DECISION
TOMMY
You have to go back, Father says,
I’ve paid for your summer
and for our cabin.
You have to go back, Father says,
I have a reputation to uphold.
You have to go back, Father says.
Then the decision is made, I say.
I’ll pack my things and leave.
I throw my clothes into a paper bag
and let the back door bang behind me.
I HIT THE STREETS
TOMMY
Father will know if I go to Benjy’s.
I walk around Weequahic,
keeping to myself until it’s time
to meet Benjy at Sol’s.
“Staying with Mr. Arno is a good idea,
right?” I ask, as Benjy hands me
the address. I’m proud of myself
for thinking of Mr. Arno. No one
can hurt me with him around
and Father would never think
of looking for me with a Minuteman.
“Still,” I say, “I worry about my mother
and how she’ll worry about me.”
Benjy buys me a soda, but I can’t drink it.
“Maybe I should send you
to my grandma.”
“I’ll still have to show up for school
in September,” I say. “I need to talk
to my mother.”
MY BUBBE TO THE RESCUE
BENJY
Ma talks to Tommy’s mother.
Ma talks to Grandma.
But it’s my bubbe who comes to the rescue.
At her house, she says to Mrs. Anspach,
“You’re always welcome.”
She gestures to the empty
parlor full of framed family photos
and doily-covered surfaces.
“I got plenty of space
and I like people to talk to.
And maybe this means I’ll see
my grandson more often!”
She pinches my cheek.
“And you know,” she continues,
“the high school is only a spit away.”
I love my grandma!
SHADOWS
TOMMY
I can lose myself in Superman comics,
slurp down an ice-cream soda,
but I can’t forget Nordland.
I still see shadows of swastikas,
hear Sieg Heil! salutes, taste
the bitterness of hatred.
But I’m on safe ground now,
growing my hair longer,
and hanging out with Benjy.
I just wish I could wake up
in my own room, the sun streaming in,
the garbage cans banging into each other.
If only I were bigger
If only I were stronger
If only I were older
Maybe Father would listen to me.
MONKEY IN THE MIDDLE
BENJY
August 22, 1939
“Reich and Soviet Agree on No-War Pact”
—United Press, August 22, 1939
Imagine this:
In the boxing ring of Europe,
Hitler’s Germany in black trunks
and Stalin’s Soviet Union in red trunks
put up their dukes, looking like
they’re going to throw serious blows.
But instead they unlace their gloves
and shake hands in the middle of the ring.
In the middle of the ring
is Poland, that country that
lies between Germany and the Soviet Union.
Hitler looks at Poland.
Stalin looks at Poland.
Then they look at each other
and smirk. They’re about to play
monkey in the middle,
while the rest of the world
looks on from the spectator seats.
IT’S STARTING
TOMMY
August 22, 1939
It won’t be long now. I imagine saying to Father.
Front-page headlines are full of
war!
German guns sixteen feet long
with plenty of firepower
roll toward Poland, Father.
I want to thrust the paper
in front of your face,
bend your head to the printed letters.
It’s real!
Will you believe me now?
GRANDMA TRIES TO REPAIR THE WORLD
BENJY
August 27, 1939
Bubbe carries a chocolate-frosted
layer cake with sixteen flaming candles
into her dining room.
“You’ve outdone yourself, Mama,”
Pop says to Bubbe as he takes
his third slice of the birthday cake.
“You are an excellent baker,”
Mrs. Puterman,” Tommy’s mother says.
“You must give me the recipe.”
“What recipe?” Bubbe asks. “A little
of this, a little of that.” She pinches
my cheek and then Tommy’s.
“And a lot of love.”
SOMEONE’S MISSING
TOMMY
I keep looking at the front door,
waiting for Father to come
to his senses, to come
to the door and apologize to me.
I keep looking at the front door,
hoping we can be a family again
and put Nordland and Nazism
out of our lives for good.
I keep looking at the front door
until Mother turns my head away
and says, “Eat your cake.”
THE WORLD SPINS TO WAR!
BENJY
August 30, 1939
Newspaper headlines are screaming,
streaming, war is coming:
Hitler’s given an ultimatum to Poland
to return land lost in the last war.
Poland calls up its military reserves!
IT’S DONE
TOMMY
September 1, 1939
Done!
Nordland’s lost its license
to sell liquor on camp grounds.
Done!
German tanks thunder through
fields and cobblestoned streets
of western Poland.
While New Jersey makes its way
to being Nazi-free,
the world has a long way to go.
WAR!
BENJY AND TOMMY
September 2, 1939
“Poland Bombed”
“Warsaw [Poland] Calls for Britain’s Aid” —Paterson Evening News,
September 1, 1939
Ladies and gentlemen,
the fight of the century
In this corner, Nazi Germany and pals
Italy and the Soviet Union.
In the opposite corner, Poland.
Both sides lace up their gloves
Hitler throws an explosive
Fog and smoke everywhere
Is Poland still standing?
To help Poland,
England, France, and Canada
climb over the ropes,
declarations of war tucked
into their gloves.
I NEED TO TALK TO FATHER
TOMMY
September 5, 1939
I want to come home, sleep in my own room,
although Grandma Puterman is like my own Oma,
and I am grateful for her care.
I need to talk to Father.
I need to see if he’s ready to hear
the truth now that there’s war
and not just rumors of it.
Mother arranges the visit.
I ring the doorbell
and my stomach
is getting pummeled
from the inside.
A VISIT WITH FATHER
TOMMY
Father answers the door
and gestures toward the parlor.
Not a beer in sight. No bottle
of schnapps on the shelf above the radio.
“I haven’t had a drink since you left,”
he says. “Maybe I mean more to you
than you thought,” I say. He nods
and offers me a glass of apple juice,
pours a glass for himself.
“I’ve had plenty of time to think
in the last few weeks,” he says. “But
I cannot change my ways. I cannot
change what I believe in. I understand
you feel differently.” My stomach
pulls in like I’ve been punched hard.
I expected my father to be reasonable.
He says, “Since you are my son, and under age,
