Facing the Enemy, page 5
double over with my Popeye impressions.
That mask you wear now scares me,
a Mr. Hyde monster that swallows Dr. Jekyll.
I wear a mask now, too,
of courage to knock off your mask.
FOOTBALL RALLY WITH FATHER
THOMAS
Everyone’s going to the big game on Thursday
against Hillside High.
It’s not even real football. What is the American word
for the football the rest of the world plays?
With the white and black ball?
Soccer, Father.
What kind of word is that?
It’s Fussball, football.
We’ll have a bonfire the night before.
Get all jazzed up to beat our rival team.
Rah-rah-rah! Let’s hear it for Weequahic High.
Must you cheer a Jewish school?
Isn’t Nordland celebrating Thanksgiving
in some way? A harvest festival?
You’ll go to that instead.
I’ll drive you.
THANKSGIVING
BENJY
“The time has come,” Pop announces,
placing his gravy-stained napkin on Ma’s
heirloom tablecloth, the one with her grandmother’s
cross-stitching. I roll my eyes and glance at Ma.
We know what time Pop means. “I’ll start,” he says.
“I’m grateful for having food on the table, a couple
of bucks in the bank, and a job. Mother?” Bubbe
looks up from her fruit compote. “Oy vey, why
must you do this? We were having such a nice meal.
Well, all right. I am glad I got a place to go
on Thanksgiving and that I don’t got to make
the turkey. There, happy?” Pop nods. Ma’s turn.
“I’m grateful we’re all together and that our parents
had the foresight to leave Europe when they did.”
“Here, here!” Pop says. Now it’s up to me. “I’m grateful
for this meal and this family. I’m grateful Pop taught
me how to box. I’m grateful for movies and comic books
and Sol’s.” But all of this just makes me miss Tommy.
By next Thanksgiving, I’m going to be grateful I did all I could.
MOTHER SOOTHES AND SMOOTHS FOR OTHERS
THOMAS
The Bund’s Women’s Service keeps
Mother busy. She knits our socks,
irons tablecloths. She cooks
and serves meals at Nordland’s restaurant.
She ties shoelaces for the younger kids
in her work to keep us all tied to each other.
But that means she’s not home
when I come home from school.
She’s not eating dinner with us.
She’s not cooking for us.
I take an apple from the counter
and Father slaps my hand
so hard I can see his fingers
still in my skin.
“That’s for the apple strudel
Mother is making for the Bund’s
bake sale. You and I must
learn to live with less
for the good of everyone.”
He pulls another beer
out of the icebox.
“It’s just a stinking apple!” I say.
He smacks me again. “Watch
your tone with me, boy.”
“Why don’t you go have
another beer?” I say without thinking.
His punch knocks me to the floor.
It’s just a stinking apple,
I mutter, as I crawl toward my room,
my stomach grumbling.
BRING IN THE HEAVYWEIGHTS
BENJY
If I could call on anyone to help the Minutekids,
I’d call on Errol Flynn. Quick-witted, fencing genius,
sarcastic, laugh in the face of death. We all need
that bravado to take our stand no matter the consequences.
If Errol’s not available, we could use a tough guy like
Edward G. Robinson, a cigar in his mouth, a rod
in his hand, and no fear. If Edward G.’s not available,
we could use a charmer any person wants to trust.
Ma loves Clark Gable’s voice and his dimples.
If Clark’s not available, maybe Mr. Arno
could use his connections to get us
Max Baer
Maxie Rosenbloom
Barney Ross
We Jews have a history of boxing.
Might as well put it to good use.
And I, as the leader, well, I’m a quick-witted
boxer who’s fast on his feet, ready to anticipate
the opposition’s moves.
MIGHT MAKES RIGHT
BENJY
Our fists hold our might
to make right and
fingers hold pens
to write words of might
words of right
through the rite
of making things right
in Newark. We engage
in the rite of busting
antisemitism, of separating
right from wrong,
of our right to speak,
to write with right hands
and left hands. We’ve got
might on our side to create
the right of way. It’s our right
to clean up New Jersey.
Don’t write us off.
SALTSHAKERS
BENJY
Light pours into the classroom through the gaps
of the shades. The dust fairies are having a field day,
flapping their tiny wings in a dance all their own.
This newspaper room is a mess. The floor is littered
with drafts of Minutekids flyers. Someone’s knocked over
the wastepaper basket. A single chair leans against
the wall for support. I want to power my way
through this room, using my words in a right punch,
an uppercut, a left hook to the Nordlanders. That’s
what I call them now, Tommy included, as if they’re no longer
individual people. Even though this room is a pigsty,
we’ll fight clean. Maybe. Then off to Sol’s for sour pickles.
NO QUESTIONS FOR FATHER
THOMAS
I never ask Father why he came to America.
I never ask him why he stopped singing;
Mother said he could have been an opera star.
I never ask him why he chose Newark.
I never ask him about his brothers or sisters.
I don’t even know if he has any, but Mother
says he does. I don’t know if he went
to university, how old he was when he left home
or even where home actually was. I never ask,
I never mention Rudi’s name either,
because I’m afraid I will upset him to the point
where he no longer knows my name. Mother keeps the radio dial
on the opera broadcast. We don’t have a record player.
Wagner’s operas always make Father feel stronger,
prouder, as Mother says, more like his old self,
when I could call him Daddy and he would
let me play horsey on his knee. When he called me Tommy.
LET’S GET READY TO RUMBLE
BENJY
Coming to you from Yankee Stadium,
it’s pugilistic teen reporter
Benjy Puterman.
In this corner, heavyweight champion
American Jew
Max Baer
in red, white, and blue trunks
In the opposite corner, former
world heavyweight champion
from Germany, Hitler’s own favorite,
Max Schmeling,
in red and black trunks
Fifteen rounds,
ladies and gentlemen,
the fight of the century
between two bears.
See what I did there?
Baer, bear?
I’m a regular Groucho Marx
or Eddie Cantor.
But back to the action.
Baer’s making good
defensive moves.
Round ten, Baer deals
a terrific right, but
Schmeling won’t give in.
Another right, and then another,
Schmeling topples. Down
for nine counts but stands up.
Schmeling’s legs now rubber,
Baer gives him a right, a left,
jabs and uppercuts.
Schmeling holds on to the ropes.
It’s all over, folks.
Baer wins!
Technical KO!
A win for the US of A
and for Jews everywhere!
DUELING FLYERS AND PAMPHLETS
BENJY AND THOMAS
We come into German class,
each armed with a stack
of mimeographed papers.
Why do we have a Jew teaching German?
Any of the adult members of the Bund
could teach us—and teach better.
Are Tommy’s cheekbones more chiseled?
His mouth more determined?
His hair blonder and his eyes bluer?
I begin handing out my flyers
about our upcoming Christmas market,
a fundraiser for Camp Nordland.
I am selective.
“Come to our rally,” I say,
passing out my material
to the Jews in the class,
which is mostly everybody.
We Nordlanders go through the aisles,
until we are chased. Papers fly everywhere.
Where is the discipline?
We cannot let them win.
WOLF PACK
BENJY
Tommy’s running with the pack,
the taste of blood on his lips,
Hooking arms with Johanns, Gustavs, Rolfs,
follow the pack dog in front of you,
step here, that’s right, don’t go off
on your own. Stay with the program.
Tommy’s running with the pack,
muscle memory moves on his hips,
Marching lockstep with his New Germany pals.
Bulge those limbs, be strong for the Führer!
Tommy’s running with the pack,
the scent of prey in school hallways:
Who is strong and who is weak?
Who has might and who is meek?
Tommy’s running with the pack,
melodies oompah in his ears.
Bring him back to Nordland’s high grasses,
soldier camaraderie in the bunks.
Tommy’s running with the pack
and I’m going to stop him.
Because once you run with the pack,
the hunt for blood never ends.
GLASSY-EYED FISH
BENJY
I once helped an old man cross
Springfield Ave. He muttered something
in Yiddish and patted my head, Grandma-like.
I thought he was going to pinch my cheeks, too.
The cheeks of the smoked whitefish
gleam in the light of the display case,
their eyes glassy. I wonder what
their last thoughts were
before the hook lifted them
out of the water.
You’d think the Passaic River,
dirty as it is, would protect us
from the Nazi Armada.
But they are here among us
with their false names and pledges
and Newark’s Jews are just
dead whitefish in the display case.
SOUTHBURY SAYS NO
BENJY
December 15, 1937
The paper says the Bund bought
178 acres in Southbury, Connecticut,
for Camp General von Steuben,
named for the Prussian general
who trained Americans in the Revolutionary War.
The paper says this farming community
descended from Yankee patriots
put the kibosh, my words, on the whole thing.
Yesterday Southbury enacted zoning laws so Bund members
couldn’t clear the land on Sundays.
There will be no Camp General von Steuben.
Why couldn’t Andover have done this?
WHO AM I?
BENJY
In the bathroom mirror, I’m someone else—
a federal agent hired by the FBI
to scurry through Newark subway tunnels
and find the scum.
In the bathroom mirror, I’m gangster Longie Zwillman,
good to his mother and Weequahic Jews,
but let’s face it, people, he’s a mobster
no one wants to mess with, including the Bund.
In the bathroom mirror, I’m Sam Dickstein,
a big mouth with a big stick of Congress
to stop Fritz Kuhn and the Bund,
to stop the spread of Nazis in America.
In the bathroom mirror, I’m just me—
skinny, scrawny Benjy Puterman,
whose biceps look like Bubbe’s
misshapen meatballs, whose flabby abs
wouldn’t withstand a punch from
a roll of toilet paper. But the mind?
A regular Einstein, so my mother says.
THE CHRISTMAS MARKET
THOMAS
The Women’s Service is at it again,
making all sorts of cookies and crafts
to be sold at the Christmas market,
festive warmth against cold winter’s draft.
The Women’s Service is at it again,
mothers and sisters bundled in coats.
They stand at their booths, eager to sell,
prepared on each customer to dote.
My favorite cookie is gingerbread,
I love the firm, thin bottom wafer.
If I’m lucky, Mother will keep some
home for Father and me to savor.
Nutcrackers, ornaments, hot mulled wine,
cloves and oranges, chocolates galore,
carved animals, felt hats, sturdy pipes,
Advent calendars with cardboard doors.
The Women’s Service is at it again,
there’s much to celebrate this season.
We’re all in good health. Let’s lift a glass
and toast—Prost! We’ve got a jolly reason.
SILENT NIGHT ON GOLDSMITH AVENUE
BENJY
I stand in the street outside
Tommy’s home, wool cap
over my head and ears,
jacket zipped to my neck.
The Christmas tree stands
before the parlor window,
all lit up with white lights
and round ornaments.
Before Nordland, I’d be sitting
in that room, drinking hot chocolate.
Before Nordland, Tommy
would have a gift for me
and I’d have a gift for him—
A pen
A wallet
A key chain
A book
A record.
PART II:
PUSH AND PULL, 1938–1939
I’M A SEASONED CAMP NORDLANDER
THOMAS
The summer and fall were a blur of red, white, blue, and black. Most camps operate only in the summer, but then Camp Nordland is no ordinary camp. It’s not just for kids. Parents rent cabins and enjoy the country life outside the city, the trees, the lake, and the beer. It reminds them of their homeland. Nordland is an American homeland. When I go to Nordland, often with Father, we are son and father, children of the German Fatherland on American soil. Germans love nature, Father has told me this many times.
Nordland is open all year round for special events. The next few months will bring President Washington’s birthday; Fasching, the German carnival celebration before the restrictions of Lent; and the Führer’s birthday celebration. Both Washington and the Führer are founding fathers of new nations, nations that will claim their new, bold futures. It’s only a matter of time before the Führer realizes his dream of more land for the German people, the land we deserve. Every night Father drinks a toast to Adolf Hitler. The Führer’s building roads and cars. He’s finding people jobs. Mother says he’s been a gift to the German people. She lifts a glass to his health.
WINTER DOLDRUMS
THOMAS
January 1938
I tramp through snow, and the pond
has frozen at Weequahic Park.
I long for the green fields of Nordland,
the flight of birds in tight formation
inspired by our ranks.
We’ll still be brought to campgrounds
for Fasching in March, that celebration
of coming spring, and of course for the
Führer’s birthday in April. We’ll pay homage
with lines of respect in order of rank.
I can’t wait for my second summer,
for my leadership skills to be noticed,
and to advance through the ranks.
SMOKED
BENJY
Smoke has settled in Tommy’s eyes,
his gaze no longer clear. His school
binder notebook now carries an inked
swastika. He’s not afraid to show
his allegiance. I noticed in assembly
he didn’t place his hand on his heart
when we sang “The Star-Spangled Banner,”
especially, “land of the free.”
I see Tommy on the bleachers
with a couple of his Nordland pals.
They’re not even watching us
slaughter Irvington on the court.
Tommy’s got a cigarette between his fingers.
Jeez, we’re only fifteen. Does he think
it makes him look and feel older
or just entitled? The boys he’s with,
seniors, have ciggies too and are blowing
smoke rings.
Me? I prefer my smoke
