“Look, I know a man on the police force, someone I was in the war with. It’s been many years since I’ve had any contact with him, but I can go to him and see what he can find out. He may not agree to help us, but I trust that he would at least be discreet about the request.”
The next day my father reached out to his contact, a man named Lutz, who had been with the Berlin police force for over twenty years. The Berlin civil police had come under the supervision of the Nazis, but they still operated with some autonomy, and a few in their ranks, including Lutz, were not Nazi Party members. My father came back that night and said that Lutz had agreed to find out what he could, but that it might take a couple of days. I was struck by the loyalty my father’s army buddies seemed to have toward him. I wondered if Lutz was the other surviving soldier in the photograph the Countess had shown me.
We heard nothing for several days. Finally, late one Friday night, there was a knock at the door. I heard the knock and my parents stirring up above me from my bed in the basement. Through the darkness I glanced at the clock beside my bed. It was one a.m. Any late-night call was cause for alarm. I rushed upstairs and into my parents’ bedroom, where Hildy was already huddled between them on their bed. They had not turned on a light. There was another soft knock at the door.
“Don’t answer it,” my mother whispered. “Pretend we don’t hear.”
“If they were here to arrest us, they wouldn’t be knocking so softly. In fact they wouldn’t bother with knocking at all. Just stay here.”
My father tied on his bathrobe and went to the door. From inside the bedroom we heard him open it.
“Guten Abend, Sigmund,” a voice said. “I’m sorry to call so late, but I didn’t want to raise suspicions.”
“No, no, please come inside, Lutz.”
“I suggest we leave the lights off,” Lutz said. “I don’t want the neighbors to think you’re holding a clandestine meeting.”
“Of course,” my father agreed. “Come inside.”
My father led Lutz through the darkness to the kitchen, where he turned on a small desk lamp, the light of which could not be seen from the street. My mother tied on her bathrobe, and the three of us joined our father in the office. Lutz was a tall, big-boned man, with a helmet of graying thick hair. He wore a policeman’s uniform.
“Guten Abend, Frau Stern,” he said. “Dolph Lutz.” He formally offered his hand with a slight bow.
“Guten Abend,” my mother said, shaking his hand.
“I’m sorry to call so late, but as I explained to your husband, I didn’t want to arouse any suspicion.”
“Of course,” she said.
“You have fine-looking children, Sigmund,” he said, nodding toward me and Hildy.
“Thank you,” my father said.
“Unfortunately I’m not sure you want them to hear what I have to say.”
“We now live without walls,” my mother said, “so secrets are impossible.”
“Yes, I see,” he said, taking a deep breath. “I’m afraid I have some terrible news. Your brother passed away last week.”
Seeing Red
BEFORE LUTZ HAD EVEN FINISHED THE SENTENCE, MY mother emitted a sharp cry as if she’d been stabbed and fell back against the counter. Papa had to grab her arm to hold her up. I fetched a chair, and my father and I lowered her into it. She buried her face in her hands and sobbed. It was a guttural howl, from deep inside. I was scared that someone might hear her, but I knew we could not attempt to silence her. Lutz awkwardly stared at his feet. Finally her tears subsided.
“How?” my mother asked.
“I could not find out many specifics,” Lutz said. “All I know is that the official cause of death was listed as dysentery.”
“Dysentery?”
“Yes, I’m terribly sorry.”
“How does a healthy young man die of dysentery?” my mother said.
“What’s dysentery?” Hildy asked through her tears.
“It’s a bad stomachache when you have lots of diarrhea,” my father quickly explained.
“I really must be going now,” Lutz said.
“Of course,” my father said. “I will see you out.”
Lutz awkwardly bowed toward my mother, and then my father led him back out to the front door of the gallery. Hildy curled into our mother’s lap, sniffling. My father returned from the front room and placed a comforting hand on my mother’s shoulder.
“Rebecca . . . I’m sorry.”
“He really believed it, you know?”
“Believed what?”
“All of that Communist crap about all men being brothers, that one day there would be a workers’ paradise where everyone got an equal share. It wasn’t just politics for him. He believed it.”
“I know.” My father nodded. “Karl, Hildy . . . please go back to bed. It’s late.”
My mother kissed Hildy on the head, and she slid from my mother’s lap and went to her bed. I kissed my mother and returned to the basement, where I lay down and listened.
“We’ve got to get out, Sig,” my mother said.
“I know,” he answered softly. “I know.”
• • •
Later that night, as I lay in bed in the dark, damp basement, the loss of Uncle Jakob started to sink in. It was hard for me to imagine that I would never hear his open laugh again. We would never see an American western movie together again. No one would ever call me buckaroo like he had. Uncle Jakob had been the one person who had encouraged my boxing, and he had never had the chance to see me fight.
The very next day I was scheduled to box at the Voorman Youth Center on the west side of town. It wasn’t an official tournament, but rather a small series of exhibition bouts that the center had set up for its members. Neblig met me at the club to be my cornerman and immediately noticed my sour disposition. We usually kidded around a bit before a fight to keep me loose, but that morning I was in no mood for kidding.
“Y-y-y-you okay?” he said.
“I’m fine,” I answered shortly.
“You s-s-s-seem mad about something.”
“What would I have to be mad about?” I said, with more than a hint of bitterness.
I had plenty to be mad about. I was a Jew living in Nazi Germany. I had been kicked out of school and lost my girlfriend. My father had been denied any chance at a legitimate livelihood, and our family had been evicted from our home. I was living in a damp basement beneath my parents and sister, who had given up all sense of privacy, living in one room divided by bed sheets. My “hero” Max had disappeared to America to chase fights with Joe Louis and Jimmy Braddock. And my favorite uncle had just died in a prison camp, simply because he was a Red or a Jew or both.
“It’s not g-g-g-good to be too mad before a f-f-f-fight,” he said. “A little b-b-b-bit of anger is okay to get you going. But if you’re too mad, you can m-m-m-make mistakes and leave yourself open.”
“When was the last time you were in the ring?”
“It’s been a while,” he said.
“Then just let me alone, okay?”
I regretted snapping at Neblig; none of my problems were his doing. But the regret was consumed by the anger inside me. Approximately thirty boys had gathered to fight in the cramped little gym. We stood beside the ring, and I waited for my turn to fight. I couldn’t wait to get in there. I made my arm muscles pulse under the skin, taking inventory of each in an agitated roll call.
When I finally stepped into the ring, I coiled my body like a crouching lion, waiting to pounce. I was set to fight a beefy kid named Kliegerman, who had blue eyes and wavy blond hair that almost looked white against the pink hue of his scalp. He was a member of a Hitler Youth Athletic League and wore boxing shorts with a red swastika stitched on the front. In the past I had never cared too much about whom I fought in the ring. But now I felt a deep sense of visceral anticipation because of his Aryan features. He was exactly the type of Nazi I wanted to face to vent my rage.
At the bell,
I charged out of my corner and immediately went on the attack, unleashing a furious barrage of punches. Kliegerman was a strong kid with big arms and hands and was able to block most of the punches in that first burst. He landed a hard left jab and right uppercut to my ribs, which I had left exposed after missing on a right cross. His punch landed hard, and I had some of the wind sucked out of me.
I swallowed the pain and attacked again. A couple of my punches broke through his defenses. I snapped off a series of combinations, jab, jab, uppercut, jab, and then a cross, jab, uppercut. Kliegerman attempted to retreat, backpedaling into the far corner, but I stayed with him, aggressively dancing forward with each step he took back. One of my uppercuts landed on his chin and snapped Kliegerman’s head back sharply. He accidentally bit his upper lip, and a small trickle of blood escaped from the side of his mouth. For the first time I understood the expression “seeing red.” My heartbeat accelerated at the sight of the red blood, and I wanted to see more. My mind shifted into some primitive mode, as if I had become a jungle animal or a shark aroused by the blood. I charged at him, aiming all my punches at his head, wanting to see his lip split open even more. Or better still, I hoped to bloody his nose too or open a cut over his eye. I needed to see more red.
I paid no attention to defense, and Kliegerman threw several punches that all landed, but I didn’t feel them. Rage and adrenaline numbed any feeling, and I just kept punching. Eventually Kliegerman’s defenses wore down from exhaustion until his hands dropped and he was no longer defending himself at all. I just kept on punching until his legs collapsed beneath him and he fell hard into a sitting position, his feet comically splayed out wide in front of him. He looked stunned and touched his bleeding lip with his gloved hand. I hovered over him, taunting him so I could continue the beating.
“Get up!” I said, my eyes wild with bloodlust. “Come on! Get off your ass and fight. Schnell!”
“Okay, step back,” the ref said, pushing me back to my corner.
The ref stood over Kliegerman and counted him out and then came over and raised my hand to signal victory. And for the first time I noticed the small audience cheering and hooting at the lopsided match they had just witnessed. My chest heaved with effort, sucking in great gulps of air. I could feel my body decompress, as if the rage were slowly siphoning out of a small hole in my body, leaving me feeling limp and empty
My eyes found Neblig. He shook his head in disapproval. Neblig’s look communicated what I was already thinking: that what I had just done had nothing to do with the sweet science of boxing and everything to do with raw violence.
And then I saw him. Just behind Neblig, standing with a group of boys, was Gertz Diener, my old nemesis from the Wolf Pack. His eyes met mine. I tried to read his expression. Was it confusion? Fear? Clearly I was no longer the Piss Boy he remembered.
As shocked as Gertz was to see me, I was even more surprised to see him. The sight of him hit me harder than any punches Kliegerman had thrown. Until that moment, no one in my boxing world had had any idea I was a Jew. Now I could be exposed.
I looked away from him and tried to pretend I hadn’t seen him at all. I quickly stepped out of the ring and approached Neblig.
“What was th-th-th-that all about?” he said. “You’re lucky he wasn’t m-m-m-much of a fighter, or you could’ve gotten hurt in there.”
“Come on,” I said.
I headed straight for the exit, and Neblig followed. I could feel Gertz Diener’s eyes on me as I walked out.
The Fight
WHILE I WAS FIGHTING KLIEGERMAN, MAX WAS IN NEW York preparing for his own fight against Joe Louis at Yankee Stadium. For Max, this would be his last and best shot at regaining the heavyweight crown. Whoever won would become the top-ranked contender and challenge Jimmy Braddock for the title. In the days leading up to the fight, anticipation swept across Germany. Every magazine and newspaper ran daily stories about Max, from biographical profiles to his training regimen to detailed analysis of what he needed to do to beat Louis. Radio advertisements for the fight declared: “It is the obligation of every German citizen to tune in to listen to Max defend the white race against the Negro.”
There were even newspaper articles about where prominent Germans would be listening to the fight on the radio. Max’s wife, Anny Ondra, had been invited to listen at the home of Propaganda Minister Goebbels and his wife, Magda. Hitler himself had specifically ordered technicians to make sure his personal radio was in perfect working order so that he could listen in his private railroad car, which would be in transit at the time of the fight. The Nazis allowed bars and restaurants to stay open late so people could listen together and cheer their countryman on. Thirty million Germans tuned in as the fight began at ten p.m. New York time, which was three a.m. in Germany.
As great as the anticipation for the fight was across the country, it was even greater among the members of the Berlin Boxing Club. In a rare showing of generosity, Worjyk hosted a listening party at the club. He and Neblig set up Worjyk’s large radio on a stand in the center of one of the boxing rings, surrounded by clusters of old wooden folding chairs. Worjyk even provided a barrel of beer and large bowls of pretzels and hard-boiled eggs to snack on. My parents gave me permission to be at the club on the night of the fight, after I had promised to stay there until daylight before coming home. They didn’t want me wandering the streets late at night.
The members huddled around the radio, anxiously speculating about the coming bout. Worjyk was excited but nervous, chewing on the stub of his unlit cigar. In public it would’ve been considered unpatriotic to doubt Max’s victory. But inside the club, Worjyk gave his honest and realistic assessment.
“Max had better be careful in the early rounds,” Worjyk said. “This kid Louis can do some damage.”
“Max has the better right,” Johann chimed in.
“But that’s about all he’s got in terms of raw tools,” Worjyk countered.
“You think Louis is going to win?” another fighter said.
“I’m not saying that,” Worjyk said, lighting the stub of his cigar. “But think about it this way. Louis is eight years younger than Max. Eight years is a lot in the ring. Louis is an inch and a half taller, five pounds heavier; he’s got a longer reach, a bigger chest, thicker biceps and forearms, and bigger thighs, calves, and ankles. And if that isn’t enough, consider this: Louis has never been knocked down. Never.”
Some nodded in agreement. Willy, who was a Nazi Party member, took offense.
“It sounds like you doubt that a white man can prevail over a black, Worjyk,” he said. “It is the duty of every German to believe that Max can triumph in this noble cause. We must all be united.”
“Look, this is a boxing match, not a political rally,” Worjyk countered. “One of the things you gotta learn in this business is never to believe your own hype. Now we all know that Max has got the advantage in smarts and experience, and that counts for a lot in this game. But after fifteen rounds, it’s not their brains that’ll be duking it out in there. It’ll be their bodies and their hearts.”
“I heard a rumor that they only sold out half the tickets, because all the New York Jews are boycotting the fight,” someone interjected.
“I heard a rumor that the Jews are plotting to slip Max some drugs before the fight, so he’ll go down in the first round,” another added.
“Yeah,” Johann said sarcastically, “I’m sure his Jewish manager is part of the plot to make his own fighter lose.”
“You never know with those people,” Willy said.
I had mixed feelings about the fight. Of course I wanted Max to win. Yet on some level, I was very conflicted, because I also wanted to see him fall, to prove to the world that “inferior” races like Negroes and Jews might not be so inferior after all.
Neblig went around and topped off everyone’s beer mug just before the fight started. I was almost seventeen years old, and most boys my age drank beer, but I had avoided all alcohol since beginning my
training. I took a sip of beer and immediately felt it swimming through my body, making my brain tingle pleasantly. Neblig took a seat next to me, and we clinked beer mugs.
“I think Max’s going to t-t-t-take him in ten,” Neblig said. “He’s g-g-g-gonna get him with a big right.”
The radio broadcast started, and we could barely hear Germany’s announcer, Arno Hellmis, over the roar of the crowd at Yankee Stadium.
The bell rang, signaling the start of the fight, and we all leaned forward toward the radio.
“And there’s the opening bell,” Hellmis said. “The fight of the century is under way.”
In the first round, Louis connected with a series of punches that set everyone at the club on edge.
“Louis connects with another right to Max’s head.” Hellmis gasped. “Max’s eye is already starting to swell and blacken.”
“Ach, he’ll never make it past the second round.” Johann groaned.
“Shut up!” someone else shouted. “You’ll bring him bad luck.”
In the second and third rounds, Louis continued to do damage with his left jabs, and Max’s face became badly bloodied. He seemed to be outmatched by the younger, stronger fighter.
“Max is putting up a courageous fight,” Hellmis said, trying to defend Max. “But Louis fights more like a wild animal than a man. It’s nearly impossible for a sportsman like Max to defend against such a savage and chaotic attack. It’s been three rounds, and Max has yet to land a really solid punch on him.”
The members grimly sipped their beer, waiting for something to cheer for. After a while, even Hellmis couldn’t spin Max’s poor performance into anything worth cheering about.
Then, in the fourth round, Louis finally dropped his guard after throwing a left.
“And Max connects with a solid right!” Hellmis said, his voice excitedly rising in pitch. “And another. Max’s last two rights clearly stunned the Negro. Louis looks dazed and confused like a lost schoolboy. And there goes another solid right from Max, snapping back Louis’s head. And wait! Wait a minute! I don’t believe it, folks, Louis is down! Louis is down! For the first time in his career the Negro has been knocked down! He’s struggling back to his feet now, after only a two-count, but Max has turned the tables in this fight!”
The Berlin Boxing Club Page 16
