“How many would you like?”
I was hoping to buy several bottles, but I suddenly felt bad about depleting his already meager supply.
“Well, I would take both, but I don’t want to leave you with none.”
“Nonsense. That is why they are here, to be sold.”
“Will you be able to get more?”
“Who knows?” He shrugged. “Because of the laws against doing business with Jews, none of my suppliers can sell to me anymore. I still carry a few things, but most of those come from Jewish-owned businesses, and they are having their own troubles getting supplies. I stock what I can.”
He brought the ink bottles up to the counter and placed them into a small paper bag. I handed over the money.
“Could I interest you in an apple or perhaps a few eggs? They come fresh from my cousin’s farm.”
I noticed how threadbare his coat had become. His eyes looked watery and yellow and betrayed his desperation as he waited for me to respond.
“Sure. I’ll take an apple.”
“How about one for your sister? Just a penny more.”
I hesitated. I didn’t really have the extra penny to spare, but Herr Greenberg seemed to need it even more than we did.
“Okay,” I said, selecting another apple from the basket.
Being in the store reminded me of Greta and our second kiss. I still carried her clover charm in my pocket. I still held on to the chance that one day we would be able to be together. I considered asking Herr Greenberg if she had been in to buy anything. But he seemed so lost and remote that it seemed unlikely that he would remember even if she had.
Before I left the store, Herr Greenberg approached me and placed his hands on my head, closed his eyes, and quietly chanted a short prayer in Hebrew. At first it felt strange to have the old man’s hands on my head. But then, even though I didn’t understand the Hebrew, I started to find the words and the light melody soothing. I watched his face, and as he said the prayer, his furrowed brow relaxed and his mouth curled into a small, determined smile, as if the words had given him some inner comfort and maybe even strength. When he opened his eyes, he said, “That was the Tefilat HaDerech; it’s a prayer for a safe journey. Be careful out there, Karl.”
I returned to the gallery to find it unusually quiet and still. Because of our close quarters, I could usually tell right away if someone was home and exactly what they were doing. I moved through the space and called out, but no one answered. I had to use the bathroom but found the door locked. I knocked. There was no answer, so I knocked again louder.
“Hallo?” I called.
“I’m bathing, Karl,” my mother’s voice finally replied.
“Are you okay?”
“Ja. I’m fine.”
But her voice sounded anything but fine. She sounded indistinct and weary, as if she were speaking from a great distance. I paused by the door and listened but heard only the slightest ripple of water as her body shifted in the tub. I resolved to knock again in ten minutes.
I had turned to walk down to my room in the basement when I heard a faint sound coming from the main area of the gallery. I moved back to the line of curtains that served as walls and heard the sound of sniffling.
“Hildy?”
“Go away,” she said.
“I got you an apple.”
“I don’t want an apple.”
“Are you okay?”
“I said go away. I want to be alone.”
I poked my head inside the curtain and saw Hildy lying facedown on her bed. A small writing journal was splayed out in front of her. She snapped the book shut. Behind her thick glasses, her eyes flashed with anger.
“I said go away! Can’t I have any privacy?”
“Is Mama okay?”
“What do you think? Has she ever been okay?”
“Did something set her off?”
“I don’t know. She was in there when I got home. Now, will you get out?”
I noticed a sharp smell like sulfur coming from somewhere in the room. I glanced down and saw Hildy’s coat on the floor beside her bed, covered with a layer of yellowish goo.
“What happened to your coat?”
“I got hit in the shooting gallery.”
“The shooting gallery?”
“Boys from the Hitler Youth, at the end of the day they wait for us across the street from our school, and when we come out, they throw rotten eggs at us and yell, ‘Ten points to whoever can hit the first Jewess.’”
“Did you tell the teachers?”
“The teachers are more scared than we are. They just tell us to run fast and keep our heads down. This was the first time I got hit.”
“I’m sorry, Winzig.”
“You don’t know what it’s like to look like a Jew, Karl. You just don’t.”
“It’s not easy for me either.”
“It’s not the same. You look normal. Everything about me looks Jewish—my nose, my hair, my skin, everything!”
“Come on, cheer up. I’ll read you a Winzig und Spatz book or something. ‘There’s adventure in the air . . . ,’” I said, hoping she’d respond by finishing their call to action.
“Winzig und Spatz?” she said. “Those books are for babies. I’m eleven years old, Karl. No one in this family seems to notice. But I’m not a little kid anymore.”
She was right. I hadn’t really noticed, but over the past few months Hildy had made the subtle transition from a child to a preadolescent. Her face was thinner, and her legs and arms were getting longer and skinnier like mine. I could see the shadow of a woman just below the surface.
“I notice you, Hildy,” I lied.
I sat beside her and tried to rest a hand on her shoulder. She jerked away.
“Yeah, right. All you notice is yourself and your stupid boxing.”
“That’s not true—”
“Do you know what yesterday was?”
“Yesterday was Wednesday. What does that have to do with—”
“It was my birthday.”
My heart fell in my chest, and my mouth went dry. How could we all have forgotten? I felt a sharp pinch of anger at myself, but even more so at my parents. She was their child, after all.
“Oh, Winzig, I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Look, we can still have a party—”
“I don’t want a stupid party. I don’t want anything.”
“Hildy . . .”
“I just want to be alone. There’s no privacy in here.”
“You can come down to the basement if you need some privacy.”
“I don’t want to go to a basement or some stupid room behind a curtain. I want to be in our old apartment. I want things to be normal again.”
She started to cry.
“Hildy, come on, it’s okay—”
She sprang up off her bed.
“It’s not okay, Karl. I know it’s not; you know it’s not; Mama, Papa, everyone knows it’s not.”
She ran out of the room and out the front door.
“Hildy, wait!” I called after her. But it was too late. By the time I got to the front door, she had already disappeared down the street.
I went back inside and looked into Hildy’s room. Herr Karrote still sat on the table beside her bed, but other than that most of the childish decorations that had adorned her old room were gone. In fact the space had very few personal touches at all. I sat on the bed and picked up the journal she had been writing in, feeling slightly guilty for snooping. The book was filled with small poems and observations about our life, and they told the story of Hildy’s escalating sadness and isolation. On one of the most recent pages I discovered the following poem:
Bald
My mother used to call them chocolate rings
But now they feel like rusted chains
Horrible dark brown things
If only they were blond and straight
No one would have cause to hate
My only hop
e is to cut them away
To become even uglier than I am today
Then maybe they’d leave me alone
And I could be invisible on my own
I closed the book and carefully placed it back on the bed. I hadn’t realized the depth of pain and self-loathing Hildy had been experiencing. I was also struck by how mature and powerful her writing was. These were not the words of a child but of a young artist with some real talent. She had clearly moved beyond Winzig und Spatz. It was then that I noticed that her collection of Winzig und Spatz books was not on her shelf. Could she really have gotten rid of them? Something about that made me feel even more upset and helpless. I searched through her dresser, but they were not there. Finally I looked under her bed and found them hidden away behind a pile of old sweaters. I exhaled at the sight of the books, as if they had confirmed that the old Hildy still existed somewhere.
I replaced the sweaters covering the books, then picked up her wool coat and brought it to our jury-rigged kitchen. Using a bucket of water and a brush, I wiped away the egg, some of which had hardened inside the tight weave of the wool. I scrubbed the coat as clean as I could and brought it back to her room and laid it on the bed.
I went back to the bathroom door and knocked.
“Mama? Mama, are you okay in there?”
“Yes, Karl,” she replied faintly.
I was going to say something to my mother about Hildy, but she sounded so lost that I feared it I might send her even farther over the edge. So I just turned and descended the stairs to my basement room, anger rising inside me.
I stripped off my shirt and did a set of sit-ups until I lost count and my stomach muscles burned. Then I switched to push-ups and again did so many that I lost count and my shoulders, chest, and arm muscles shook from the exertion. I kept going until the vibrating and burning in my body became so intense that my arms collapsed beneath me and my face fell onto the floor. I let my cheek rest on the ground as my breath heaved in and out, raising and lowering my exhausted body. I struggled to my feet and positioned myself in front of the small mirror I had hung on the wall beside my bed.
I stared at my reflection and for the first time took in the full physical transformation that my body had undergone over the past few years. My shoulders were broad and rounded; thick veins lined my nicely defined biceps and forearms; my chest and abdominal muscles formed a thin layer of armor over my midsection. My bony frame was now lined with muscles. The fearful look in my eyes was gone and had been replaced by determination and rage. Even my acne had cleared up. Yet for all of my physical strength, I never had felt quite so weak, because I was unable to wipe the tears from my sister’s eyes or remove the grief from her heart.
That night I took out the new ink bottles I had bought at Herr Greenberg’s and attempted to draw a Winzig und Spatz comic strip to cheer her up. Yet all the ideas I came up with seemed too hollow, trivial, or unfunny. Every time I picked up my pen, it didn’t lead me anywhere that seemed to matter anymore.
The 1937 Youth Boxing Championship
“G-G-G-GOOD. HIT THAT BAG,” NEGLIG SAID, HOLDING the heavy bag as I slammed my fists into the fabric. I grunted with exertion, my forearms aching with each furious uppercut.
“Now try some j-j-j-jabs.”
I switched to jabs, left, left, right, left, left, right, then right, right, left, right, right, left. Pounding over and over until it felt as if my wrists might snap off.
Worjyk wandered over and stood beside Neblig as I finished the set.
“Okay, that’s it,” Neblig said. I gave the bag a final left jab and a hard right cross and then stopped. The bag swung back and forth from the force of my last punch.
“You were really h-h-h-hitting hard today,” Neblig said, handing me a water bottle.
“You’d better be hitting hard, Knochen,” Worjyk said. “You’ve got the tournament coming up.”
“Tournament?” I said, out of breath.
“Yeah. You do want to compete for the youth championship, don’t you?”
I stared at Neblig. Had he just said what I thought he had? Neblig smiled and nodded.
“We signed you up for the tournament,” Worjyk said.
I let out a small pleased laugh and hugged Neblig.
“Don’t start celebrating yet, Knochen,” Worjyk said. “You’re going to be going up against the best of the best, so don’t get cocky.”
“I won’t let you down,” I said. I extended my hand, and Worjyk and I shook.
Because the Berlin Boxing Club was not a youth-oriented club, I didn’t get to fight as often as other boys my age. But despite my limited exposure, I never had been defeated in the ring. The city’s formal boxing championship was a two-day tournament that brought together all of Berlin’s best fighters under eighteen years old. Although nervous, I was also extremely excited. This was the opportunity I had been training for ever since meeting Max three years earlier.
The event was being staged at the Hesse Athletic Center, a small arena in the northern part of the city. The tournament’s organizers had hoped to get Max to preside over the tournament, to serve as an honorary ring announcer or judge, but lately he always seemed to be “busy” hobnobbing with the Nazi elites or lobbying for a chance to fight Jimmy Braddock for the heavyweight crown. Despite the fact that Max had defeated Joe Louis, the American promoters favored giving the title shot to their homegrown star. German boxing writers were outraged, claiming the Americans were afraid of the championship belt going to a German. Max traveled back and forth to America, making appeals to the boxing authorities, and he had not returned to the Berlin Boxing Club in nearly a year.
A few days before the tournament I asked Worjyk if it bothered him that Max didn’t come by the club anymore. Worjyk just shrugged his shoulders.
“Max comes and Max goes. That’s how he’s always been, Knochen. You should always remember that Max is out for Max. Sometimes I think that’s what makes him a great fighter, but it also means he’s not always the most reliable guy in the world.”
I hadn’t heard Worjyk or anyone else at the club utter even the slightest negative comment about Max. But his words certainly resonated with me as I tried to make sense of how Max seemed to drift in and out of my life without much thought, dangling himself like a toy in front of a kitten only to be pulled back at the last second.
Unlike the small gyms and clubs I had fought at in the past, the Hesse Athletic Center was a real arena that could hold thousands of spectators. Even before we opened the doors to enter, I could hear the muffled cheers of a boisterous crowd. My heartbeat quickened, and my palms began to sweat as Neblig, Worjyk, and I stepped inside. Several rows of folding chairs surrounded the ring; these were bordered by steep rows of bleachers set on metal risers. There was already a fight in progress, and more than a thousand people watched and cheered. The crowd awed and intimidated me. Some boys stomped their feet on the floor, making a loud, angry, clanging rhythm of support. We walked through an aisle between the stands, and the pounding caused the wooden floorboards to shake and jump beneath our feet. My pulse accelerated to match the rhythm of the stomping as the ring came into view, illuminated by six huge industrial light fixtures that hung down from the ceiling like gigantic steel eggshells.
A huge number of boys wore Hitler Youth uniforms, and there were groups of grown men, mostly fathers and older brothers of the fighters, dressed in other uniforms of the Reich. Early in my training Max had counseled me to never pay attention to the crowd. “When I fight in America, they love to root against me. They call me names and sometimes even spit at me when I’m walking in and out of the ring, but I just tune it all out. Remember, you are only fighting your opponent in the ring. If you let the crowd into your head, you’re sunk. I just try to blur the noise and harness its energy to add power to my punches.”
We made our way through the crowd to the locker room behind one of the risers. Several other boys were inside, getting changed for their fights. Like always, I had already
changed into my boxing shorts so I wouldn’t have to completely disrobe in front of anyone. I had also already tucked Greta’s clover charm into my sock for good luck.
I sat on a low wooden bench while Neblig taped my hands and tied on my gloves. Worjyk gave me little tips and reminders about my technique, his usual unlit cigar hanging out of the side of his mouth.
“Remember to snap your hand back after your right jab, Knochen. You always leave yourself exposed for too long.”
“I will,” I said.
“Try to cut off the angles when you’re on the attack. As soon as he shows weakness, make the ring as small as possible.”
“I know,” I said.
“And don’t rely too much on jabs. You’ve got great reach, so it’s a good weapon. But don’t be afraid to throw in some power punches. You’ll be up against some real fighters, and you may need to put them away fast.”
“We’ve been over this a million times,” I said.
“And we’ll go over it another million times.” Worjyk spat. “You fighters are all a bunch of stupid apes. That’s why I’ve gotta drill this stuff into your heads.”
Despite my protestations, it was a comfort to have him pacing and repeating his familiar instructions. Neblig finished tying on my gloves and then looked to Worjyk.
“N-n-n-now?” he asked.
Worjyk nodded, and Neblig reached into his bag and pulled out a brand-new neatly folded silk robe. It was rich royal blue with white trim just like those the professional fighters wore. Neblig unfurled the robe, revealing the words the berlin boxing club spelled out in large white letters on the back. I didn’t know what to say. I had always wanted a robe but never even thought to ask my parents because of our financial situation. In fact it had been years since I had received any sort of meaningful gift from anyone. The last time had been when Worjyk had presented me with my boxing gloves. I had never seen anyone at the gym wearing such a robe, so I knew Worjyk had ordered it specially for me. My eyes misted over, and I had to choke back a huge lump in my throat.
“Danke,” I managed to say. “Thank you both.”
The Berlin Boxing Club Page 18
