Neblig smiled.
“Forget about it, Knochen,” Worjyk said dismissively. “I’ve been thinking about expanding my business to take advantage of the youth market. I figured this would be a great opportunity to advertise. Now let’s get out there.”
Worjyk gave me a pat on the back, Neblig slipped the robe over my shoulders, and we entered the arena. We went to weigh in near the registration table set up beside the ring. A large poster on the table displayed the pairings for the tournament, filled with every fighter’s name. There were two main brackets, one on the left side of the page, one on the right, and the two fighters who won their brackets would square off for the championship. I glanced down this list of matchups and found myself scheduled to fight a boy named Meissner in the first bout.
As I scanned the other names, a jolt of cold adrenaline shot through my body. Gertz Diener was scheduled to fight later that same morning in my bracket. If we both won our first fights, we would face each other in the second bout. Conflicting fears and desires collided inside my head. First there was the core fear of exposure. Would Gertz denounce me as a Jew? Would he and the Wolf Pack attempt to physically attack me, as they had in the past? But more powerful than the fear was my lust for revenge. Would I actually get the opportunity to fight my nemesis fair and square inside the ring? In many ways my years of training had been motivated by the attacks of Gertz and the Wolf Pack. And yet up to now I had had to rely on surrogates to vent my frustrations. How I longed to land a punch on Gertz’s smug Aryan face.
My first opponent, Meissner, was a slow, heavyset boy with meaty forearms and shoulders, who got easily winded when I danced around him. I was so excited and nervous about the possibility of fighting Gertz that I accelerated my pace of attack, trying to wear Meissner down and end the match quickly. My haste made me sloppy, and Meissner connected with a powerful right uppercut to my gut that almost sent me down. I quickly recovered and adopted a more conservative approach, attacking with a couple of jabs and then retreating to make him move.
After the first round, I was sitting in my corner getting instructions from Worjyk to slow the fight down when I saw Gertz enter the arena, followed by Franz, Julius, and several other boys from the Wolf Pack. Icy gooseflesh sprouted across my body at the sight of them. Gertz was dressed to fight, while the others wore Hitler Youth uniforms. They all took seats in one of the upper risers to watch me.
The bell rang, signaling the start of the second round. Neblig had to nudge me to snap me back to attention and up to my feet and into the ring. In the second round, I used a technique that Max called bicycle spokes, where I imagined Meissner was the center of a wheel and I relentlessly circled him, throwing a series of small but steady jabs and punches. Meissner grew impatient, having to constantly turn and shuffle his feet to keep up. His breath became more labored, and his punches lost their zip. After about a minute of circling, when I knew I had worn him out, I pressed forward with a more aggressive attack, working him into a corner with a combination of hard rights. I must have thrown fourteen unanswered punches, but he would not go down. Finally the bell rang, ending the round.
When I got to my corner, Neblig and Worjyk congratulated me on the round, but I saw Gertz and the others looking concerned. It suddenly occurred to me that if Gertz thought I was too good, he might reveal that I was a Jew to ensure that he wouldn’t have to fight me. I decided that in the next round I needed to let Meissner score some points so that I didn’t look as dominant.
In the next round I did not attack or use any real strategy. I even let Meissner score a couple of points. I had to be careful to let him connect with some punches, but none that would leave me too bruised or exposed. For the final minute, I went into defensive mode, dancing away from Meissner’s lumbering attacks and waiting out the bell to end the fight. When the fight finally ended, the judges awarded me the victory, but I could tell by Gertz’s confident reaction that he was not impressed by my performance. Worjyk berated me. “You looked like crap out there. Your footwork was awful. You let down your defenses a half dozen times. You’re lucky he didn’t destroy you!” I listened to all of his criticisms, knowing exactly what he was going to say before he got the words out.
After exiting the ring, I sat with Neblig and Worjyk and watched Gertz fight his first match. It had been a couple of years since I had gone to school with him, and in that time Gertz had grown several inches, and his boyish huskiness had evolved into a manly heft. He still wore his blond hair short and spiky and had a cruel slant to his expression. I wondered if he still spoke with a lisp. Gertz had good rhythm and a decent sense of strategy and easily outboxed his opponent. He scored a knockout with a jab-jab-uppercut combination in the second round. Raising his arm in victory, he stared at me with a confident smirk.
The next bout was not scheduled until after lunch. I couldn’t eat anything but just sat with Neblig and Worjyk as they counseled me on how to fight against Gertz, but their words barely penetrated. The tension and excitement sent a thick pounding up the veins of my neck and into my head, blocking out all outside noise.
Finally, the lunch break ended, and Gertz and I stepped into the ring. I felt my stomach churn and then tighten in anticipation. The Wolf Pack sat in a row of chairs right beside the ring and loudly cheered as we approached each other. I had fought dozens of times in the years since they had used me as a punching bag and piss pot, but suddenly all my experience and strength seemed to drain out of my body. I stared into Gertz’s eyes and saw my old self reflected in them. The skinny weak coward I had been jumped back into my skin. Just before we touched gloves to signal the start of the fight, Gertz leaned in and whispered: “Now everyone will see how to beat a Jew, Piss Boy.”
He slammed his gloves against mine and then started dancing before me. I heard just the slightest trace of his old lisp when he called me Piss Boy, so the word “Piss” sounded more like “Pith.” The fighting instinct rose up in me. Hearing my inglorious nickname ignited all the rage I harbored against him. And hearing the lisp gave me a quick jolt of confidence. He was still the same boy I remembered, who in the past had needed the whole Wolf Pack to confront me. Since then I had been trained by one of the world’s greatest heavyweights and fought mostly against men, not boys. I knew I was no longer anyone’s Piss Boy. I lunged forward, clapped my gloves against his, and whispered: “Or how to get beaten by a Jew.”
The bell rang, and the fight commenced.
I spent the first minute of the round getting a feel for Gertz’s style. He moved around a lot and had good command of his punches. But I quickly detected a flaw in his technique. There was a slight delay in his rhythm. His feet and hands weren’t in sync, so he didn’t punch and move fluidly. He always seemed to pause and set himself before an attack, telegraphing his punches. As a result, I was able to set my defense and time my counterpunches. He landed a few light jabs, and I could hear the Wolf Pack howling from the front row. Then I attacked.
I threw several combinations, favoring my left jab so he came to expect punches from that side; then I suddenly switched sides and came at him with my right. I landed a hard right cross to his head and savored the feeling of my fist’s connecting with his jaw, the sensation of his neck snapping back against the force of my glove.
Gertz staggered backward and raised his hands to defend his face. I saw another opening and lowered my attack, landing two big uppercuts to his midsection. The second punch connected to that magical spot in the middle of his chest, and Gertz emitted a strangled gasp as his air supply momentarily got cut off. I delivered one more punch to the side of his head, and he fell to his knees. He sat there gasping for air as the bell rang, ending the round.
I took a deep satisfied breath as I saw that Gertz’s coach had to help him to his corner. I walked over to Neblig and Worjyk, who waited for me by my stool. I looked over at the Wolf Pack and saw Franz and Julius conferring about something. With quickly dawning dread, I saw Franz rise from his seat and approach the judges’ table. H
e spoke to an older man with large gray sideburns, who appeared to be the head man. Franz’s dark eyes darted over toward me, and the man followed his gaze and nodded seriously.
The man rose from the judges’ table and came over to our corner.
“What’s the problem?” Worjyk asked.
“It has come to my attention that Herr Stern is a Jew. Is this true?”
Worjyk’s face went white, but he recovered quickly.
“What does that have to do with—”
“Is it true, Herr Stern?” The man interrupted.
They all turned to look at me. Franz and Julius and the rest of the Wolf Pack stood nearby, watching too, and the whole crowd started to murmur, wondering what was going on. I finally nodded yes. The old man’s eyes hardened. And without hesitating, he stepped into the ring and addressed the audience: “It has come to my attention that Karl Stern is a Jew.”
Boos and catcalls rose up from the audience. The older man continued. “It is the policy of our athletic association to conform to the bylaws of the Reich, and therefore we cannot allow anyone of a mongrel race to participate in this tournament. Herr Stern is officially disqualified.”
The crowd howled at the announcement. Various boys and men shouted, “Get out of here, you dirty bastard!” “Kill the Jew!” “Mongrel!”
I scanned the audience and saw the Wolf Pack leading a chant, “Jude, Jude, Jude.” Soon most of the spectators joined in. Gertz sat in his corner with his head bowed. Pieces of garbage started to fly into the ring: wadded-up paper cups, banana peels, and apple cores. Finally my eyes found my own corner. Neblig was signaling to me to step out of the ring. But it was Worjyk that my eyes were drawn to. He stood immobile. His face had gone completely white. He looked as if he had just been stabbed in the back.
I quickly slipped out of the ring and ran back through the arena toward the locker room as spit, garbage, and insults rained down on me. A bottle struck the side of my forehead, leaving a small gash, but I kept running. I think Neblig tried to follow me but was cut off by groups of angry spectators, crowding into the aisles in my wake. I grabbed my gym bag and ran out of the arena, carefully dodging boys who tried to take swipes at me along my route.
I burst out into the street and sprinted down the sidewalk. I’m not even sure if anyone followed me, but I didn’t look back. I ran for at least two miles at a full sprint before my knees buckled and I had to slow down. I had reached the park where Greta Hauser and I used to meet, and I leaned over with my hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath.
As I struggled to control my breathing, I could feel everything collapsing inside me. All of my years of training, discipline, and focus on boxing were eliminated in one single moment in the ring. My dream of becoming Youth Champion was gone. But worse than that, I knew I could not return to the Berlin Boxing Club. To do so would put Worjyk at risk for violating the government’s policies about mixing with Jews. I could see from his expression that he would never allow me to return anyway. For all I knew, he might’ve been a high-ranking Nazi Party member. Boxing had been my one refuge in the storm, and I couldn’t imagine my life without it.
I rummaged inside my gym bag and found the small rubber ball that Max had given me three years earlier as the very first phase of my training. I squeezed the ball with all my might until my knuckles ached and my hand turned white. And then I stood and threw the ball as hard and far as I could. I watched it land on the grass and then bounce and roll into the woods in the far distance. It was only then that I realized that I had left my new robe behind.
Ice Cream
THE FOLLOWING MORNING I SLEPT LATE, MISSING MY early-morning workout for the first time since I had commenced my training three years earlier. My father finally woke me and asked me to make a printing delivery to a new client who lived in an apartment above Café Kranzler on the corner of Friedrichstrasse and Unter den Linden. I could barely pull myself out of bed, and my limbs felt heavy as I slowly got dressed and then headed out to make the delivery.
Friedrichstrasse teemed with life, with men rushing to work and the cafés crowded with patrons lingering over breakfast and coffee. The client lived on the fourth floor of a large ten-story walk-up apartment building. The stairs creaked as I ascended the dark stairwell. On the way up I passed a heavyset old woman coming down the stairs, wearing her gray hair tucked under a blue kerchief. I had to let her squeeze past. She seemed to stare at me, and I cast my head down so she couldn’t get a good look at me. When I finally reached the apartment on the fourth floor, I knocked and a man’s voice called:”Who is it?”
“Delivery.”
“Who?”
“I have a delivery. Some printing—”
The door suddenly opened a crack, and a hand reached out.
“Hand it to me,” he said.
I looked into the shadows of the room but could not make out a face.
“I was told to get cash,” I said. “Up front.”
The hand disappeared for a moment and reappeared with a small wad of marks.
“Here.”
I quickly counted the bills and then handed over the package.
“Now go,” he said.
As soon as the hand disappeared back inside the apartment, the door slammed shut. I stuffed the bills into a special pocket my mother had sewn into the inside of my pants and walked back down the stairs.
As I emerged back onto Friedrichstrasse, people bustled all around me, window-shopping and eating at outdoor tables at the Café Kranzler. I watched a couple sharing a Linzer torte, and my stomach groaned. It had been at least a year since I had had a treat like that. My parents used to meet their friends there for coffee and pastries. I couldn’t remember the last time my family and I had eaten at any public restaurant.
I swallowed back my hunger and started to jog back toward the gallery, weaving in and around the pedestrians on the wide sidewalk, peering into the windows of shops and restaurants as I streamed by. Suddenly something made me stop in my tracks. Through the large plate glass window of an ice-cream shop, I saw Greta Hauser, sitting at the counter next to a boy I didn’t recognize, each of them digging into large bowls of ice cream with whipped cream. My throat tightened, and my eyes burned.
The boy was tall and handsome with light brown hair. He wore a sharp gray wool suit and to judge by his clothes was from a prosperous family. Greta looked even more beautiful than I remembered her. She wore a plain white blouse and a blue and green plaid skirt. Her long blond braid draped over one shoulder. She laughed at something the boy said, and the braid swung off her shoulder and against her back. My face reddened, heat rising up my neck and across my head. How many times had I made her laugh? How many times had I touched her braid when we kissed?
I dug my hand deep into my pocket and felt for the clover charm. I gripped the charm tightly until it dug into my hand.
I impulsively moved to the door, entered the ice-cream shop, and walked right up to the counter where they were sitting. I hovered behind Greta for a moment before the boy looked up and noticed me.
“Can I help you?”
Greta turned, and her face went white as she beheld me.
“Karl?”
I stared at her, unable to move or speak, my fists balled at my sides, anger seething inside me.
The boy stood and faced me.
“What’s going on here? Do you know this guy?”
I continued to stare at Greta. Her eyes glazed over with tears. She looked frightened and confused.
I moved one of my balled fists over her bowl of ice cream, opened it, and dropped the clover charm onto the top of a pile of whipped cream.
Greta looked down into her lap.
“Hey, what the hell are you doing?” the boy said, pushing his hand against my chest.
I reached out and snatched his wrist, holding it firmly in my grip, squeezing until I felt his skin pinched tightly against the bone.
“Don’t touch me,” I said in a low, firm voice.
The boy tried to pull his arm back, but I held it tight for another moment. Finally I released his arm, and the boy fell back, knocking his bowl of ice cream to the floor, breaking the ceramic dish with a loud crash. Several patrons turned to stare at the commotion.
“Who the hell do you think you are?” he said, holding his wrist.
“She knows who I am.”
I glared at her a moment longer, daring her to glance up.
But she didn’t look up from her lap.
I turned and walked out of the shop. I started running, but I could barely feel my legs moving. It was as if the sidewalk were sinking beneath my feet with each step, like the world was literally collapsing beneath me.
PART III
1938
“Great boxers must always maintain a certain amount of mystery about themselves. Your opponent should never feel as if he fully understands exactly who you are or what you are going to do at any given moment.”
Helmut Müller, Boxing Basics for German Boys
The Last Picasso
SEVERAL MONTHS AFTER BEING DISQUALIFIED FROM THE tournament, I still had not returned to the Berlin Boxing Club. I never heard from Worjyk or even Neblig. I had been too embarrassed to tell anyone we were living in the gallery, so I’m not sure they would’ve been able to find me even if they had wanted to. I kept up my physical training out of force of habit more than anything else. Yet now the effort to push myself seemed hollow, driven only by a dull rage with no hope of satisfaction.
My anger and depression were made worse by my family’s absolute obliviousness to my misery. They didn’t even notice that my entire world had collapsed. Whereas in the past our family meals had been full of discussion and argument, now they were increasingly silent, as we exchanged only the most perfunctory remarks. The most startling transformation was my father. He had always been a talker, expounding on art or philosophy, or lecturing us on some modern idea he had heard about. Now he looked as sullen and angry as I felt.
The Berlin Boxing Club Page 19
