Finally, at nearly eleven p.m., we heard keys jingling outside our door and they both entered, in the midst of an argument.
“We need to hire a lawyer.”
“Who has money for a lawyer?” my father replied.
“We do,” she said.
“But then how will we pay rent? You want us to be on the street?”
“Sig, he needs us. He needs a lawyer.”
“A lawyer’s not going to help him. You know what goes on in the courts these days. It’ll be like throwing money into the toilet.”
“He’s my brother,” my mother said.
“He’s a fool. He’s always been a complete fool.”
“What happened?” I said.
“It’s your uncle Jakob . . . ,” my mother began.
“It’s nothing,” my father interrupted.
“What do you mean, nothing?” my mother shouted at him.
“The less they know, the better,” my father replied.
“The less we know about what?” Hildy said.
“Nothing, Hildegard. Go to bed.”
“What happened?”
“Your uncle Jakob’s been arrested,” my mother said flatly.
Hildy gasped. I froze, not quite believing what I’d heard.
“Oh, great, Rebecca. That’s just great. You want all their friends to know? You want the SS knocking on our door now?”
“Why was he arrested?” Hildy asked.
“He was arrested because his political group doesn’t agree with the Nazis.”
“You can be arrested for that?” Hildy said, her voice rising nervously.
“You can be arrested for almost anything these days,” our mother replied.
“Will we be arrested too?” Hildy said, on the verge of tears.
“That’s really smart, Rebecca,” my father said. “Why don’t you just scare her half to death over nothing?”
“It’s not nothing!” my mother said. “They need to know what’s going on. They took him to a concentration camp in a place called Dachau,” she said.
“What’s a concentration camp?” I asked.
“It’s a kind of jail that the Nazis built for anyone who doesn’t agree with them,” my mother said.
“Look,” my father said, “your uncle brought this on himself. He and his group were taking too many risks.”
“At least they’re trying to do something,” my mother countered. “You don’t do anything.”
“What is there to do?” my father snapped back. “You’re so smart. You have all the answers? What is there to do?”
“Something! Anything! At least my brother stands up for what he believes in.”
My mother turned away and walked down the hall toward the kitchen. My father pursued her.
“And look where that got him,” my father said. “You want me to be rotting in some prison camp in Bavaria?”
“The way things are going, we’ll be heading there anyway.”
Hildy started to cry and ran to my mother, throwing her arms around her waist. My mother rested her arm over Hildy’s shoulder.
“You’re upsetting the children,” my father said.
“They should be upset!” she said.
“We shouldn’t discuss this now.” He turned his attention to Hildy and me. “Listen, don’t mention what happened to your uncle to anyone. Not even your best friends. We all could be arrested too if they think we’re involved with his group. We’ve all got to be more careful now, thanks to Uncle Jakob.”
“We can’t go on like this,” my mother said.
“We don’t have a choice,” he shot back.
“We could leave,” she said.
“We’ve been over this a million times.”
“Other people are doing it. The Schwartzes left last week for Geneva. And the Bergs are going to Amsterdam.”
“They have family there.”
“So we could just pick a place.”
“Pick a place? And where would we go, Rebecca? Have you thought that one through?”
“Anywhere.”
“Oh, great. Anywhere. That’s helpful. Pack your bags, kids! We’re moving to anywhere.”
New fears took root in the pit of my stomach. My parents had never openly discussed the idea of leaving Germany. Things were worse than I had realized.
“What about the United States? You have cousins—”
“You know we can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“First of all, it’s halfway across the world and I haven’t been in contact with any of them since before the war. Second of all, we don’t speak any English. And most important, we haven’t got anywhere near the kind of money it would take to get us all over there. And we’d need thousands of marks just for the sponsor payments. I don’t know why you keep bringing this up.”
“Because things keep getting worse and worse.”
“It’s just politics. It will pass.”
“It won’t,” she said. “You can’t just stand around doing nothing.”
“Okay, you want to go, then go!” He ran into their bedroom and pulled one of their suitcases out of the closet and tossed it at her feet. “Here! Pack up and go wherever the hell you want.”
He kicked the suitcase so it slid into my mother’s leg with a dull thud. She grabbed her shin in pain where the suitcase had struck her.
“Goddamn you!” she screamed.
She picked up the suitcase and hurled it toward my father. He ducked out of the way, but it struck him on the shoulder and then bounced against the wall.
“Coward!” she spat.
The word stopped him short. He stared at her for a long moment. His neck reddened, and his face seethed with anger.
“I’m getting out of here,” my father finally said.
He turned and awkwardly stepped over the suitcase, which blocked his path in the hall, and stormed out of the apartment.
After the front door slammed shut, my mother picked up the suitcase and returned it to her closet. Then her face crumpled into her hands, and she started bawling. Hildy and I had seen our parents fight before, but never like this. Hildy cried too.
“Will Uncle Jakob be okay?” Hildy asked.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I just don’t know. You two should go to bed now.”
She kissed us both on the forehead and then entered her room and shut the door. We could hear her crying from inside, her sobs muffled in her pillow. Hildy and I both went to our rooms. I dreaded hearing the sound of her running the bath, but for the moment my mother stayed in her room.
I tried to block out all the dark thoughts that were swimming through my head by focusing on my victory in the ring. I faithfully recorded the results of my fight with Strasser in my journal, trying to remember the exact sequence of punches, what had worked, what hadn’t worked. Max had taught me that good fighters always tried to gather as much information as possible about their opponents to understand their strengths and weaknesses. “Think of yourself like the general of your own army, trying to find out as much intelligence as possible about the other army before battle.” I also sketched a small caricature of Strasser so I would remember what he looked like in case we ever fought again.
Then I lay in bed and flipped through my old boxing magazines, trying to lose myself in the world of Barney Ross, Max Schmeling, Tony Canzoneri, Jimmy Braddock, Henry Armstrong. Race and religion didn’t seem to matter in the ring, or if they mattered, they were points of pride or distinction. Jews were described as “Hebrew Hammers” and “Sons of Solomon.” Negro fighters were “Black Bruisers” and “Brown Bombers.” I wished Germany could be as accepting as the boxing world seemed to be.
My mind kept straying to Uncle Jakob sitting in prison. I wondered why they called them “concentration” camps. What did concentrating have to do with anything? I could still hear my mother’s low sobs as I finally drifted off to sleep.
A Real Fighter
MY FATHER RETURNED THE NEXT MORNING, LOOK
ING drawn and smelling of cigars and the peppermint-flavored liquor he favored. He and my mother barely exchanged a word when they saw each other. He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat heavily at the kitchen table. As soon as he settled into the chair, she stood up and walked out.
There was no way to communicate with prisoners in Dachau, and my mother’s mood turned very dark. We heard rumors of torture and murder in the camps, and in the absence of any concrete information, my mother assumed the worst. She retreated to her bedroom and to the bath for longer and longer stretches, until it seemed as if she spent the majority of her days in either room with the door shut.
I focused all my energy on my life outside our apartment.
The first day I returned to the club after the Strasser fight, I walked in, and Worjyk sat at the front desk. Because of the rain, we had not had a chance to talk after the fight, and I expected him to congratulate me or at least give me some pointers about how I performed in the ring. But he just grunted a half greeting at me, as if nothing special had happened. Neblig approached, carrying a bundle of towels. Surely he would say something.
“Worjyk, where do you want me to s-s-s-stow these new towels?”
“Just put ’em in the supply closet back there.”
“Okay. Oh, hey, Karl.” He waved at me absently and walked off toward the closet.
I stood there, dumbfounded. I didn’t expect my parents to care about my boxing, but I’d thought a victory would at least get me some respect at the club. I had been mistaken. I looked around at the men training, completely oblivious of me, and started to move slowly toward the locker room.
Suddenly I felt something strike the back of my head.
“Ow!”
I turned to see Neblig staring at me with a big grin; a boxing glove lay at my feet.
“What the—”
The men in the gym fell silent and turned toward me.
“Congratulations, Knochen,” Worjyk said.
All the other fighters removed their gloves and threw them at me. I tried to duck and dodge them, but the gloves just kept coming, as the men moved toward me, chanting my name. “Karl, Karl, Karl, Karl.”
Neblig, Johann, and most of the other fighters converged on me and hoisted me onto their shoulders as they continued chanting my name, slapping me on the back, and congratulating me. I looked around at the faces of the men surrounding me, men I had sparred with, trained with, argued and laughed with. I had never felt so much a part of something, so at the center of things. I swelled with pride. It was one of the happiest moments of my life.
I trained as often as I could at the Berlin Boxing Club, despite the fact that Max came by the club less and less. After beating Paulino Uzcudun in a rematch in June, he had traveled to America to lobby for a chance at a title fight against Jimmy Braddock, who was known as the Cinderella Man because before he became champ, he had been so poor that he had to live on government relief. The other leading contender was the young Negro fighter Joe Louis, and people were already speculating about the possibility of a Louis/Schmeling fight on the horizon.
My totals for the 300 rose to 375, 400, and eventually 450. My body was still skinny, but where the flesh used to be soft and formless, taut muscles now lined every limb.
Worjyk helped me enter more youth boxing tournaments around the city. After my shaky first fight, I settled down and gained a sense of inner confidence. My months of training and sparring with grown men had given me a distinct advantage over opponents my own age. I boxed regularly throughout the summer of 1935. I easily won my next several fights and started to gain a reputation as someone to be respected and even feared in the ring.
My tenth fight proved to be the most challenging. I battled back and forth with a good strong puncher named Heinz Budd. In the second round he surprised me with a combination and landed a crushing right cross to the side of my head that nearly sent me down. My mouthpiece got knocked out of place, and I bit the inside of my lip. A warm trickle of blood ran down my throat.
“Get back!” Worjyk yelled from my corner.
I couldn’t retreat fast enough, and Budd landed another series of punches on me. I lost my footing and fell back against the ropes. Budd moved in for the kill, but I was able to duck out of the way of an uppercut and land a quick jab of my own. Two more jabs and I was able work my way out of the corner. We traded punches until the bell rang, ending the fight.
Budd met me at the center of the ring.
“Good fight,” he said.
“You too,” I replied. We exchanged pats on the shoulder with our gloved hands.
I returned to my corner, and Neblig handed me a towel that I used to wipe off my sweat-streaked face. I took a long drink from my water bottle as the referee retrieved a small slip of paper from the judges and moved to the center of the ring.
“The winner by unanimous decision,” he said, “is Karl Stern.”
Neblig clapped me on the back.
“Nice job, Knochen,” Worjyk said. “Most of your other fights have been against pushovers, but this kid could really box. You actually showed some skills out there. You may yet become a real fighter someday.”
A real fighter. No two words had ever meant more to me, because I knew he really meant them.
Early Dismissal
WHEN SCHOOL RESUMED THAT FALL, HERR BOCH WAS no longer a member of the faculty. There were several new teachers, including my main instructor, Herr Kellner, a thin-lipped man with a small toothbrush mustache, which I was sure he’d grown to resemble Hitler. Many men in Germany shaved their facial hair to look like Hitler, and it became much more rare to see the bushy mustaches that Kaiser Wilhelm had popularized.
A few weeks into the new term, Herr Kellner announced that there would be a special assembly that morning for the entire school in the auditorium. My friend Kurt raised his hand and asked what the assembly was about. Herr Kellner just smiled and said that we would find out. He seemed to look directly at me as he said it.
We all shuffled into the auditorium, and I took my usual place toward the back with Kurt and Hans. Once all the students had gathered, Principal Munter took the stage. He raised his flabby arm in a salute and cried, “HEIL HITLER.” And the entire auditorium answered back as one, “HEIL HITLER.” Principal Munter put on his little round spectacles and produced a piece of paper from the inside of his jacket pocket.
“I have some very important news to announce this morning,” he said. “Our government has just passed some new laws that it is my honor and duty to tell you about. They are called the Nuremberg Laws, and they have been carefully designed to protect and secure the purity of German blood against the insidious influence of the Jews. I will summarize them for you now.”
My throat went dry, and I felt my spine collapse into my seat.
“Henceforth anyone who is born of three or four Jewish grandparents shall be officially considered a Jew. Jews will no longer be allowed to marry those of true German blood. Extramarital intercourse between Jews and true German citizens is forbidden.”
At the mention of intercourse a chorus of chuckles rippled through the crowd. I heard Kurt and Hans laughing next to me. Didn’t they realize what Munter was saying? This was nothing to laugh at. I immediately thought of Greta. What would happen now that our relationship was officially illegal?
“All right, quiet down!” Munter instructed. “Jews may not employ female citizens under the age of forty-five as domestic workers. And Jews are hereby forbidden to display the national or Reich flag. Any violation of these laws is punishable by hard labor. I will post the new laws and this chart of racial classification on the school bulletin board for your inspection.”
He folded the piece of paper and returned it to his jacket pocket.
“In keeping with the new direction of our government”—Munter continued—“our school will also be ridding ourselves of the corrupting influence of the Jewish race defilers. Would the following students please come forward? Mordecai Isaac-son.”
&n
bsp; A burst of catcalls erupted from around where Mordecai sat in one of the front rows. He stood and was pushed out of the row and down to the front of the auditorium.
“Jonah Goldenberg and Josef Katz, come forward,” Principal Munter continued. Jonah and Josef too were pushed out of their rows toward the front of the stage.
“Benjamin Rosenberg . . .”
I realized he was listing the Jewish students in alphabetical order and that I was next. Unless by some miracle the new laws exempted me. I did have one non-Jewish grand-father. Did that mean I was spared? I couldn’t remember what he had said. If you had three grandparents, did that mean you were a Jew according the law? Then he read my name.
“Karl Stern. Come forward.”
I hesitated for a moment, dreading joining the line of Jews at the front of the room. None of them had been my friends. I didn’t belong there. Some of the boys sitting behind me grabbed my collar, lifted me out of my seat, and pushed me down the aisle. Kurt and Hans looked down at their feet as I went by. As I made my way up toward the stage, all the boys started chanting, “Juden! Juden! Juden!”
I stood beside Benjamin and looked out at the happy chanting faces of my schoolmates, as if it were all a game to them. Gertz Diener, Franz Hellendorf, and Julius Austerlitz stood and cheered the loudest. Principal Munter raised his hands to quiet the crowd.
“You four students are officially expelled. You may retrieve your books and leave the building at once. You are dismissed.”
A loud cheer went up from the audience as the four of us turned and walked out of the auditorium, and again the chant: “Juden, Juden, Juden.”
Benjamin Rosenberg and I had our lockers near each other, and we both walked down the empty hallway together, looking pale and bug-eyed, as if in a trance. We stopped at our lockers, and my hands were shaking as I gathered my books, wondering where we would go to school or if we would go at all.
After a few moments the doors of the auditorium flew open, and Gertz Diener and the Wolf Pack emerged at the front of the stream of exiting students.
The Berlin Boxing Club Page 12