I APPROACHED THE LARGE BRICK BUILDING, A WAVE OF nauseous tension sweeping through me. It had been half a year since I had been there, and everything looked the same, but different, clouded by my anxieties about how I would be received. I assumed that every member of the club must’ve heard about my disqualification at the tournament for being a Jew. These men had helped me on my journey from boyhood to manhood; they had been my comrades and friends. I felt bonded to them through our shared effort and pain. Would Worjyk bar me from even walking in? How many of the boxers I had sparred and trained with were also Nazis? How would they react to me now? Would they spit on me or try to beat me up? Surely Neblig wouldn’t have invited me back if he’d thought I would get that kind of reception. Yet my doubts lingered as I ascended the stairs, past the other floors filled with whirring machinery manufacturing cloth.
As soon as I got to the landing on the top floor, I could tell something was wrong. The gold lettering on the club’s door had been chipped and peeled away, so I could barely read the faded outline of where the words “The Berlin Boxing & Health Club” used to be.
I tentatively poked my head inside the door and was shocked by the extreme transformation. All the boxing equipment—the rings, the heavy bags, the weights, even the old posters from the walls—had been removed. The space was now filled with a series of long tables with dozens of women sewing and cutting brown wool blankets. The only decorations on the walls were a large industrial clock and a framed portrait of Hitler. The women all wore plain blue smocks and kerchiefs over their hair and intently stared down at the work in their hands. Piles of completed blankets stood stacked against the wall behind each worker. A foreman in a long white lab coat walked around the room holding a clipboard and observing the women’s work. Every so often he would stop to inspect one of the completed blankets to make sure the stitching was right. No one looked up as I stepped into the room.
Then I noticed Neblig circling the tables, pushing a large dustbin on wheels, picking up the small scraps of fabric and thread that the women had cut away. He wore simple brown worker’s overalls and a wool cap. When he finally glanced up and saw me standing by the door, a smile dawned across his face.
“Karl!”
He stepped away from his dustbin and came over to greet me, warmly shaking my hand and gripping my shoulder. The foreman frowned and approached.
“Herr Broder, you know we don’t allow visitors inside the manufacturing rooms.”
“Ja, Herr Schinkel, I’m s-s-s-sorry. May I take my lunch b-b-b-break now, s-s-s-sir?”
“Okay,” the foreman replied. “But no more time than usual.”
“Of course,” Neblig said. “K-k-k-karl, I’ll meet you downstairs in a minute, at the corner store.”
I went back out and waited for Neblig at the corner store where we used to buy our milk shakes. The store had not changed at all since I had last been there, except there was now a sign in the front window that read: no dogs. no jews. no gypsies. A few moments later, Neblig jogged down the street to join me.
“So g-g-g-good to see you, Karl.”
“You too,” I said.
“Come on, I’ll b-b-b-buy you a vanilla shake.”
He started to walk into the store, but I gestured to the sign. He glanced at it and nodded.
“Wait here. I’ll get them t-t-t-to go.”
He went inside and emerged a few minutes later with two shakes, which we drank while we walked.
“Worjyk sold the c-c-c-club weeks ago,” he explained. “I was lucky that the factory owner k-k-k-kept me on as a janitor.”
“But what happened to the club?” I asked. “Was Worjyk in some kind of financial trouble?”
“No. He had his reasons for s-s-s-selling. G-g-g-good reasons.”
“I don’t understand.”
For a moment I feared that the demise of the club was tied to my exposure as a Jew. Would the Nazis have shut him down simply for having a Jewish member?
“He was hoping you’d come b-b-b-back so he could speak with you d-d-d-directly. But he left me this letter f-f-f-for you to explain in case you didn’t.”
Neblig reached into the front pocket of his overalls and removed a worn and creased yellow envelope that looked as if he had been carrying it for quite a while.
Dear Knochen,
By the time you get this letter, I will have left the country. I have joined a group of Jews who are settling in Palestine. They say we will all have to become farmers when we get there, but I’m sure there will also be a need for boxing coaches in the Promised Land. For obvious reasons I was not able to stand up and defend you at the tournament. I regret that, and I always will. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me. You have all the makings of a great fighter: good footwork, a quick jab, great reach, and the heart of a lion. And always remember, Jews are born fighters. David beat up Goliath pretty good, right? I hope you and your family remain safe and well both in and out of the ring.
Yours truly, Abram Worjyk
My eyes stared at the page, not quite believing what I had just read. Even more shocking than the revelation that Worjyk was a Jew was the fact that he had already fled the country, making me even more nervous about my family’s own situation.
“He had no idea that you were J-j-j-jewish until that moment at the t-t-t-tournament,” Neblig said.
“Did he leave because of me? Because he thought the Nazis would come after him?”
“No. He had been plotting his escape for months, m-m-m-maybe years. When I t-t-t-tried to find you, I was kind of hoping you’d be g-g-g-gone too.”
Then it all spilled out. I told Neblig the whole story of our diminished financial situation, the theft of the Picasso, and my fast-receding hope of ever getting to America. I had never spoken to anyone about these things, and it felt good to unload all my anxieties despite the fact that I knew Neblig would not be able to help.
Finally he asked, “What about M-m-m-max?”
“What about him?”
“Couldn’t your father ask him for a l-l-l-loan or s-s-s-something? Aren’t they f-f-f-friends?”
“They were friends, but I don’t think they’ve spoken in a couple of years, since I started my lessons. And it’s hard to tell what kind of friends they really were. My father had lots of friends back when times were good, but they all seem to have disappeared. Besides, my father is still a proud man; he could never go begging like that.”
“What about you?”
“Me?”
“Y-y-y-you were about as close to Max as anyone at the club. He was c-c-c-cordial to everyone but never really befriended any of the other m-m-m-members. It was just a place for h-h-h-him to work out, to find s-s-s-sparring partners. But you were different. He really t-t-t-took an interest in you. Why d-d-d-don’t you ask him for help?”
“I haven’t heard from him in months. I wouldn’t know how to reach him.”
“He’s in America now, training for his rematch w-w-w-with Joe Louis. But that’s only a couple of w-w-w-weeks away. After that, win or lose, he’ll b-b-b-be coming back to Berlin. He stays at the Hotel Excelsior on Stesemannstrasse. You c-c-c-could write to him.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t feel right about it.”
“Don’t let pride g-g-g-get in your way. Pride is a luxury that s-s-s-sometimes you c-c-c-can’t afford.” He put a hand on my shoulder and held my gaze. “That’s something I’ve had to l-l-l-learn the hard way in my life.”
I paused, letting his words sink in. “I’ll think about it,” I finally said.
“G-g-g-good. Now I have to get b-b-b-back to work. But I’m afraid I have another small piece of b-b-b-bad news for you.”
“What is it?”
Neblig took a deep breath.
“Barney Ross just lost the welterweight championship.”
“What? To who?”
“Henry Armstrong. It was a brutal b-b-b-battle. Armstrong really gave him a beating. Ross’s trainers were begging him to th-th-th-throw
in the towel, but he w-w-w-wouldn’t quit. And he was n-n-n-never knocked down. He made it through fifteen r-r-r-rounds and stayed on his f-f-f-feet, even though he knew the f-f-f-fight was lost. The story I read said that it was the most courageous f-f-f-fight the writer had ever s-s-s-seen.”
“Will there be a rematch?”
Neblig shook his head.
“Ross retired right after the match.”
“Retired?”
“Ja. It’s probably a g-g-g-good thing too. Most fighters t-t-t-try to stay in the ring t-t-t-too long.”
I felt a sickening emptiness in the pit of my stomach. For years Ross had been my real-life Superman, a scrawny, poor outcast who had transformed himself through sheer force of will and determination into a hero. I had always held on to the belief that if there were a Jewish World Champion, things would never get too bad for the Jews in Germany, as if his very existence were a shield for us all. Now he had been defeated, and worse still, he was retiring. I was so stunned by the news about Ross and Worjyk that I didn’t even think to show Neblig my comic book. He had already returned to his job at the factory when I remembered it was in my rucksack.
I went home that night and flipped through my old boxing magazines, rereading all the stories about Ross’s magical rise and career. I took small solace in the fact that Henry Armstrong, the man who had taken his crown, was a Negro and therefore also was a symbol of the strength of the mongrel races.
Yet I felt horribly conflicted, because now my last hope seemed to rest with Max Schmeling, a man who was being held up around the world as a symbol of Aryan supremacy and was preparing to do battle again with his own mongrel opponent, Joe Louis. Lying in bed, I felt the weight of responsibility bear down on me as it sank in that my relationship with Max might be my family’s only hope of escape.
The Rematch
SEVERAL MONTHS EARLIER JOE LOUIS HAD CAPTURED the heavyweight title by easily defeating the Cinderella Man, Jimmy Braddock. German sportswriters accused the Jews of manipulating things to let Louis have the fight instead of Max, so the championship could stay in America. Boxing fans and writers around the world seemed to agree that Louis could not be considered the legitimate champion unless he beat Max, the only man to have defeated him in the ring. With mounting fears of another world war on the horizon, the rematch at Yankee Stadium was no longer about two men but about two nations and two worldviews: fascism versus democracy, racial purity versus diversity, oppression versus freedom.
Most Germans believed Max’s victory to be inevitable— and all part of Hitler’s plan of Aryan ascendancy. To them, Max was racially superior, had more experience and intellect, and had beaten Louis once already. Yet some brave sportswriters were more pragmatic and questioned if Max, who was two years older than the last time they had fought, could go the distance with the much younger Louis, who was entering his prime.
The fight began at three a.m., Berlin time, and just as before, the entire German nation stayed awake to listen. Lights glistened in nearly every home and apartment building; and restaurants, beer halls, and theaters stayed open late and were filled with noisy patrons. If you walked down any street, you could hear the radio broadcast buzzing through the air from all directions.
By 1938 street violence against Jews had become so brazen, commonplace, and ignored by the police that most Jews, including my family, no longer ventured out after dark unless it was absolutely necessary. So I was forced to listen to the rematch, unlike the previous fight, with my father and sister on our family radio in the front room of the gallery. My mother retreated to the bathroom to soak in the tub, claiming she had no interest in the fight.
My father sat stoically in the one nice upholstered armchair we had brought from the old apartment, while I perched on a wooden stool directly next to the radio. Hildy sat on the floor, sketching in one of her notebooks. I wished I could read my father’s mind to know what he was thinking and whom he was rooting for. Nearly all Jews in Germany were now pulling for Joe Louis, hoping that a symbol of Nazi strength would be brought low. Some feared that a Schmeling loss would trigger yet more anti-Semitism and reprisals. Still other Jews continued to consider themselves patriotic Germans and would never consider rooting for anyone but their countryman. Despite my resentment toward Max, I couldn’t help but still root for him. He had shown me kindness and attention at a time when no one else had, and I still held out hope that he would help me.
Images danced in my head as announcer Arno Hellmis’s rapid-fire words spilled out of our radio speaker. Even Hildy paused in her drawing and looked up as the bell sounded, signaling the beginning of the fight.
“There’s the bell starting the first round. Both fighters move to the center of the ring . . . Max in purple trunks and Louis in black with white trim. Both fighters are circling, throwing jabs, getting a feel for each other. And now Louis goes on the attack, throwing a quick combination that seems to have taken Max by surprise. He’s got Max backing up . . . and Louis lands a hard right to Max’s jaw . . . and another to the gut and another! Max is up against the ropes, and the punches keep coming from Louis. Get out of there, Max!”
Hellmis’s voice rose in pitch as the crowd’s cheers swelled around him. He could barely talk above the din or keep up with the action. As Max struggled, Hellmis shouted warnings and encouragements to his fighter like a concerned friend rather than an announcer.
“Louis lands another brutal shot to Max’s body . . . and another! Now he’s firing punches at Max’s head, one after the other. For heaven’s sake, Max, get your hands up! He has Max up against the ropes. And he lands another! And Max’s knee is buckling! Stay up, Max! Stay up!”
The crowd roared louder, and in my mind I saw Max teetering on the verge of collapse.
“The ref is pulling them apart now . . . that last hit to the body really got to Max. And now Louis moves in again and lands another right to the jaw, and Max goes down! He’s down! Get up, Max! He gets back to his feet, but Louis attacks again, and Max is down again! But he pulls himself back up! He’s on his feet again! Careful, Max! Get your hands up! And Louis delivers another crushing right, and Max is down for a third time!”
A gasp went up from the crowd, and Hellmis seemed on the verge of tears.
“He’s on his knees, trying to get up, but it looks like he might be down for good! Yes. That’s it. The fight is over. Max Schmeling is beaten! It seems impossible, but it’s true. Max is—”
The radio signal went dead. The Nazi authorities had cut the broadcast as soon as it was clear that Max had been defeated. The entire fight, the rematch of the century, lasted not even one round, barely two minutes.
We all sat staring into a blank spot in space where we had been seeing the fight in our mind’s eye. A thin crackle of static was the only sound. Finally my father rose and switched off the radio.
“Good,” he said flatly. “Now both of you off to bed.”
Hildy and I obeyed, retreating to our rooms without any further discussion.
Once down in the basement, I lay on my bed and tried to comprehend what had just happened. I almost didn’t believe what we had heard. It was inconceivable that Max would not only lose but be defeated so quickly and totally. I tried to picture what it looked like, with Louis raining down punches and Max falling not once but three times.
My father’s reaction communicated all I needed to know about his feelings for Max and the possibility of his reaching out for any sort of help. I knew it was up to me. I tried to compute how the loss might influence Max’s reaction to my plea. If he had won, I reasoned, he would have been even richer, more powerful and influential, and it would have been even easier for him to assist us in some way. On the other hand, if he had become champion, it would have been more difficult to make contact with him, with everyone demanding even more of his time. Perhaps with this humbling loss, he would look more kindly upon a request to help someone weak and powerless. There had even been some whispered rumors that if he lost, he would be thrown in ja
il by the Nazis for disgracing the Reich.
I sat at my desk and tried to compose a letter to Max. I struggled to think of a way to begin. Should I tell him I was sorry about the loss to Louis? Should I ask how he was feeling? Should I tell him how hard things had gotten for my family? I wrote several drafts, filled with awkward false starts, before I finally composed a very short note in which I simply asked if I could come see him at the Excelsior Hotel when he came back to the city. I reasoned that it would be easier to explain everything in person.
I finished writing at four a.m.and snuck out of the gallery to drop it in the mail slot on the corner. Our neighborhood was eerily quiet and empty, unlike the night of Max’s first fight with Louis, when the streets of Berlin had been filled with revelers till well past dawn.
As I approached the mail slot, a group of three angry drunk brownshirts came around the corner, grumbling about the fight. I froze as they walked right toward me.
“The Negro must’ve fouled him, just like Sharkey did.”
“It was the Jews,” said another. “I’m sure of it.”
“They probably poisoned him somehow.”
“That’s why they insisted the fight be held in New York City,” said the third, “so they could pull their dirty tricks.”
“Damn kikes.”
They brushed right past me, and one of them grazed my shoulder. He stopped and said, “Watch it.”
“Sorry,” I muttered.
He angrily glared at me. I held my breath as he looked me up and down.
“Come on,” one of the others said. “Let’s go.”
He abruptly turned away and kept walking into the night.
I exhaled. Clearly my non-Jewish looks had saved me. I shuddered to think what might have happened if my sister or my father had been with me.
I deposited the letter in the mail slot and quickly retreated to the gallery.
Broken Glass
IN THE DAYS IMMEDIATELY FOLLOWING THE FIGHT, WILD rumors circulated in the Nazi press that Max had been poisoned or that Louis had used brass knuckles inside his gloves. One German paper even speculated that Max had died from his injuries in the ring and that the Jewish American press was conspiring to keep it a secret. In truth Max had simply retreated to a New York hospital to be treated for his injuries. Eventually photographs emerged of Max in his hospital bed, and he was quoted in interviews saying that he had been defeated fairly.
The Berlin Boxing Club Page 21