Read an Excerpt
INTRODUCING BENJY PUTERMAN
It’s late spring, almost summer, 1937. Just four months and I can officially say I’m a freshman at Weequahic High. Rumors of a Nazi camp for kids opening in Sussex County somewhere are littering Newark streets like candy wrappers. My pop’s a member of the Newark Minutemen, he and a bunch of other former prizefighters— they’ve been going around to meetings of these so-called Nazis in Newark, Irvington, and other parts of New Jersey and busting them up. The meetings and the people, I guess. Sometimes help comes from (shh!) gangsters like Longie Zwillman. But Longie’s one of us, and he’s been good to the Jews of Weequahic.
President Roosevelt is gearing up to campaign for a second term. His New Deal has been successful, from what I can see from my perch. He’ll get us out of the Depression entirely. Hard to believe he took office just a couple of months after Herr Hitler (I’ve been taking German) took over Germany as Führer (leader) of the Third Reich (empire). He’s gunning for an empire to last a thousand years. He’s pals with Italy’s dictator, Benito Mussolini. I think they’re both nuts. At least Hitler and the Soviet Union’s dictator, Josef Stalin, are sworn enemies. The papers say Hitler insists there will not be war, that no country wants war, and no country can afford war. I don’t believe a word he says. After all, things are not going well for the Jews in Germany. A couple of years ago, Hitler put a decree in place to strip Jews of German citizenship. He dictated who Jews could marry and who they couldn’t. They’ve lost their jobs. They’re outcasts. Can’t somebody do something about Herr Hitler?
Here in New Jersey and I guess elsewhere in the country is a new group who call themselves the German-American Bund. It’s a club, a league. Pop tells me they used to be called the Friends of New Germany until a congressman from New York, Sam Dickstein, shut them down. Rumor has it the Bund is behind this Nazi camp in New Jersey.
I know exactly how this summer will go. My best pal, Tommy Anspach, and I will sip sodas at Sol’s while reading comics, play ball at Weequahic Park, and catch lightning bugs under the streetlights with mason jars. We’ll celebrate our summer birthday (we’ll both be fourteen on August 27!) in sleeping bags under the stars in my backyard. It’ll be great—our last hurrah before we buckle down to a year of classes and homework in the number one high school in the state!
EXPECTATIONS
THOMAS ANSPACH
April 1937
Father no longer allows me to call him Vati.
Father no longer allows me to read comic books.
Father no longer allows me to be me.
Sometimes he calls me Rudi, the older brother
I didn’t know, the one who died from scarlet fever in Germany when paper money was so worthless
Mother used it as fuel to keep everyone warm.
But it didn’t help Rudi or Germany and Mother and Father came to America and had me.
I will never be their beloved Rudi.
I’m an American of German heritage.
Father sends me to learn German in a special school on Saturdays.
He tells me I’m going to a special camp to embrace my German heritage as if I were growing up in Germany itself. I will go to this camp.
I will prove to Father that Thomas can be the son Rudi promised he would be.
FATHER TAKES ME TO A GERMAN-AMERICAN BUND MEETING
Thomas
April 1937
The head of the German-American league stands on a platform in a belted shirt,
military-like. He speaks slowly, his eyes peering, searing, leering into mine. He says:
“To be and remain worthy of our Germanic blood,
our German Fatherland, and ancestral German blood
That means he wants us Americans to remember we belong to Germany.
“Our German brothers and sisters fight for their existence, their honor to cultivate our German language, customs, and ideals from shared blood
That means we all have our German heritage
In common. We need to come together.
“To stand up and be proud of all this,
to always remember in unity is strength, our blood
That means there’s strength if we bond together.
Before I realize I’m doing it,
my arm is raised in salute and my voice booms, “Sieg Heil.”
I Never Knew
THOMAS
I never knew so many German-Americans lived outside Newark. The people in this hall have come from Irvington, that’s right outside
Newark. But Haledon is near Paterson and Paramus not far from there, Garfield too.
It is the first time I hear, “Camp Nordland.”
A new camp for kids like me with German parents out in the New Jersey countryside, away from the city. A place to bridge the old and new, Germany with America.
As we stroll out of the meeting, Father says, “Ru—Thomas, we’re sending you to Camp Nordland.”
At least this time he only spoke the first syllable of my dead brother’s name.
Read All About It
Thomas
Father thrusts his Beobachter newspaper,
The Observer,
his German-American
Bund newspaper, into my face.
“See here, this man will be your camp director.”
August Klapprott.
He looks just like Fritz Kuhn, leader of the Bund, holding on to his leather holster across his chest, fingers anchored on his belt. Camp Nordland opens on July 18. Just one of many Bund camps across the country to connect
American kids with our German heritage. I wonder if that means we’ll get to drink the beer that Father loves so much.
I Want to Tell Benjy, But Father Stops Me
Thomas
“Where do you think you’re going?”
Father asks.
“To tell Benjy all about Camp Nordland.”
(my hand is on the doorknob)
“No, this you must not do.”
"Why not?"
(I open the door.)
“The Putermans are Jewish.”
"I know."
“You can’t be friends with
Benjy anymore”
(He stands and closes the door).
“We don’t concern ourselves with
Jewish people. You’ll find new friends, German friends,
at Nordland. Boys like yourself.”
“But, Benjy and I have been friends forever. We like to do the same things.”
"Not anymore."
Because
Thomas
May 1937
Because you give me no choice
Because I like the special attention
Because I want to know more about where you came from
Father, I’ll go to Nordland.
Because your eyes light up with pride
Because you write my name in shirts, shorts, and socks
Because I know you really want a cabin in the woods away from the city
Mother, I’ll go to Nordland
Because I’m now your only child
Because I’m all you have
Because I never want to disappoint you,
Dear parents, Camp Nordland, here I come.
Male Call
Thomas
“A letter for you,” Mother says.
“It’s from your new section leader at Camp Nordland.” It’s addressed to Thomas Anspach, not Tommy.
I open it. It’s completely in German.
“I told you that you’ll have to speak German all the time at camp,” she says.
I roll my eyes. Slipped in with the letter are the lyrics to the German national anthem:
Deutschland, Deutschland über alles,
Germany, Germany above all,
über alles in der Welt,
above all else in the world,
wenn es stets zu Schutz and Trutze
when always for protection and defense,
brüderlich zusammen hält,
brothers stand together.
I am still singing the song to myself as I fall asleep.
Let Me at ’Em
Benjy
“Let me at ’em,” Pop says at the dinner table. That’s what Mr. Nat Arno said, Pop says, when they heard about a Nazi club meeting in Irvington. Pop is one of Mr. Arno’s Minutemen. Just the sound of that makes Pop stand up straight, like he’s a colonist fighting against the British.
When Mr. Arno says, “Let me at ’em,”
he means business, Pop says. Mr. Arno started boxing at fourteen,
his first match and first win at fifteen. His pop didn’t want him fighting so Mr. Arno hitchhiked to Florida. Won a bunch of fights. Now, a bunch of years later,
he’s back in Newark.
Jeez, even Newark’s mayor, Meyer Ellenstein,
was a Jewish boxer, too.
So why the Minutemen? Why not the Boxers?
Pop’s proud of his fights. He won’t let
Mom touch the gold satin shorts he wore in his last match. He gave up boxing when I was born. But he hasn’t given up fighting—he just doesn’t use a ring anymore.
I’m going to box someday, too, just like Benny Leonard, Newark’smost famous Jewish boxer.
I check my meager muscles in the bathroom mirror. I have a long way to go for anyone to believe me when I say,
“Let me at ’em.”
What Tommy Won’t Be Doing
Benjy
July 1, 1937
“I won’t be playing ball with you at Weequahic Park,” Tommy says.
“I won’t be hanging out after dinner with you or having a Coke,” Tommy says.
“I won’t be opening up the fire hydrants to cool us off,” Tommy says.
“My parents have signed me up for camp in the country. A lake, trees, fun,” Tommy says.
“I’ll talk to my parents so I can come, too!” I say.
“You can’t come with me,” Tommy says.
“No Jews allowed.” He turns toward his house.
“And I’m Thomas now.”
Tommy Doesn’t Need to Leave Newark
Benjy
If Tommy wants to escape the city,
he could go, like we always do,
to Weequahic Park, throw a few balls around.
If Tommy wants to breathe fresh air and the scent of grass, there’s always my backyard,
narrow but deep.
Or the grassy median that divides Goldsmith Avenue where we played hide-and-seek in the shrubs.
We’ve got a few trees, too, lining the curb,
next to the garbage cans.
It may not be Camp Nordland,
but it’s home and it’s ours.
