Historical Fiction
Date Published: October 6, 2020
Publisher: Morgan James Publishing
Based on a true story about fighting fascism in 1930s New Jersey, Newark Minutemen tells an unforgettable tale about forbidden love, intrigue and a courageous man’s search for avenge….
During the Great Depression, Jewish boxer Yael Newman meets Krista Brecht, daughter of the German-American Nazi high command. When his affections turn real, his friends warn him against crossing the line. When Krista leaves for American Nazi summer camp in Long Island, New York, he swears to rescue her. But his mission becomes much more when he’s recruited into the Newark Minutemen by the Jewish mob and FBI to go undercover and fight the American Nazis who are taking over America.
Newark Minutemen Optioned first film
Excerpt
Chapter
1
Put on
the Gloves
February
20, 1939
YAEL: Madison Square Garden. New York,
USA
If we fail today, we might as well throw
in the towel.
My ears hammer
against the roarin’ crowd. We must stop the rallying call for a Nazi Party in
America. The last thing we need in the middle of the Depression is a fascist
party here to support the one the Nazis are building in Germany. Everyone’s
still nursin’ their wounds from the Great War.
I catch the cold iron
bar—the one I spent all night sawin’ off
with my hacksaw—on the first bounce. But the clank it makes
between Sieg Heil chants signals our
death warrant. My heart freezes as I scan forty-thousand blinkin’ eyes around the
arena. I wonder which ones have read through my fake salute? Blood thrusts
through my veins like water loadin’ in a fire hose. I almost vomit. Dangit! I’m
my own worst enemy.
The pumpin’ in my
body mounts like a geyser ready to blow. Right here and now, maybe I should
grab my fellow fighters and exit the Germandom defiling the Garden. Yes.
Madison Square Garden. New York City, USA. The last time I was here I was
sixteen and my best pal, Harry Levine, knocked out another heavyweight to win
the 1936 Golden Glove. Now, just three years later, the Bund’s American Führer,
Fritz Kuhn, is celebrating Der Tag—The Day—on Washington’s birthday in the most
iconic American arena we have.
Another cheer goes up
and shakes the ceiling rafters. The heat from heiling bodies curdles my stomach
as if I’d swallowed gasoline. I fume when I think about how Kuhn is bastardizing
our American symbol into a red, white and blue Nuremberg Rally on our sacred
President’s Day, February 20, 1939. Today, the stainin’ of an American symbol,
tomorrow our country could be consumed by a brewin’ dictatorship if Hitler
marches on Europe. The disgust rears saliva in the back of my throat. I hack out
the salty vile.
Even if I’m not as
stupid as I am brave, my options are limited. Blockin’ the aisles, seven
hundred brown-shirted, swastika wielding, high-booted Hitler replicas are
poundin’ their boots against the coliseum floor to the beat of the drum corps.
Many of them are not much older than me. Addin’ insult to injury, the mockin’
color guards wave their swastika flags side by side with American ones. I clamp
myself to the floor. Let’s face it. At this point, I have one choice. Pray no
one kills me.
Beads of sweat simmer
on my brow. Any false hopes of escape are dashed as a glint bounces off the
brass knuckles of my worst nightmare, Axel Von du Croy. The light licks my good
wool suit. Well, my only suit. Behind the uniformed soldier, his fixer, Frank
Schenk, pokes another Gestapo-type Stormtrooper and grabs a third. He leads a
squad through the masses toward us, disrupting unified party
cheers of Free America. Free
America. Free America.
But we, they call us
the Newark Minutemen, are trained boxers. We won’t be knocked out without a
fight. Our members are scattered throughout The Garden. To the left are Maxie
and Al Fisher, Nat Arno, and Abie Pain. Nearby are Puddy Hinkes, Harry Levine,
and his cousin Benny. And then there’s me, Yael Newman. The eight of us muscle
against the press of fanatics, forcin’ our way through the crowd. We wedge
between Hitler disciples and chafe against Nazi regalia. The evil glares tell
me we’re not makin’ friends. We clamber over seats, step on black boots and
duck under Hitler salutes. We’re searchin’ for the other members of our militia
to gain a foothold that will help disrupt this ominous occasion. I’m countin’
on the rest of our scattered troops to slide their hidden iron bars down their
sleeves into their fists. As I dodge a swastika-banded arm, my own bar falls
again. But this time, I catch it breathlessly before it sets off alarms. Harry
and I hurry toward the swarmin’ center aisle.
An amplified German
accent booms. “Fellow Americans. American Patriots. I do not come before you
tonight as a stranger. You will have heard of me through the Jewish-controlled
press as a creature with horns, a cloven hoof, and a long tail.” I glance up
at the stage. Below the towering portrait of George Washington, the Hitler uniformed Bund leader, Führer Fritz Julius Kuhn, leans into the microphone at the podium.
The hard-faced, square-jawed Führer
pronounces what he calls a unified Germandom in
America. “We Gentiles are fighting for an
Aryan-ruled United States, insulated from dirty blacks, Japanese, Chinese,
vermin Jews, dishonest Arabs, homosexuals, Catholics, and even useless cripples
and alcoholics.” This shadow-Hitler party is putting democracy up for
negotiation. There’s no doubt. I’ll bet my right arm that the Nazis are gonna
start another world war.
Around me, the
shoulder-belt wearin’ audience raises Hitler salutes to the six-foot, two-hundred
plus pound bully. They’re cheering a man who is dehumanizing people. Peerin’ into
the crowd, I cringe at the notion that so many good German-Americans who could
be my own neighbors have bought into the Nazi stance. Sure they have inherited
the high cheeked look. But it’s more. They have assumed that stiff carriage,
that humorless expression. That mind that screams discipline and punctuality,
rules and obedience. A heart that freezes everything they touch, like a tongue
that freezes on an icy flagpole.
Kuhn commands his
Aryan audience to demand that the government be returned to the American
people. “We, the German-American Nazi Bund, will protect America against Jewish
Communism parasites,” he says. My teeth clench. He’s a master at twisting
thoughts. “We will protect our glorious republic and defend our Constitution
from the slimy conspirators and . . . WE WILL
MAKE AMERICA GREAT.”
Führer Kuhn
stuns me with his words. From the next aisle, the commander of our Newark
Minutemen, prizefighter Nat Arno, waves at me to keep movin’. But my
distraction is costly. In the time it takes me to blink, khaki arms trimmed
with a black spider woven on a red armband lock around me. They drag me toward
the exit to the tune of a female voice singin’ the American anthem. “Oh, say can
you see, by the dawn’s early light, What so proudly we hailed at the twilight’s
last gleaming—”
About the Author
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Twitter: @NMinutemen
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