He wondered at times if pushing himself like this was even worth it. Sometimes, though, when his heartbeat neutralized and his body became functional again, he would turn off the lamp and stand in the darkness of the basement.
He was twenty-four, but he could still fantasize.
“In the blue corner,” he quietly commentated, “we have the champion of the world, the Aryan masterpiece—the Führer.” He breathed and turned. “And in the red corner, we have the Jewish, rat-faced challenger—Max Vandenburg.”
Around him, it all materialized.
White light lowered itself into a boxing ring and a crowd stood and murmured—that magical sound of many people talking all at once. How could every person there have so much to say at the same time? The ring itself was perfect. Perfect canvas, lovely ropes. Even the stray hairs of each thickened string were flawless, gleaming in the tight white light. The room smelled like cigarettes and beer.
Diagonally across, Adolf Hitler stood in the corner with his entourage. His legs poked out from a red-and-white robe with a black swastika burned into its back. His mustache was knitted to his face. Words were whispered to him from his trainer, Goebbels. He bounced foot to foot, and he smiled. He smiled loudest when the ring announcer listed his many achievements, which were all vociferously applauded by the adoring crowd. “Undefeated!” the ringmaster proclaimed. “Over many a Jew, and over any other threat to the German ideal! Herr Führer,” he concluded, “we salute you!” The crowd: mayhem.
Next, when everyone had settled down, came the challenger.
The ringmaster swung over toward Max, who stood alone in the challenger’s corner. No robe. No entourage. Just a lonely young Jew with dirty breath, a naked chest, and tired hands and feet. Naturally, his shorts were gray. He too moved from foot to foot, but it was kept at a minimum to conserve energy. He’d done a lot of sweating in the gym to make the weight.
“The challenger!” sang the ringmaster. “Of,” and he paused for effect, “Jewish blood.” The crowd oohed, like human ghouls. “Weighing in at …”
The rest of the speech was not heard. It was o
verrun with the abuse from the bleachers, and Max watched as his opponent was de-robed and came to the middle to hear the rules and shake hands.
“Guten Tag, Herr Hitler.” Max nodded, but the Führer only showed him his yellow teeth, then covered them up again with his lips.
“Gentlemen,” a stout referee in black pants and a blue shirt began. A bow tie was fixed to his throat. “First and foremost, we want a good clean fight.” He addressed only the Führer now. “Unless, of course, Herr Hitler, you begin to lose. Should this occur, I will be quite willing to turn a blind eye to any unconscionable tactics you might employ to grind this piece of Jewish stench and filth into the canvas.” He nodded, with great courtesy. “Is that clear?”
The Führer spoke his first word then. “Crystal.”
To Max, the referee extended a warning. “As for you, my Jewish chum, I’d watch my step very closely if I were you. Very closely indeed,” and they were sent back to their respective corners.
A brief quiet ensued.
The bell.
First out was the Führer, awkward-legged and bony, running at Max and jabbing him firmly in the face. The crowd vibrated, the bell still in their ears, and their satisfied smiles hurdled the ropes. The smoky breath of Hitler steamed from his mouth as his hands bucked at Max’s face, collecting him several times, on the lips, the nose, the chin—and Max had still not ventured out of his corner. To absorb the punishment, he held up his hands, but the Führer then aimed at his ribs, his kidneys, his lungs. Oh, the eyes, the Führer‘s eyes. They were so deliciously brown—like Jews’ eyes—and they were so determined that even Max stood transfixed for a moment as he caught sight of them between the healthy blur of punching gloves.
There was only one round, and it lasted hours, and for the most part, nothing changed.
The Führer pounded away at the punching-bag Jew.
Jewish blood was everywhere.
Like red rain clouds on the white-sky canvas at their feet.
Eventually, Max’s knees began to buckle, his cheekbones silently moaned, and the Führer‘s delighted face still chipped away, chipped away, until depleted, beaten, and broken, the Jew flopped to the floor.
First, a roar.
Then silence.
The referee counted. He had a gold tooth and a plethora of nostril hair.
Slowly, Max Vandenburg, the Jew, rose to his feet and made himself upright. His voice wobbled. An invitation. “Come on, Führer,” he said, and this time, when Adolf Hitler set upon his Jewish counterpart, Max stepped aside and plunged him into the corner. He punched him seven times, aiming on each occasion for only one thing.
The mustache.
With the seventh punch, he missed. It was the Führer’s chin that sustained the blow. All at once, Hitler hit the ropes and creased forward, landing on his knees. This time, there was no count. The referee flinched in the corner. The audience sank down, back to their beer. On his knees, the Führer tested himself for blood and straightened his hair, right to left. When he returned to his feet, much to the approval of the thousand-strong crowd, he edged forward and did something quite strange. He turned his back on the Jew and took the gloves from his fists.
The crowd was stunned.