The flyers they’d printed were all over the sidewalk, caked with horseshit. He had FREE AMERICA! stuck to the tip of his shoe. BE UNITED! . . . BE A NATION, BE AMERICANS, AND BE TRUE TO YOURSELVES! Supposedly the words of George Washington. Today the German American Bund was celebrating Washington’s birthday. He told himself this and knew it wasn’t true. He touched a single patch of stubble on his chin that he had missed while shaving. His fingers kept compulsively going back to it as they neared the turnstiles, back to the rough, itchy stub of a hair. His fingertips twisted it this way and that. Once he tried to rip it out on the sly, his head lowered. He was short; his hat formed a screen.

Beyond the turnstiles the shouting abruptly stopped. It was the quiet that comes after a fight—nothing settled, just a brief ceasefire. They walked down long, dimly lit hallways, Schmuederrich counting exits, explaining that they had to get to the front, he, as a Bund official, had very good seats, almost up on the stage, and after they had walked what seemed like an entire block, they finally stepped into the stadium. He knew the sight from the newspaper. Usually the floor on which thousands of people now sat was an ice rink for the New York Rangers or a boxing ring where Armstrong defeated his challenger Montanez. But now he, who was no fan of crowds, was right in the middle of it, and he could hardly breathe. A mass of people, bright in the floodlights. A hot, burning atmosphere, almost euphoric, it swept up everything and threatened to sweep him up too. We’ve done it, their voices said, all mixing together. We’ve managed to gather despite the hatred out there, the lack of understanding, the fury.

Meanwhile the press was reporting that the devil was on the loose in New York tonight. And George Washington stood ten feet tall at the back of the stage. Couldn’t say a thing in his white curly wig, his bucket top boots, his coat buttoned only halfway down his chest, as if a burst of wind had opened it. BE UNITED. The swastika was banned, but it had been smuggled in here in a new design, rising into the air like a skyscraper, three-dimensional, surrounded by American flags. BE AMERICANS.

Schmuederrich pulled him into the fourth row. People drew their knees in as they pushed past. The flat, cocked hats the ladies wore blocked his view. He sank into his seat almost with relief, a hideout of flowers, feathers, and tulle. Schmuederrich, ever gracious, greeted people left and right. He complained about the “riffraff outside” and was met with agreement.