He was wasting his time. He’d rather be at home, sitting on the couch or in front of his radio. Especially now that there was W2DKJ. He followed her across the frequencies; he recognized her handwriting by now, slightly halting and jumpy. Mostly updates on the weather in the Catskills. Still snow, lots of snow. “Grab your skis and head on up, New Yorkers!” Yesterday he actually responded: “I’d love to come!” You could say anything you wanted, after all. She laughed, then they switched over to a different frequency, where they were alone, and she said, “No, I’ll come down there first.”

Finally the applause was for Fritz Kuhn himself. His sizable belly was held in by a belt and a tight-fitting brown uniform. He stood there at the lectern and let his gaze sweep imperiously around the hundred-meter expanse of the stadium.

“You all have heard of me, through the Jewish-controlled press, as a creature with horns, a cloven hoof, and a long tail.”

The crowd laughed. It was a loud, lurching sound that came from all directions and went out in all directions, stopping nowhere, continually renewing itself as Kuhn kept up his derision. Kuhn meanwhile didn’t make the slightest effort to rein in his German accent; he rather seemed to flaunt it. Yorkville was teeming with such people.

“Vee doo not say zet oll Tschus are Communists . . .”

Kuhn paused. Looked to one side. A young man had jumped onstage—he didn’t get far; the brownshirts fell on him instantly, like he was a fire that needed to be put out. The man now hung pitifully over the edge of the stage, blows raining down on him, a tangle of legs, arms, hands; in the middle a face twisted in pain. The police stormed onto the stage, pulled the brownshirts off, hauled the man out. Boos, shouting, whistles, suddenly a glimpse of a pair of white underwear, hairy legs—they had pulled his pants down. Waves of laughter from the stadium. The police led the man off the stage.

Kuhn didn’t move. His hands resting on the lectern, bent slightly forward, he patiently watched what was happening. Then he began speaking again.

“A Jew,” said Schmuederrich.

“How do you know that?”

“Look, there’s a small delegation of Jews sitting up front. It was arranged with the German American Bund.”

While Kuhn went on to demand a just America, a white America, an America not ruled by Jews, Josef tried to remember what kind of underwear he was wearing. Plaid?

“It was brave of him, though,” he said to Schmuederrich.

“Brave? When the SA really wants to rough a guy up, it looks different. These people here know nothing’s going to happen to them. Let them say what they want. He’s got his little crowd of supporters. Tomorrow he’ll be celebrated in all the newspapers as an anti-fascist.”