The Boxer and the Basement: Resilience and Imagination

When the story of the goal was complete, there was silence for a good few minutes, until Max looked slowly
‎up. “Would you do something for me, Liesel?”
‎Still excited by her Himmel Street goal, the girl jumped from the drop sheets. She did not say it, but her
‎movement clearly showed her intent to provide exactly what he wanted.
‎“You told me all about the goal,” he said, “but I don’t know what sort of day it is up there. I don’t know if you
‎scored it in the sun, or if the clouds have covered everything.” His hand prodded at his short-cropped hair, and
‎his swampy eyes pleaded for the simplest of simple things. “Could you go up and tell me how the weather
‎looks?”
‎Naturally, Liesel hurried up the stairs. She stood a few feet from the spit-stained door and turned on the spot,
‎observing the sky.
‎When she returned to the basement, she told him.
‎“The sky is blue today, Max, and there is a big long cloud, and it’s stretched out, like a rope. At the end of it,
‎the sun is like a yellow hole. . . .”
‎Max, at that moment, knew that only a child could have given him a weather report like that. On the wall, he
‎painted a long, tightly knotted rope with a dripping yellow sun at the end of it, as if you could dive right into it.
‎On the ropy cloud, he drew two figures—a thin girl and a withering Jew—and they were walking, arms
‎balanced, toward that dripping sun. Beneath the picture, he wrote the following sentence.
‎THE WALL-WRITTEN WORDS
‎OF MAX VANDENBURG
‎It was a Monday, and they walked
‎on a tightrope to the sun.
‎The Boxer: End of May
‎For Max Vandenburg, there was cool cement and plenty of time to spend with it.
‎The minutes were cruel.
‎Hours were punishing.
‎Standing above him at all moments of awakeness was the hand of time, and it didn’t hesitate to wring him out.
‎It smiled and squeezed and let him live. What great malice there could be in allowing something to live.
‎At least once a day, Hans Hubermann would descend the basement steps and share a conversation. Rosa would
‎occasionally bring a spare crust of bread. It was when Liesel came down, however, that Max found himself
‎most interested in life again. Initially, he tried to resist, but it was harder every day that the girl appeared, each
‎time with a new weather report, either of pure blue sky, cardboard clouds, or a sun that had broken through like
‎God sitting down after he’d eaten too much for his dinner.When he was alone, his most distinct feeling was of disappearance. All of his clothes were gray—whether
‎they’d started out that way or not—from his pants to his woolen sweater to the jacket that dripped from him
‎now like water. He often checked if his skin was flaking, for it was as if he were dissolving.
‎What he needed was a series of new projects. The first was exercise. He started with push-ups, lying stomachdown on the cool basement floor, then hoisting himself up. It felt like his arms snapped at each elbow, and he
‎envisaged his heart seeping out of him and dropping pathetically to the ground. As a teenager in Stuttgart, he
‎could reach fifty push-ups at a time. Now, at the age of twenty-four, perhaps fifteen pounds lighter than his
‎usual weight, he could barely make it to ten. After a week, he was completing three sets each of sixteen pushups and twenty-two sit-ups. When he was finished, he would sit against the basement wall with his paint-can
‎friends, feeling his pulse in his teeth. His muscles felt like cake.
‎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 overrun with the abuse from the bleachers, and Max watched as his
‎opponent was derobed 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.
‎“He’s given up,” someone whispered, but within moments, Adolf Hitler was standing on the ropes, and he was
‎addressing the arena.
‎“My fellow Germans,” he called, “you can see something here tonight, can’t you?” Bare-chested, victory-eyed,
‎he pointed over at Max. “You can see that what we face is something far more sinister and powerful than we
‎ever imagined. Can you see that?”
‎They answered. “Yes, Führer.”
‎“Can you see that this enemy has found its ways—its despicable ways—through our armor, and that clearly, I
‎cannot stand up here alone and fight him?” The words were visible. They dropped from his mouth like jewels.
‎“Look at him! Take a good look.” They looked. At the bloodied Max Vandenburg. “As we speak, he is plotting
‎his way into your neighborhood. He’s moving in next door. He’s infesting you with his family and he’s about to
‎take you over. He—” Hitler glanced at him a moment, with disgust. “He will soon own you, until it is he who
‎stands not at the counter of your grocery shop, but sits in the back, smoking his pipe. Before you know it, you’ll
‎be working for him at minimum wage while he can hardly walk from the weight in his pockets. Will you simply
‎stand there and let him do this? Will you stand by as your leaders did in the past, when they gave your land to
‎everybody else, when they sold your country for the price of a few signatures? Will you stand out there,
‎powerless? Or”—and now he stepped one rung higher—“will you climb up into this ring with me?”
‎Max shook. Horror stuttered in his stomach.
‎Adolf finished him. “Will you climb in here so that we can defeat this enemy together?”
‎In the basement of 33 Himmel Street, Max Vandenburg could feel the fists of an entire nation. One by one they
‎climbed into the ring and beat him down. They made him bleed. They let him suffer. Millions of them—until
‎one last time, when he gathered himself to his feet . . .
‎He watched the next person climb through the ropes. It was a girl, and as she slowly crossed the canvas, he
‎noticed a tear torn down her left cheek. In her right hand was a newspaper.
‎“The crossword,” she gently said, “is empty,” and she held it out to him.
‎Dark.
‎Nothing but dark now.
‎Just basement. Just Jew.
‎The New Dream: A Few Nights Later
‎It was afternoon. Liesel came down the basement steps. Max was halfway through his push-ups.She watched awhile, without his knowledge, and when she came and sat with him, he stood up and leaned back
‎against the wall. “Did I tell you,” he asked her, “that I’ve been having a new dream lately?”
‎Liesel shifted a little, to see his face.
‎“But I dream this when I’m awake.” He motioned to the glowless kerosene lamp. “Sometimes I turn out the
‎light. Then I stand here and wait.”
‎“For what?”
‎Max corrected her. “Not for what. For whom.”
‎For a few moments, Liesel said nothing. It was one of those conversations that require some time to elapse
‎between exchanges. “Who do you wait for?”
‎Max did not move. “The Führer.” He was very matter-of-fact about this. “That’s why I’m in training.”
‎“The push-ups?”
‎“That’s right.” He walked to the concrete stairway. “Every night, I wait in the dark and the Führer comes down
‎these steps. He walks down and he and I, we fight for hours.”
‎Liesel was standing now. “Who wins?”
‎At first, he was going to answer that no one did, but then he noticed the paint cans, the drop sheets, and the
‎growing pile of newspapers in the periphery of his vision. He watched the words, the long cloud, and the figures
‎on the wall.
‎“I do,” he said.
‎It was as though he’d opened her palm, given her the words, and closed it up again.
‎Under the ground, in Molching, Germany, two people stood and spoke in a basement. It sounds like the
‎beginning of a joke:
‎“There’s a Jew and a German standing in a basement, right? . . .”
‎This, however, was no joke.
‎The Painters: Early June
‎Another of Max’s projects was the remainder of Mein Kampf. Each page was gently stripped from the book and
‎laid out on the floor to receive a coat of paint. It was then hung up to dry and replaced between the front and
‎back covers. When Liesel came down one day after school, she found Max, Rosa, and her papa all painting the
‎various pages. Many of them were already hanging from a drawn-out string with pegs, just as they must have
‎done for The Standover Man.
‎