Beyond Glory_ Joe Louis vs. Max Schmelin.

by David Margolick.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

PEOPLE IN THIS BOOK are occasionally quoted talking in dialect, as rendered by someone writing about them at the time. In the belief that contemporaneous documents are precious, and that the insights they provide, both deliberate and inadvertent, must take precedence over evolving standards of fairness or taste, all such quotes appear precisely as they did originally. Readers can be trusted, I believe, to decide for themselves how those quoted must have spoken.

Introduction

ON THE MORNING OF JUNE 22, 1938, the New York Journal-American New York Journal-American plastered an enormous cartoon across the front page of its sports section. "Ringside Tonight!" it was titled. It depicted a darkened stadium topped by a circle of flags silhouetted against the evening sky and enclosing a small, illuminated square. Inside that square were two tiny figures, one black, one white, heading toward each other with their arms raised, about to come to blows. Looking on was a mob of people discernible near the action, and visible in the distance only as tiny specks of light. And sitting by the ropes was a giant anthropomorphic globe, with oversize bug eyes and a furrowed brow superimposed over the lines of latitude and longitude. The orb held a small sign, which read, MAIN BOUT, JOE LOUIS, U.S. VS. MAX SCHMELING, GERMANY. plastered an enormous cartoon across the front page of its sports section. "Ringside Tonight!" it was titled. It depicted a darkened stadium topped by a circle of flags silhouetted against the evening sky and enclosing a small, illuminated square. Inside that square were two tiny figures, one black, one white, heading toward each other with their arms raised, about to come to blows. Looking on was a mob of people discernible near the action, and visible in the distance only as tiny specks of light. And sitting by the ropes was a giant anthropomorphic globe, with oversize bug eyes and a furrowed brow superimposed over the lines of latitude and longitude. The orb held a small sign, which read, MAIN BOUT, JOE LOUIS, U.S. VS. MAX SCHMELING, GERMANY.Had you picked up any other newspaper that day, in Berlin or London or Tokyo or Johannesburg or Moscow, the message would have been the same: something extraordinary was about to happen in New York City. Around ten p.m., a timekeeper would strike a small bell, and much of a world still unaccustomed to acting in unison would cease whatever it was doing and come to attention. In Yankee Stadium, nearly seventy thousand fans would lean forward in their seats; throughout the rest of the world, a hundred million people or more-the largest audience in history for anything anything-would gather around their radios. Everything else would suddenly cease to matter."Wars, involving the fate of nations, rage elsewhere on this globe," the New York Mirror New York Mirror had declared that morning, "but the eyes of the world will be focused tonight on a two-man battle in a ribbon of light stabbing the darkness of the Yankee Stadium." The had declared that morning, "but the eyes of the world will be focused tonight on a two-man battle in a ribbon of light stabbing the darkness of the Yankee Stadium." The Angriff, Angriff, the mouthpiece of Nazi propaganda minister Joseph Goebbels, had little in common with the the mouthpiece of Nazi propaganda minister Joseph Goebbels, had little in common with the Mirror, Mirror, a tabloid read primarily by working-class American Jews. But regarding this point, the two newspapers agreed. "On this day," the a tabloid read primarily by working-class American Jews. But regarding this point, the two newspapers agreed. "On this day," the Angriff Angriff observed, "two men will hold an entire world in the utmost tension." Twenty million Germans would join the sixty million Americans who would be listening, even though it would be three o'clock the next morning in Berlin when the gong sounded. Much of Germany would simply not go to bed. Five months before Kristallnacht, the Night of the Broken Glass-the pogrom that would signal the end of any remaining semblance of normal Jewish life in Germany-the Nazi state would experience what one newspaper called "The Night of the Bright Windows." observed, "two men will hold an entire world in the utmost tension." Twenty million Germans would join the sixty million Americans who would be listening, even though it would be three o'clock the next morning in Berlin when the gong sounded. Much of Germany would simply not go to bed. Five months before Kristallnacht, the Night of the Broken Glass-the pogrom that would signal the end of any remaining semblance of normal Jewish life in Germany-the Nazi state would experience what one newspaper called "The Night of the Bright Windows."Unique among the sports, boxing seemed to crystallize the ethnic, racial, and political tensions of a culture. But even to veteran boxing writers, this fight, between a twenty-four-year-old black American and a German nine years his senior, between the world heavyweight champion and a former title holder-and the only man ever to beat him in his professional career-was unlike any other. It was not just black against white, which was combustible enough, but youth versus age; raw talent and instinct versus experience; freedom against fascism; and, in its own way, the Jews versus Adolf Hitler. Though everyone made a prediction, no one felt very confident about it; there were too many imponderables. Since the moment two years earlier when, in one of the greatest upsets in the history of sports, Max Schmeling had knocked out the purportedly unstoppable Joe Louis, people had savored the idea of a rematch. For months now, it had been analyzed from every possible angle. "The relative merits of each fighter from the size of the pupils of his eyes down to the manner in which he shuffles his feet when he walks have been mulled over in a million conversations," Richard Wright wrote in the Daily Worker, Daily Worker, the official paper of the American Communist Party, which for all of its Marxist wariness of professional athletics was following the fight as closely as any publication. "Louis or Schmeling?" the great sportswriter Grantland Rice asked. "These two names beat upon your eardrums as steadily as the tom-toms of a Zulu tribe moving to a raid." the official paper of the American Communist Party, which for all of its Marxist wariness of professional athletics was following the fight as closely as any publication. "Louis or Schmeling?" the great sportswriter Grantland Rice asked. "These two names beat upon your eardrums as steadily as the tom-toms of a Zulu tribe moving to a raid."No single sporting event-even Jack Johnson's victory over Jim Jeffries in 1910, which sparked race riots throughout the United States, or anything in the 1936 Olympics in Berlin-had ever borne such worldwide weight. The fight implicated both the future of race relations and the prestige of two powerful nations. Each fighter was bearing on his shoulders more than any athlete ever had. "Louis represents democracy in its purest form: the Negro boy who would be permitted to become a world champion without regard for race, creed or color," a sportswriter from Boston had written that morning. "Schmeling represents a country which does not recognize this idea and ideal."In a nation still racked by the Depression, people had spent nearly a million dollars for tickets, something that had happened in boxing only a few times before, and only during boom times. "Judges and lawyers, Representatives and Senators, Governors and Mayors, bankers and brokers, merchant princes and industrial giants, doctors, artists, writers, figures of prominence in the various fields of sports, champions of the past and present in the ring ... stars of the stage and screen-everybody, it seems," would be at or near ringside that night, The New York Times The New York Times predicted. But equally impressive were those in the bleachers, many of them black, who had dug down deep into their pockets and their cookie jars, sacrificed their relief checks, pawned the precious little they owned for the privilege of watching two distant specks do battle, and to be-at least for a little while-at what felt like the center of the universe. predicted. But equally impressive were those in the bleachers, many of them black, who had dug down deep into their pockets and their cookie jars, sacrificed their relief checks, pawned the precious little they owned for the privilege of watching two distant specks do battle, and to be-at least for a little while-at what felt like the center of the universe.By ten o'clock, the streets in most American cities would be utterly deserted. With open windows offering the only defense against summertime heat and humidity, the sounds of the fight would float out of homes and apartments, spilling out into the streets and reverberating around empty courtyards. In movie theaters and restaurants, at baseball games and dances, the fight would be piped in. Four months later, when Sea-biscuit beat War Admiral, perhaps forty million Americans would be listening. Tonight, sixty million would be-nearly half of the country's population, more people than had ever heard one of Franklin D. Roosevelt's fireside chats. Of course, anyone missing the action on NBC could read plenty about it the next morning; by one estimate, more journalists would gather at Yankee Stadium than there had been in Versailles for the formal end of World War I.One didn't need to be an anthropologist to know there had never been anything like it, or a soothsayer to know there would never be anything like it again. If Louis, the "Brown Bomber," lost, the energy and dynamism with which he had single-handedly revitalized an entire sport over the previous four years would quickly dissipate, and the crown would go to Nazi Germany, where it could sit until Hitler deigned to let it go. If Louis won, no rivalry on the horizon could possibly generate as much excitement. And with Europe and, inevitably, America, on the brink of war, the world would soon have more than prizefights on its mind.THEN AS NOW, New York City was usually too sprawling and too imperturbable to bend very much to anything in its midst. The place swallowed up sporting events, no matter the magnitude. "World Series scarcely cause a crush on the subway," one sportswriter observed two days before the fight. "Olympic tryouts go on unheeded. International tennis matches are just murmurs in the city's roar. But even New York and all its millions wouldn't submerge this fight," he went on. "It dominated everything." By one count, the city had more visitors that week than at any time since the Democratic Convention of 1924. Hotels, restaurants, and nightclubs were jammed. More blacks had flooded into New York than at any time in its history; since all of Harlem's hostelries were filled, and since hotels downtown were either too expensive or too discriminatory, these visitors were sleeping in their cars. Whatever prosperity black America could muster in these worst of times was on display, either on wheels or on their backs or in the hands of bookies. "If Joe loses, and no one here even thinks that, so many tears will flow down Seventh and Lenox avenues that it will seem like a Mississippi River flood," the Amsterdam News, Amsterdam News, Harlem's principal newspaper, reported. "On the other hand, if Joe wins, more liquor will be consumed than there is in 'Ole Man Ribber.'" Harlem's principal newspaper, reported. "On the other hand, if Joe wins, more liquor will be consumed than there is in 'Ole Man Ribber.'"As many as two thousand Germans had come to New York for the fight, most of them aboard mighty ocean liners like the Bremen Bremen or the or the Europa, Europa, swastikas flying from their masts. All were fired up by pre-fight coverage in the Nazi press, which predicted that Schmeling was simply too superior to Louis-both as a boxer and as a man-to lose. Schmeling had been boxing for more than ten years. Several times, his career had been declared over. But always, through skill, discipline, and tenacity, he had clawed his way back. And as the ground in his homeland trembled beneath him, he had displayed diplomatic footwork fancier than anything ever demanded of him in the ring, making the jarring transition from Weimar to Nazi Germany without a stumble, replacing friends who had fled-Jews, artists, intellectuals-with a new crop in better odor with the regime. How many people, after all, could say they had cabled congratulations to Franklin Roosevelt when he was elected president, and then, only a few months later, received a wedding present from Adolf Hitler? swastikas flying from their masts. All were fired up by pre-fight coverage in the Nazi press, which predicted that Schmeling was simply too superior to Louis-both as a boxer and as a man-to lose. Schmeling had been boxing for more than ten years. Several times, his career had been declared over. But always, through skill, discipline, and tenacity, he had clawed his way back. And as the ground in his homeland trembled beneath him, he had displayed diplomatic footwork fancier than anything ever demanded of him in the ring, making the jarring transition from Weimar to Nazi Germany without a stumble, replacing friends who had fled-Jews, artists, intellectuals-with a new crop in better odor with the regime. How many people, after all, could say they had cabled congratulations to Franklin Roosevelt when he was elected president, and then, only a few months later, received a wedding present from Adolf Hitler?The Fuhrer had been a boon to German boxing. He had extolled it in Mein Kampf and Mein Kampf and insisted it be taught in German schools. What made for good fighters-courage, resolve, speed, cold-blooded calculation-made for good soldiers, too, he said. In Reich sports culture, the insisted it be taught in German schools. What made for good fighters-courage, resolve, speed, cold-blooded calculation-made for good soldiers, too, he said. In Reich sports culture, the Daily Worker Daily Worker had wisecracked, boxing was second only to Jew-baiting in popularity. The Nazis initially had little use for professional athletes. They served the wrong gods: themselves. Schmeling, moreover, was dark and brooding and had an almost Asian cast, a far cry from the lithe and cheery Aryan blonds of Leni Riefenstahl's films. But Schmeling's ability to confound his critics, to rebound from defeat, to prevail by sheer force of character and will, embodied the Nazi vision of a renascent Reich. When he had beaten Louis two years earlier, the Nazis had embraced him. had wisecracked, boxing was second only to Jew-baiting in popularity. The Nazis initially had little use for professional athletes. They served the wrong gods: themselves. Schmeling, moreover, was dark and brooding and had an almost Asian cast, a far cry from the lithe and cheery Aryan blonds of Leni Riefenstahl's films. But Schmeling's ability to confound his critics, to rebound from defeat, to prevail by sheer force of character and will, embodied the Nazi vision of a renascent Reich. When he had beaten Louis two years earlier, the Nazis had embraced him. Schmeling's Victory: A German Victory, Schmeling's Victory: A German Victory, they titled the film of that fight, which was shown throughout Germany by Hitler's personal decree, to enormous audiences of rapturous fans. "The first nationally-sponsored heavyweight," one American writer called Schmeling. they titled the film of that fight, which was shown throughout Germany by Hitler's personal decree, to enormous audiences of rapturous fans. "The first nationally-sponsored heavyweight," one American writer called Schmeling.But placating Hitler and the Americans simultaneously was a challenge even for the nimble and malleable Schmeling. In the United States, boxing meant New York, and New York, in large part, meant Jews. The man who controlled the sport in New York, and who was promoting tonight's fight, was Jewish. Many boxers, including champions in several divisions, were Jewish. So were many of the trainers, writers, and suppliers, as well as an enormous number of fans. So, too, were most of the fight managers, including Schmeling's; this irritated the Nazis, but it was, they surely realized, the price they had to pay to do business in New York. For five years now, New York fans had looked warily upon Schmeling, and upon his insistence that he was a "sportsman" rather than a "politician" and that nothing was amiss back home. Many came to consider him as much a German product as Krupp steel, someone whose purses helped prop up a brutal but financially strapped regime, and they had boycotted his fights. The Nazis believed that Schmeling had deserved a title shot the previous year and that New York Jews had killed it, and it was hard to argue with either point. For a time, the fight's promoter talked of moving the bout to a venue where there were fewer Jews. But he ultimately decided that despite the political pressures, the Jews would come out to this fight anyway: they were too eager to see Louis slaughter Schmeling to stay away. This hatred only made Germany embrace Schmeling more tenaciously. On the morning of the fight, Hitler sent a telegram wishing him luck.That Schmeling was fighting a black man, and on behalf of a regime for which race was paramount, upped the symbolic ante. All whites, the Nazis asserted, were in Schmeling's corner-not just in Germany but in the American South, Australia, South America, and South Africa. German commentators had repeatedly charged that the United States was more concerned about retaining the heavyweight crown than about upholding the honor of the white race, so the task had fallen to Germany. That anyone could accuse a segregated and bigoted America of giving people of color a break was almost comic. But Louis, only the second black man ever to win the heavyweight title, and the first in twenty-two years, had made himself indispensable-and, just as remarkably, largely acceptable-to white America."I'M GOING TO SEE HEIFETZ," one man tells another. "Oh, yeah?" the second man replies. "Who's he fighting?"It is an old gag, but it captures the power and reach of boxing in the United States before World War II. Once, the fight game had been a sport of back rooms and lowlifes, gamblers and thugs. But in the Jazz Age it had become legal, respectable, glamorous, omnipresent. Its male, working-class constituency expanded to the wealthy, to intellectuals, to women- and in particular society women. Epic contests attracted tens of thousands of people and, in two instances, more than one hundred thousand. The kingdom called "Fistiana" reached into nearly every city, neighborhood, and town; each had its own arenas, boxing clubs, and favorites. On any given night in New York, fans could choose between a dozen fights in as many venues, pitting Irishmen against Jews against Italians against Poles. To the fighters, most of them immigrants or the children of immigrants, boxing was both a way to tout one's origins and an avenue toward Americanization, or at least upward mobility. The world capital of Fistiana was Jacobs Beach, the block of West Forty-ninth Street just east of Madison Square Garden (then located on Eighth Avenue), where the managers, matchmakers, ticket sellers, trainers, and pugs congregated. The area was named for its reigning monarch, Mike Jacobs, the former ticket salesman who now ran boxing at Madison Square Garden. Fistiana had its own scribes, usually the best writers a paper had; floods and strikes, the journalist Heywood Broun once wrote, were for second stringers.The Depression had knocked some oomph out of professional boxing, as had the retirements of luminaries like Jack Dempsey and Gene Tunney. The sport sputtered as a series of less glamorous champions, Schmeling among them, quickly came and went. But a heavyweight title fight was still the most lavish, anticipated spectacle in sports. Unlike baseball, football, hockey, golf, or tennis, it crossed all borders and classes. "Tonight's the night," the New York Post New York Post declared that afternoon, "when little shots rub elbows with big shots; clergymen discuss hooks and right crosses with gangsters and de-lovelies powder pert noses in $30 seats that their sweeties paid 100 bucks for." declared that afternoon, "when little shots rub elbows with big shots; clergymen discuss hooks and right crosses with gangsters and de-lovelies powder pert noses in $30 seats that their sweeties paid 100 bucks for."If boxing brought classes together, it brought the races together, too. More than in almost any other segment of American life, fight crowds at heavyweight bouts had become integrated, at least since Joe Louis had come along, even if most blacks sat in the cheap seats. In the stadium, one black writer observed, the wall between the races was far thinner than in almost any church. And in the ring more than anywhere else, blacks had now come to believe they could be judged fairly. It hadn't always been so. If a black man was too good, Damon Runyon once wrote, whites wouldn't fight him, and if he was no good, well then, what good was he? Fights between blacks and whites were still rare enough-white boxers as recent and as eminent as Jack Dempsey had ducked all their black counterparts-to have a name: "mixed bouts." Only a few years before Louis turned professional, a New York paper mistakenly called a white fighter black-and the fighter sued for libel.But Louis was too good a boxer, and too good for boxing, to keep down. He was a precise and devastating puncher with both hands, and as Runyon himself noted, "the public loves a puncher, white, black, yellow or green." He invariably scored knockouts, clean and quick, ferocious and unequivocal. White America was vaguely embarrassed by its love of boxing, but black America felt few qualms; for blacks, boxing offered a breach in the ghetto wall. "Fame and money are still more likely to come to the Negro of brawn and skill and gameness who knocks men down for a count of ten seconds than to his fellow athlete, to the scientist, scholar, actor, doctor, artist, labor leader, statesman, preacher, business man, inventor or judge," a landmark study of the time observed. The roped square, at least with Louis inside it, meant a square deal. "You can't Jim Crow a left hook" was how another great black boxer, Henry Armstrong, had put it. Boxing also offered the black man revenge with impunity. "The ring," Malcolm X was to write in his autobiography, "was the only place a Negro could whip a white man and not be lynched."More had been written about Louis in the previous few years, Runyon speculated, than about anyone besides Charles A. Lindbergh. A midwestern professor asked his students to identify John L. Lewis, Joe Louis, and Sinclair Lewis; few had heard of the labor leader or the author, but nearly all knew the Brown Bomber. (So popular had he become that sports-writers had recently started calling the New York Yankees the "Bronx Bombers.") Louis's appeal was no accident. By temperament and design, he had tried to be everything the much-vilified, still-controversial previous black titleholder, Jack Johnson, was not: dignified, gentle, self-effacing, unthreatening. While whites sometimes patronized him-"a big, superbly built Negro youth, who was born to listen to jazz music, eat a lot of fried chicken, play ball with the gang on the corner and never do a lick of heavy work he could escape," Bill Corum of the New York Evening Journal New York Evening Journal had written of him the previous year-they generally liked him, even below the Mason-Dixon Line. Once, southern exhibitors put Louis footage at the ends of newsreels, the easier to crop it out; now it was played, and applauded. One black columnist estimated as the Louis-Schmeling fight approached that two of three white southerners were pulling for Louis-partly, he admitted, because Schmeling was the most unpopular white man to take on a black man in the history of boxing. For Louis, then, much of the bigotry that afflicted America was briefly and selectively suspended. "There is not one iota of feeling that the Negro is an interloper, and that if we cannot have a white American at the top, the division is in the doldrums," Nat Fleischer wrote in the pages of his hugely influential publication, had written of him the previous year-they generally liked him, even below the Mason-Dixon Line. Once, southern exhibitors put Louis footage at the ends of newsreels, the easier to crop it out; now it was played, and applauded. One black columnist estimated as the Louis-Schmeling fight approached that two of three white southerners were pulling for Louis-partly, he admitted, because Schmeling was the most unpopular white man to take on a black man in the history of boxing. For Louis, then, much of the bigotry that afflicted America was briefly and selectively suspended. "There is not one iota of feeling that the Negro is an interloper, and that if we cannot have a white American at the top, the division is in the doldrums," Nat Fleischer wrote in the pages of his hugely influential publication, Ring Ring magazine, a month before the fight. "Louis is an American, and a darn good one at that." As the sport's most tireless champion, and a New Yorker, and a Jew, Fleischer certainly overstated things. But a surprising number of Americans shared his views. magazine, a month before the fight. "Louis is an American, and a darn good one at that." As the sport's most tireless champion, and a New Yorker, and a Jew, Fleischer certainly overstated things. But a surprising number of Americans shared his views.In black America, Louis was idolized as no one had ever been. Writers compared him to Booker T. Washington, the biblical David, and Jesus Christ. Black newspapers were filled with poems about him. Musicians composed songs about him. Preachers who had once deemed prizefighting crooked and unchristian extolled him from the pulpit; families hung pictures of him in their parlors. Even Jesse Owens, the only black athlete to rival him in fame and accomplishment, became in his exalted presence just another rabid fan. "Day by day, since their alleged emancipation, they have watched a picture of themselves being painted as lazy, stupid, and diseased," Richard Wright wrote. To black America, he went on, Louis "symbolized the living refutation of the hatred spewed forth daily over radios, in newspapers, in movies and in books about their lives." Louis let blacks everywhere think lofty and heretical thoughts; if he could shatter racial barriers, those barriers could not be so formidable. The sports pages put Louis's reach at seventy-six inches. In fact, it was global. But for all this, black America was hedging its bets. Louis had burned them once, when he lost to Schmeling in 1936, and besides, the black community never took anything, particularly anything good, for granted. The Harlem that one black visitor encountered before the fight was quiet and fearful, as if everyone were in prayer.After showers earlier in the day, the weather in the Bronx had cleared. By five o'clock, five thousand people were waiting to buy general admission tickets for $3.50 apiece; a redcap was first in line, a cook, second. As darkness began to fall, thousands made their way to the stadium, "in purring limousines, grinding cabs, and up from the subway slots in great spouting geysers of humanity," wrote Bob Considine in the New York Mirror. New York Mirror. From the window of her apartment in the Sugar Hill section of Harlem, Louis's young bride could see the giant stadium and watch the enormous procession making its way there by car and by bus and on foot. She would be listening to the fight on the radio. Shortly before ten, the fighters entered the ring. The NBC broadcaster Clem McCarthy was at the microphone when the referee, Arthur Donovan, summoned the two fighters and their seconds. Donovan asked the contestants how they felt, reviewed the dangers of low blows, warned their seconds not to step through the ropes while the fight was on. He then reminded the combatants of their responsibility, both to the crowd and to the unseen audience beyond, all of whom were expecting one of the greatest fights ever. "Now let's go," he concluded, "and may the best man win." From the window of her apartment in the Sugar Hill section of Harlem, Louis's young bride could see the giant stadium and watch the enormous procession making its way there by car and by bus and on foot. She would be listening to the fight on the radio. Shortly before ten, the fighters entered the ring. The NBC broadcaster Clem McCarthy was at the microphone when the referee, Arthur Donovan, summoned the two fighters and their seconds. Donovan asked the contestants how they felt, reviewed the dangers of low blows, warned their seconds not to step through the ropes while the fight was on. He then reminded the combatants of their responsibility, both to the crowd and to the unseen audience beyond, all of whom were expecting one of the greatest fights ever. "Now let's go," he concluded, "and may the best man win.""The old slogan of boxing, 'May the best man win,' and she's about to start, with this Yankee Stadium packed to the doors!" McCarthy exclaimed. "Joe Louis in his corner, prancing, and rubbing his feet in the resin, and Max Schmeling standing calmly ... and they're ready with the bell just about to ring."And then the bell rang.

Just Off the Boat

FIVE YEARS EARLIER, on the morning of April 14, 1933, the North German Lloyd liner Bremen Bremen had steamed into New York Harbor, with Max Schmeling aboard. The setting was spectacular-the mighty vessel, after its five-day crossing, making its way toward the Statue of Liberty, with the towers of lower Manhattan beckoning-but scarcely more epic, at least in the world of sports, than the events about to unfold. Schmeling would soon attempt something that had never been done: to regain the heavyweight crown. And his prospects looked good; after all, many believed he should never have lost it. had steamed into New York Harbor, with Max Schmeling aboard. The setting was spectacular-the mighty vessel, after its five-day crossing, making its way toward the Statue of Liberty, with the towers of lower Manhattan beckoning-but scarcely more epic, at least in the world of sports, than the events about to unfold. Schmeling would soon attempt something that had never been done: to regain the heavyweight crown. And his prospects looked good; after all, many believed he should never have lost it.

Schmeling, twenty-seven years old, had been coming to the United States for five years now, and the arrival ritual had grown routine. Meeting him aboard the ship would be the usual mob of fight reporters, who had commandeered a cutter to bring them there: all ten New York City newspapers had at least one boxing writer, as did the wire services, and there were emissaries from Boston, Philadelphia, Newark, and Chicago, to name just a few other cities with boxing correspondents of their own. Then there would be the photographers and newsreel boys, who would put Schmeling through the same staged scenes and make him utter the same wooden dialogue for the cameras. The previous June, Schmeling had lost the title to Jack Sharkey in a much-criticized decision. "We wuz robbed!" his fiery, outlandish manager, Joe Jacobs, had immortally declared afterward. But now Schmeling, with characteristic determination, had set out to win it back. And why not? He had already defied the odds three years earlier, when, in an equally disputed fight, he'd become the first European ever to win the heavyweight title.

A personable sort, Schmeling had long since come to know most of the reporters by name. They were friendly, irreverent types-smart alecks-likely to ask an impertinent question or two, but not to be too persistent or obnoxious about it; whatever edge they had was certain to be dulled by the good German beer Schmeling always brought with him. The floating press conference would then pull into the pier, where he would be greeted by a mob of fight fans coming to show their support or simply to glimpse a celebrity. Schmeling could easily have been unpopular; he'd won the title under the most debatable circumstances, spoke English with a heavy accent, and came from a country with which America had been at war only fifteen years earlier. After he'd beaten Sharkey for the title, he'd dragged his feet on a promised rematch, offending Americans and Germans alike. But when he lost the crown he'd been a gentleman, picking up an aura of martyrdom. Though he revealed only so much of himself, there always appeared to be something endearingly earnest about him.

And then there was the good fortune of his physical appearance. Schmeling looked uncannily like the man who epitomized boxing's golden era, the legendarily hard-hitting and much-missed Jack Dempsey, who'd retired only a few years earlier after producing all five of boxing's million-dollar "gates"-that is, fights where ticket sales went into seven figures. Schmeling had the same build, the same wavy, dark, slicked-down hair, the same heavy brows. Schmeling's style in the ring, though, was not the slashing, overwhelmingly aggressive assault Dempsey favored but something cooler, slower, more methodical-"Teutonic," as it was often described. And outside the ring he was as self-contained and calculating as Dempsey was gregarious.

Dempsey was promoting Schmeling's upcoming fight on June 8 in Yankee Stadium against a promising young California heavyweight named Max Baer, and was among those greeting Schmeling. The next day's papers would be filled with pictures of the two men together, wearing nearly identical suits and topcoats, all but daring readers to tell them apart. At the pier the confusion had already begun; an excited young woman broke through the crowd, grabbed Dempsey's hand, and tried to kiss it. "Oh, Max!" she cried. "You're wonderful!" Accompanying Schmeling on the voyage, as always, was Max Machon, his longtime German trainer. And just as predictably, greeting him at the pier was Joe Jacobs, the ever-present cigar jutting out of his mouth.

Schmeling tried to be boyish and lighthearted with the press, as if nothing had changed since his last visit to New York, the year before. Anyone bending over to inspect his lapel pin-"Athletic Club," it said- got water spritzed into his eye. But Schmeling now faced more than the usual inquiries about the kind of shape he was in, how and where he planned to train, and the state of his punches. Three months earlier, Hitler had come to power in Germany. Almost instantly, life for Germany's 600,000 Jews had changed profoundly, and terrifyingly. Already, they were being banished from universities, public schools, symphony orchestras, the legal and medical professions. Jewish-owned newspapers, soon to be confiscated by the government, had to chronicle the mighty flow of anti-Jewish enactments. In but a couple of months, the dark ages had descended upon the German-Jewish community. It was hard to know whether the storm would pass, and while many Jews quickly left, far more stayed. But it was sobering indeed when the Angriff Angriff declared that Germany's Jews were done for, morally and commercially. declared that Germany's Jews were done for, morally and commercially.

Nowhere was their fate followed more closely than in New York, a city with two million Jews of its own, many of them passionate fight fans with deep ties to Europe. Three weeks before Schmeling's arrival, 100,000 of them, including 20,000 Jewish veterans of World War I, had marched through the snow from the Lower East Side to city hall to protest events in Germany. Four days later, 22,000 of them rallied at Madison Square Garden, with 35,000 more on the streets outside. Such protests only fired up the Nazis further. By the time Schmeling boarded the Bremen, Bremen, there had been a nationwide boycott of Jewish businesses in Germany, torchlight processions in support of the anti-Jewish measures, and paroxysms of violent anti-Semitism. "Hundreds of Jews have been beaten or tortured," the Berlin correspondent of the there had been a nationwide boycott of Jewish businesses in Germany, torchlight processions in support of the anti-Jewish measures, and paroxysms of violent anti-Semitism. "Hundreds of Jews have been beaten or tortured," the Berlin correspondent of the New York Evening Post, New York Evening Post, H. R. Knickerbocker, reported shortly before Schmeling steamed in. "Thousands of Jews have fled. Thousands of Jews have been, or will be, deprived of their livelihood." Germany's entire Jewish population, he wrote, was in a state of terror. H. R. Knickerbocker, reported shortly before Schmeling steamed in. "Thousands of Jews have fled. Thousands of Jews have been, or will be, deprived of their livelihood." Germany's entire Jewish population, he wrote, was in a state of terror.

New York, by contrast, must have seemed the picture of tranquillity to Schmeling when he arrived. But it had also grown less receptive to him, more wary. The goodwill he had built up in the United States, like the goodwill he had established with the Nazis, was impressive but thin, and would require delicacy and dexterity to preserve. Schmeling faced two fights in America. The first, in the ring, was hard enough: Baer was a furious puncher who had beaten one rival to death and very nearly killed another. But Schmeling also faced the formidable challenge of placating the American fight public without offending the regime back home, of mollifying Jews and Nazis simultaneously.

TWELVE YEARS EARLIER, on July 2, 1921, fifteen-year-old Max Schmeling had stood outside a newspaper office in Cologne, following an account of Dempsey's fight against the Frenchman Georges Carpentier as it came across the wire from the United States. He rooted for Dempsey, not just because he liked him, but because he wanted the heavyweight championship to remain in America long enough to go there and get it. Afterward, Schmeling spent some of his meager earnings repeatedly watching films of the fight in a local theater. He convinced his father, a navigator on the Hamburg-America Line, to pay for some boxing lessons. Then young Max bought some used gloves and hung them over his bed.

Max Siegfried Adolph Otto Schmeling was born in Klein Luckow-a town in northern Germany eighty miles north of Berlin-on September 28, 1905, and grew up in Hamburg. He left school early and worked variously at an advertising firm, as a pipe fitter, and as a strong man in the circus. He flirted with soccer, but found himself drawn to boxing. Interest in the sport, which had been illegal and underground in Germany before World War I, had recently exploded. German soldiers had learned it as prisoners of war in Britain, or from the Americans who occupied their country once the war was over. In Weimar Germany as in the United States, the sport became a great passion not just of the working classes but also of artists and intellectuals, who saw in it something pure and manly, elemental and elegant, timeless and modern. When he visited Germany in 1926, Nat Fleischer was astounded to see how the country had embraced the sport. Germany had forty thousand amateur boxers, he pointed out, and if only a dozen stars emerged, they could soon menace American hegemony.

In Dusseldorf, then in Cologne, Schmeling spent most of his spare time in boxing clubs. It was in Cologne that he honed his distinctive style: methodical, scientific, and patient. He became well versed in the fundamentals of footwork, body movement, and defense; his style was to bide his time, study his opponent, and wait for openings rather than slug it out too early. His right was his money punch, his left, as someone later put it, merely something for holding his fork. Schmeling's personal code was regimented: a careful diet, no alcohol or tobacco, regular hours. When he'd go to the Roxy-Bar (a favorite hangout for Berlin's athletes and aesthetes), he'd always order fresh orange juice and "Cafe Hag"-that is, decaffeinated coffee. He was, as the German weekly Box-Sport Box-Sport once wrote, a once wrote, a Musterknabe Musterknabe-a prig. Nothing distracted him from his objective. One of his fights came only four days after he'd crashed his motorcycle, killing his fourteen-year-old sister. He won.

Schmeling turned professional in 1924 and won nine of his first ten fights. But "professional" was a relative term: when Box-Sport's Box-Sport's editor, Arthur Bulow, became his manager, Schmeling had only nine cents in his pocket. Dempsey visited Cologne in 1925, and Schmeling was one of three local boxers who fought him in two-round exhibitions. Fleischer, too, saw Schmeling there, and immediately cabled the majordomo of American boxing, Tex Rickard of Madison Square Garden, about him. In August 1926, Schmeling won the German light heavyweight championship in less than a minute. The following January, editor, Arthur Bulow, became his manager, Schmeling had only nine cents in his pocket. Dempsey visited Cologne in 1925, and Schmeling was one of three local boxers who fought him in two-round exhibitions. Fleischer, too, saw Schmeling there, and immediately cabled the majordomo of American boxing, Tex Rickard of Madison Square Garden, about him. In August 1926, Schmeling won the German light heavyweight championship in less than a minute. The following January, Box-Sport Box-Sport called him "our greatest hope" and extolled his "cold, sure eye, technique, brain and general ability." To his critics, Schmeling was almost too calculating; called him "our greatest hope" and extolled his "cold, sure eye, technique, brain and general ability." To his critics, Schmeling was almost too calculating; Box-Sport Box-Sport faulted him for what it called "an insufficient will to annihilate." But that June, before a frenzied, ecstatic crowd in Dortmund, he beat a Belgian, Fernand Delarge, for the European light heavyweight championship. For a country still traumatized by losing a war and in the throes of political and economic upheaval, it was an epic event. Moments after he knocked out the Italian Michele Bonaglia in January 1928, eight thousand fans stood up and sang "Deutschland uber Alles." faulted him for what it called "an insufficient will to annihilate." But that June, before a frenzied, ecstatic crowd in Dortmund, he beat a Belgian, Fernand Delarge, for the European light heavyweight championship. For a country still traumatized by losing a war and in the throes of political and economic upheaval, it was an epic event. Moments after he knocked out the Italian Michele Bonaglia in January 1928, eight thousand fans stood up and sang "Deutschland uber Alles."

Schmeling gained entry into elite German intellectual circles, meeting the filmmaker Josef von Sternberg, the artist George Grosz (for whom he became a model), the novelist Heinrich Mann, and other Weimar cultural figures. He relished the role. "Kunstler, schenkt mir Eure Gunst-Boxen ist auch 'ne Kunst!" "Kunstler, schenkt mir Eure Gunst-Boxen ist auch 'ne Kunst!" he wrote in the guest book of one artistic hangout: "Artists, grant me your favor-boxing is also an art!" That someone with his limited background and education could make himself comfortable in so alien a world was an early indication of Schmeling's extraordinary adaptability. Conversely, German society was showing its ability to adapt itself to him, to see in him whatever it wanted. he wrote in the guest book of one artistic hangout: "Artists, grant me your favor-boxing is also an art!" That someone with his limited background and education could make himself comfortable in so alien a world was an early indication of Schmeling's extraordinary adaptability. Conversely, German society was showing its ability to adapt itself to him, to see in him whatever it wanted.

Even before meeting Schmeling or watching him in action, Paul Gallico, a sports columnist for the New York Daily News, New York Daily News, a man who spoke German and read the German newspapers, began praising him and urging him to come to the United States. Schmeling had his lapses and his losses, which some attributed to his new and highfalutin life. But in April 1928, despite fracturing his thumb early in the fight, Schmeling outpointed Franz Diener for the German heavyweight championship. Now, America really beckoned; a cartoon in a man who spoke German and read the German newspapers, began praising him and urging him to come to the United States. Schmeling had his lapses and his losses, which some attributed to his new and highfalutin life. But in April 1928, despite fracturing his thumb early in the fight, Schmeling outpointed Franz Diener for the German heavyweight championship. Now, America really beckoned; a cartoon in Box-Sport Box-Sport showed Schmeling "swimming after the dollar" across the Atlantic. That May, Schmeling, accompanied by Bulow, arrived in New York for the first time. His appearance rated only meager coverage in a few newspapers-all of which misspelled his name. showed Schmeling "swimming after the dollar" across the Atlantic. That May, Schmeling, accompanied by Bulow, arrived in New York for the first time. His appearance rated only meager coverage in a few newspapers-all of which misspelled his name.

Schmeling's injured thumb precluded any immediate action. For months, he lived off the charity of Madame Hranoush Aglaganian Bey, a Constantinople-born grande dame who ran a famous training camp in Summit, New Jersey. Gradually Schmeling's idleness, poverty, and poor prospects soured him on Bulow, and Harry Sperber, a reporter for the New Yorker Staats-Zeitung, New Yorker Staats-Zeitung, a German-American paper, urged Schmeling to find himself an American manager, someone familiar with boxing in New York and wily and aggressive enough to get him a few fights. Schmeling initially hired Nat Fleischer, who advanced him $250 to tide him over until his thumb healed. But everything changed when Joe Jacobs came by Madame Bey's to see one of his fighters. Before long, Jacobs had elbowed Bulow and Fleischer aside-a maneuver that earned him the nickname "Yussel the Muscle," "Yussel" being the Yiddish diminutive for Joseph. a German-American paper, urged Schmeling to find himself an American manager, someone familiar with boxing in New York and wily and aggressive enough to get him a few fights. Schmeling initially hired Nat Fleischer, who advanced him $250 to tide him over until his thumb healed. But everything changed when Joe Jacobs came by Madame Bey's to see one of his fighters. Before long, Jacobs had elbowed Bulow and Fleischer aside-a maneuver that earned him the nickname "Yussel the Muscle," "Yussel" being the Yiddish diminutive for Joseph.* (In one story, someone asked Schmeling where he got the three crisp $1,000 bills he was brandishing. "Joe Jacobs gave 'em to me," he said. "He told me to buy myself some cigars.") Schmeling believed the Jews controlled New York, and now he had someone to help him negotiate his way around the place. For Schmeling, it was the start of a long and bitter feud with Bulow, with whom he technically remained under contract. It was also the start of what was surely one of the most incongruous and tumultuous partnerships in the history of sports. (In one story, someone asked Schmeling where he got the three crisp $1,000 bills he was brandishing. "Joe Jacobs gave 'em to me," he said. "He told me to buy myself some cigars.") Schmeling believed the Jews controlled New York, and now he had someone to help him negotiate his way around the place. For Schmeling, it was the start of a long and bitter feud with Bulow, with whom he technically remained under contract. It was also the start of what was surely one of the most incongruous and tumultuous partnerships in the history of sports.

Jacobs, then in his early thirties, was the quintessential Broadway guy, a Damon Runyon character from whom even Damon Runyon, then writing a sports column for the Hearst newspapers, could pick up some pointers. His goal in life was to do everything with style. He was ever quick with the buck, the wisecrack, and the dames. No matter how strapped he might be, he wore tailor-made suits and striped shirts (all designed to make him look taller than his five feet two inches) and flashy shoes polished to a dazzling sheen. Then there was his omnipresent expensive cigar: he went through fifteen or twenty of them a day, and one could always gauge how flush he was by their pedigree. Reporters knew that Jacobs was always good for a snappy quote, and they clung to him. "If all the newspaper copy he inspired were stretched end to end, a blow would be dealt to the King's English from which it would never recover," Dan Parker, the sports columnist of the New York Mirror, New York Mirror, once wrote. Even when he wasn't trying to, Jacobs flirted with once wrote. Even when he wasn't trying to, Jacobs flirted with Webster's, Webster's, or or Bartlett's. Bartlett's. There was that freezing day in Detroit when, violating all of his instincts and habits, he'd actually awakened early to attend the World Series. "I shudda stood in bed," he famously complained. Most of the time, Jacobs stayed in midtown Manhattan, within a block or two of Broadway; anywhere else (apart from the places where his fighters fought) he seemed to wilt. Rural things, like training camps and trees, either bored or frightened him, or tired him out. "It's too darned quiet to sleep," he once complained upon returning to civilization. Jacobs invariably slept late, often in one of the love nests he shared with his retinue of showgirls, chorines, models, and divorcees. Each of them-there might be half a dozen at a time, several of whom he supported-he would introduce as "my little wife." Someone once asked him if he was married. "Do you think I'm crazy?" he replied. Most days he'd get up as the sun went down, go for a shave, and emerge smelling, as someone once put it, like a fugitive from a florist shop. By eight-thirty or so in the evening, after checking in at his office, he'd have his "breakfast," perhaps at Lindy's. By midnight, after making further rounds, it would be time for "dinner." Then it was off to the nightclubs, though always within reach of a fight promoter in search of a deal. Once, peering sadly down Broadway as day broke, he groused, "Why do guys have to sleep at all?" There was that freezing day in Detroit when, violating all of his instincts and habits, he'd actually awakened early to attend the World Series. "I shudda stood in bed," he famously complained. Most of the time, Jacobs stayed in midtown Manhattan, within a block or two of Broadway; anywhere else (apart from the places where his fighters fought) he seemed to wilt. Rural things, like training camps and trees, either bored or frightened him, or tired him out. "It's too darned quiet to sleep," he once complained upon returning to civilization. Jacobs invariably slept late, often in one of the love nests he shared with his retinue of showgirls, chorines, models, and divorcees. Each of them-there might be half a dozen at a time, several of whom he supported-he would introduce as "my little wife." Someone once asked him if he was married. "Do you think I'm crazy?" he replied. Most days he'd get up as the sun went down, go for a shave, and emerge smelling, as someone once put it, like a fugitive from a florist shop. By eight-thirty or so in the evening, after checking in at his office, he'd have his "breakfast," perhaps at Lindy's. By midnight, after making further rounds, it would be time for "dinner." Then it was off to the nightclubs, though always within reach of a fight promoter in search of a deal. Once, peering sadly down Broadway as day broke, he groused, "Why do guys have to sleep at all?"

The columnist Westbrook Pegler once called Jacobs "a New York sidewalk boy of the most conspicuous Jewishness." He wore it on his sleeve, but was forever trying to shed the coat, saying kaddish (the Jewish prayer for the dead) for his mother one minute, then eating a ham sandwich in a Broadway beanery the next. He had grown up in the Hell's Kitchen section of Manhattan, the son of a tailor. His father wanted him to be a rabbi, but young Joe gravitated toward boxing; while still in high school he had fighters on his payroll. In military service during World War I, he arranged bouts between rival companies, then promoted fights between soldiers to the general public. Within a few years, he'd landed a light heavyweight named Mike McTigue, who went on to become champion of the world. In October 1923 he brought McTigue, along with his own portable New York-based referee, to Columbus, Georgia, to fight a local hero named Young Stribling. When McTigue tried to back out at the last moment- he'd hurt his hand-local Ku Klux Klan members threatened to string up Jacobs and his fighter. By one account, Jacobs stood up to the bullies. "If you hang me, there will be some guys down here from New York that will blow this dump off the map," he warned. In another version of the story, Jacobs saw two trees, one a mighty oak, the other a mere sapling. "You take the big tree," he told his boxer magnanimously. "The little one is all I want." In any case, the fight proceeded, and when, after ten rounds, Jacobs's referee called it a draw, the Klansmen filled the ring and forced him to name Stribling the winner. Three hours later, safely out of the Klan's reach, the referee reinstated the original decision. After that, Jacobs never ventured down South again; there were, he explained, too many trees there. Jacobs was fanatically devoted to his fighters, whom he championed unceasingly and ingeniously. When doctors said one of them had double pneumonia, Jacobs asked why they couldn't call it "triple pneumonia" instead: it would sound better in the papers, he explained, and besides, his man was a pretty big guy.

Having landed Schmeling, Jacobs paraded his new prized prospect around tirelessly. The heavyweight division was, as he liked to say, where most of the "coconuts" could be made. Some, including Schmeling himself, credited him with what became Schmeling's inapt but enduring nickname: "The Black Uhlan of the Rhine." While it had a nice ring to it, it bore little resemblance to reality; Schmeling had no connection whatever to the Uhlans (cavalry lancers in the Prussian army), was from nowhere near the Rhine, and only his hair was black. (The nickname is more generally attributed to Damon Runyon.) In November 1928, his hand now healed, Schmeling made his American debut, knocking out Joe Monte. The following January, with the crowd shouting "Dempsey! Dempsey!" he won a decision against Joe Sekyra. That earned him his first big fight, in February 1929, against Johnny Risko, who had once gone the distance with Gene Tunney. When Schmeling knocked him out in nine rounds before twenty-five thousand screaming fans, people began predicting he'd be heavyweight champion. Thanks to Schmeling, Box-Sport Box-Sport declared, American public opinion toward Germany had warmed up for probably the first time since the Armistice. declared, American public opinion toward Germany had warmed up for probably the first time since the Armistice.

The victory raised the stakes in Schmeling's dispute with Bulow. During one hearing, the two men nearly came to blows; Bulow complained that Schmeling treated him like a dog. Despite Schmeling's efforts-he visited with the German ambassador in Washington and may even have attempted to see President Coolidge-the New York boxing commission ruled that Bulow was still Schmeling's manager, at least for the eighteen months remaining on their contract, and was entitled to a share of his income. Schmeling threatened to hang up his gloves for the duration. In the meantime, he returned to Germany, where twenty thousand people greeted him at the train station in Berlin. But he soon returned to America for a fight with another top contender, Paolino Uzcudun, the so-called Basque Woodchopper. Jacobs went into overdrive, writing a seventeen-part series on Schmeling for the New York American. New York American. Schmeling beat Uzcudun, and "all Berlin was frantic with joy," Schmeling beat Uzcudun, and "all Berlin was frantic with joy," The New York Times The New York Times reported. The excitement in the Fatherland, one newspaper there stated, resembled what had followed the great German victories of World War I. A Schmeling championship appeared so inevitable that one former title-holder, James J. Corbett, began to bemoan what it signaled about American boxing. In barely a year, Schmeling's purses topped $95,000, the fastest start for a boxer ever. reported. The excitement in the Fatherland, one newspaper there stated, resembled what had followed the great German victories of World War I. A Schmeling championship appeared so inevitable that one former title-holder, James J. Corbett, began to bemoan what it signaled about American boxing. In barely a year, Schmeling's purses topped $95,000, the fastest start for a boxer ever.

Schmeling's stubborn insistence on outlasting Bulow, though, meant remaining idle, which lost him admirers on both continents. But when he signed to fight Jack Sharkey on June 12,1930, for the heavyweight crown- Tunney, the champion, had retired-the sniping largely stopped. Schmeling's arrival in New York on May 4, 1930, was almost regal, but he drew mixed reviews from the press. "He is quiet, modest, sincere (as far as one can tell)," wrote Frank Graham, the respected columnist of the New York Sun. New York Sun. Joe Williams of the Joe Williams of the New York Telegram New York Telegram disagreed, detecting "an insolence, an arrogance, and a latent meanness about him." Jacobs tried to smooth things over. But taking no chances, Yussel, visiting a Bronx synagogue to say kaddish for his father, threw in a prayer for Schmeling, too-that, as the Yiddish daily disagreed, detecting "an insolence, an arrogance, and a latent meanness about him." Jacobs tried to smooth things over. But taking no chances, Yussel, visiting a Bronx synagogue to say kaddish for his father, threw in a prayer for Schmeling, too-that, as the Yiddish daily Forverts Forverts later put it, God should help his fighter "punch harder than the Lithuanian later put it, God should help his fighter "punch harder than the Lithuanian sheygets sheygets [Gentile]. To secure the heavenly bequest," it went on, "Jacobs flipped a couple of coins into the charity box." And God delivered, in a backhanded kind of way. [Gentile]. To secure the heavenly bequest," it went on, "Jacobs flipped a couple of coins into the charity box." And God delivered, in a backhanded kind of way.

A crowd of eighty thousand gathered at Yankee Stadium for what was framed as a battle of nations. Schmeling wore the German national colors and was introduced as "the fighting son of the Fatherland." The applause was deafening, for German Americans, Austrians, and Germans (including Ernst Lubitsch, Josef von Sternberg, and Marlene Dietrich) filled the stands. Sharkey, whom the ring announcer called "the man on whom every American pins his faith," was then introduced, and traipsed around the ring with an American flag wrapped over his shoulders.

Schmeling, feeling under the weather, started out even more slowly than usual and lost the first two rounds. By the third, Sharkey felt he could knock him out at will, and restrained himself only to make Schmeling look bad. In Schmeling's corner, Jacobs was shoving smelling salts under his nose between rounds. Mindful of fouls-he'd been cautioned in the second round against low blows-Sharkey was shooting only at the head. But in the fourth round he saw an opening to Schmeling's body and went for it. It was a left, half hook and half uppercut. It landed, as someone later put it, with the sound of a cow pulling her foot out of the mud. But precisely where it landed, whether above or below the belt, will remain forever uncertain.

Schmeling recoiled. A stabbing pain shot through his body, he later said, and his legs buckled. Down he went, his hand clawing at his abdomen. He tried to get up, but felt "paralyzed." And that was fine with Jacobs. "Stay down, you idiot!" he shouted. "He fouled you!" The referee counted to five before the round ended, and Jacobs, "a screaming, dancing midge of a man," climbed through the ropes, rushed at him, and grabbed his arm. Foul! Foul! Disqualify him! he shrieked. The befuddled referee frantically consulted the two judges. One thought the punch was low; the other had missed it. The ring was in chaos. It was then that Arthur Brisbane, the powerful Hearst columnist sitting at ringside, stepped in. Schmeling had been fouled, he decreed, and unless he was declared the winner, boxing either was dead in New York or would be banned from the Hearst papers, which pretty much amounted to the same thing. The ring announcer, Joe Humphries, then walked over to Schmeling and lifted his limp left arm. "You're the champion, Max!" Jacobs shouted in his ear. Schmeling, who'd been doubled over with pain, "brightened up like a child seeing his Christmas tree for the first time."

Schmeling's mood quickly blackened, however, as the full ignominy of his "victory" became clear. No one had ever won the title on a foul before (and, because the rules were changed as a result of the ensuing outrage, no one ever would again). Fans filed out of the stadium disgustedly. In Schmeling's dressing room, Jacobs produced a dented protective cup, which some reporters suspected he had procured beforehand and made to look, as one writer put it, "as though an armored truck had struck it at full speed." (Far more persuasive was a medical report of a spasm in Schmeling's left testicle that suggested "a severe blow in that region.") Schmeling believed he'd been turning things around in the fight, and would have won had it gone the distance. But he promised Sharkey a rematch whenever he wanted one. "From the bottom of my heart I can only thank [the American people] for a fairness to a stranger in their land that has never been equaled in the history of sport," he told Paul Gallico of the Daily News, Daily News, who had advised Schmeling that he'd be crazy not to accept the crown, even under such sullied circumstances who had advised Schmeling that he'd be crazy not to accept the crown, even under such sullied circumstances. "I owe a debt to [them] and I swear to you that some day I will repay. And so, too, will my country." "I owe a debt to [them] and I swear to you that some day I will repay. And so, too, will my country."

It was not the only debt Schmeling incurred that night. Sitting behind a post in the mezzanine, covering the fight on a special woman's pass for a magazine called Outlook and Independent, Outlook and Independent, the novelist Katherine Brush saw things more clearly than many men at ringside. "If anyone won the heavyweight championship of the world on June 12, 1930, it was Joey Jacobs, height about five feet 2, weight about 120 pounds," she wrote. Schmeling acknowledged as much. "You know, that the novelist Katherine Brush saw things more clearly than many men at ringside. "If anyone won the heavyweight championship of the world on June 12, 1930, it was Joey Jacobs, height about five feet 2, weight about 120 pounds," she wrote. Schmeling acknowledged as much. "You know, that Yacobs Yacobs -I did not know that he could do that," Schmeling said. "I see him the way he runs around the ring and fights for me. And I don't forget that." Nor did he forget Jacobs's heavenly appeal. "I'm sure it helped me win the fight," he said. (Perhaps, the -I did not know that he could do that," Schmeling said. "I see him the way he runs around the ring and fights for me. And I don't forget that." Nor did he forget Jacobs's heavenly appeal. "I'm sure it helped me win the fight," he said. (Perhaps, the Forverts Forverts mused, the spirit of Jacobs's father had in fact come from the mused, the spirit of Jacobs's father had in fact come from the yene velt yene velt-the other world-and lowered Sharkey's fateful punch.) Though always tight with a buck, Schmeling, technically still represented by Bulow, gave Yussel $10,000 anyway, and arm in arm, the two men left Yankee Stadium. That fall, shortly after his contract with Bulow expired, Schmeling signed a pact with Jacobs, extending into 1935. The Nazi press, predictably, had few kind words for Yussel, calling him "this unpleasant, loud-mouthed American Jew." But with what even apolitical German boxing fans considered Jacobs's unsentimental, aggressive, and mercenary ways, he was foreign to German sensibilities long before his Jewishness came to loom so large.

There was some celebrating in Germany over Schmeling's triumph, but the overwhelming reaction was embarrassment. This was no way to win a championship; some fundamental German sense of fair play had been violated. "We're on our way to becoming the greatest sporting nation in the world if only we get hit often enough below the belt," one paper sneered. Schmeling became the butt of vicious jokes. When the fight films arrived in Berlin cinemas, audiences laughed uproariously. Introduced at a local boxing match, he encountered "a concert of boos and whistles"; pale and shaken, he promptly left the hall.

Reluctant to fight Sharkey again and unwilling to enter a ring until his contract with Bulow expired, Schmeling saw no action for months. The New York State Athletic Commission declared the crown vacant. Embarrassed German boxing officials begged Schmeling not to humiliate his country. An artist who'd once sculpted Schmeling lamented how he'd degenerated from a modest, curious, and sensitive young man into a self-centered penny-pincher. Newspapers across the political spectrum condemned him; one in Berlin called his evasions "a disgrace to German sport." The Angriff Angriff blamed it all on the "mean, impertinent, incompetent Jew" representing Schmeling. It also accused Schmeling of using Berlin's Jewish-owned newspapers as his personal mouthpiece. But when he finally signed up to defend his championship against Young Stribling, New York boxing officials decreed that Schmeling was still champ. blamed it all on the "mean, impertinent, incompetent Jew" representing Schmeling. It also accused Schmeling of using Berlin's Jewish-owned newspapers as his personal mouthpiece. But when he finally signed up to defend his championship against Young Stribling, New York boxing officials decreed that Schmeling was still champ.

In late January 1931, Schmeling returned to the United States to begin a forty-city exhibition tour, designed to cash in on his championship and make a bit of money between fights. It was poorly attended, and Schmeling was rudely received. But in Cleveland that July, Schmeling knocked out Stribling, something no one else had done in 264 previous fights, and began turning perceptions around, both in the United States and in Germany. Schmeling canceled a scheduled fight against Primo Carnera, the gargantuan Italian, earning him yet more criticism, but in January 1932, he finally agreed to a June rematch with Sharkey. In the meantime, the first Schmeling biography, by Rolf Nurnberg, sports editor of the 12 Uhr-Blatt 12 Uhr-Blatt in Berlin, appeared. It depicted Schmeling as cold, unforgiving, disloyal, selfish, and cynical, someone who exploited those who helped him and rarely gave anything back to anyone. "Ruthlessness was the law; for sentimentality there was little room," Nurnberg wrote. in Berlin, appeared. It depicted Schmeling as cold, unforgiving, disloyal, selfish, and cynical, someone who exploited those who helped him and rarely gave anything back to anyone. "Ruthlessness was the law; for sentimentality there was little room," Nurnberg wrote.

Schmeling returned to New York and began his training. One day Governor Franklin D. Roosevelt, about to embark on an epic campaign of his own, stopped by Schmeling's camp in Kingston, New York; along with everyone else, Schmeling was amazed when Roosevelt spoke to him in German. Seventy thousand fans showed up for the fight on June 21, at the Madison Square Garden Bowl in Long Island City. They saw a dull contest, in which Schmeling appeared to dominate. But Jacobs had sensed trouble from the outset; it was, he feared, payback time for the fiasco of the first fight. When it was over, Schmeling had lost a split decision. As soon as the announcement was made, a sepulchral Jacobs grabbed the microphone of the radio announcer and began shouting imprecations into it. The next day's newspapers rendered it variously: "He was robbed." "He was jobbed." "We were robbed." But another version prevailed, and quickly entered the English language: "We wuz robbed!" "The great Sharkey-Schmeling controversy now stands at one steal apiece," Gallico wrote.

In fact, opinions were divided, depending, among other things, on where one was sitting, or if one had seen only the films of the fight or had heard it on the radio. (Edward Zeltner of the Mirror Mirror studied the fight film and counted 634 punches for Sharkey to Schmeling's 539.) But if Schmeling's win over Sharkey had really been a loss, this loss would become a colossal win. Americans could only pull so hard for a foreigner whose claim to the title had been tainted, who'd reneged on his promises, who'd fought the rematch, as the columnist Westbrook Pegler put it, like "someone closing a deal, with a lawyer ever at his elbow." But in Germany, fans once again took Schmeling to their bosom. Fleischer pushed for a rubber match between the two, but Schmeling bridled at having to take the far smaller challenger's share, and in early January 1933 he signed to fight Max Baer instead. In the five years that were to pass before Schmeling got another shot at the title, he would come to realize how right Fleischer was. But three weeks later, Fleischer, Schmeling, and everyone else had something far more serious to ponder. Adolf Hitler now ruled Germany. studied the fight film and counted 634 punches for Sharkey to Schmeling's 539.) But if Schmeling's win over Sharkey had really been a loss, this loss would become a colossal win. Americans could only pull so hard for a foreigner whose claim to the title had been tainted, who'd reneged on his promises, who'd fought the rematch, as the columnist Westbrook Pegler put it, like "someone closing a deal, with a lawyer ever at his elbow." But in Germany, fans once again took Schmeling to their bosom. Fleischer pushed for a rubber match between the two, but Schmeling bridled at having to take the far smaller challenger's share, and in early January 1933 he signed to fight Max Baer instead. In the five years that were to pass before Schmeling got another shot at the title, he would come to realize how right Fleischer was. But three weeks later, Fleischer, Schmeling, and everyone else had something far more serious to ponder. Adolf Hitler now ruled Germany.

For the ever-pragmatic Schmeling, the new political situation must have seemed both disturbing and promising. On the one hand, many of Schmeling's artist and intellectual friends were enemies of the new Reich, or Jews, or both. On the other hand, Hitler, unlike prior German leaders, loved boxing. If, as he later declared during a party rally in Nuremberg, "the German boy of the future must be lithe and slender, swift as greyhounds, tough as leather, and hard as Krupp steel," boxing promised to become almost an official state sport. "There is no sport that cultivates a spirit of aggressiveness, that demands lightning-quick decisiveness, that develops the body to such steely smoothness," Hitler had written in Mein Kampf. Mein Kampf. Had German intellectuals studied boxing instead of etiquette, he wrote, then "a German revolution of pimps, deserters and similar rabble [presumably the persons responsible for the Weimar democracy] never would have been possible." Had German intellectuals studied boxing instead of etiquette, he wrote, then "a German revolution of pimps, deserters and similar rabble [presumably the persons responsible for the Weimar democracy] never would have been possible."

But just where Schmeling would fit into the new order wasn't clear. No one embodied Nazi conceptions of steely physicality and iron discipline more than he, which is surely why Hitler commissioned a statue of him for the Reichssportfeld in Berlin, where the 1936 Summer Olympics would be staged. But with what the sportswriter Bob Considine described as "the high cheek bones of an Indian" and an "almost Neanderthal slope to his brow," his looks hardly matched the Nazi ideal, and his status as a professional didn't match, either; in collectivist Nazi culture, there was little room for self-interested mercenaries. In time, the propaganda value of professional athletes, and their usefulness as a source of scarce foreign capital, came to trump Nazi paeans to amateurism. But none of that was immediately apparent.

Then there was the Jewish question. Even before they came to power, in line with the more general contempt they expressed for Jewish influence in Germany, the Nazis assailed the degree to which Jewish managers, promoters, and bureaucrats dominated German boxing. They depicted these Jews as aliens (usually highlighting their eastern European origins), fat-cat exploiters of German youth who, while "incapable of performing even a single knee-bend on their flat feet," were still plenty able to pay young Aryan men a pittance for having their brains beaten out. More than two years before Hitler took power, the Angriff Angriff complained that Jews controlled the whole business, regulating only their corrupt, exploitative selves. Jacobs, though not German, was attacked as "a man from whom even his own kind turn away, a man at home in the most dangerous criminal circles in New York," a "dirty," "mean," "impertinent," "incompetent" Jew. He was blamed for making bad business deals for Schmeling, then for leaving him inactive for far too long. Always unmentioned, of course, was how he had talked Schmeling into the title. complained that Jews controlled the whole business, regulating only their corrupt, exploitative selves. Jacobs, though not German, was attacked as "a man from whom even his own kind turn away, a man at home in the most dangerous criminal circles in New York," a "dirty," "mean," "impertinent," "incompetent" Jew. He was blamed for making bad business deals for Schmeling, then for leaving him inactive for far too long. Always unmentioned, of course, was how he had talked Schmeling into the title.

The Angriff Angriff was far more outraged over Schmeling's relationship with Jacobs than anything Schmeling had ever done, but it viewed him warily, too. Incensed by what it considered Schmeling's democratic leanings-during an exhibition in 1929 Schmeling, along with Jacobs and his trainer Max Machon, had worn the black, red, and gold of the Weimar Republic-it attacked him for his disloyalty and his choice of associates: not just the "grubby" Jacobs, but also Machon, whom it described as a "spruced-up numbskull and toady." "The German people will accuse you, Herr Schmeling, of breaking your word, and the German people disapprove of you and this dirty Jacobs going around hawking the German name," it declared. This image of Schmeling as a poor sport and ingrate seemed to be the one thing upon which a Nazi newspaper and Schmeling's Jewish biographer, Nurnberg, could agree. But in the was far more outraged over Schmeling's relationship with Jacobs than anything Schmeling had ever done, but it viewed him warily, too. Incensed by what it considered Schmeling's democratic leanings-during an exhibition in 1929 Schmeling, along with Jacobs and his trainer Max Machon, had worn the black, red, and gold of the Weimar Republic-it attacked him for his disloyalty and his choice of associates: not just the "grubby" Jacobs, but also Machon, whom it described as a "spruced-up numbskull and toady." "The German people will accuse you, Herr Schmeling, of breaking your word, and the German people disapprove of you and this dirty Jacobs going around hawking the German name," it declared. This image of Schmeling as a poor sport and ingrate seemed to be the one thing upon which a Nazi newspaper and Schmeling's Jewish biographer, Nurnberg, could agree. But in the Angriff Angriff as in other German papers, the antipathy toward Schmeling eased following the second Sharkey fight. as in other German papers, the antipathy toward Schmeling eased following the second Sharkey fight.

Now, as Schmeling prepared to take on Baer, the Nazis were in control, and no longer had to carp from the sidelines. Box-Sport Box-Sport did not instantly absorb the new order: in early March 1933 it ran a picture of the newly crowned German light heavyweight champion, a Jew named Erich Seelig (who also held the middleweight title), on its cover. But after that, change came swiftly. Indeed, it was a sign of the importance the Nazis assigned sports in general, and boxing in particular, that they campaigned to make boxing did not instantly absorb the new order: in early March 1933 it ran a picture of the newly crowned German light heavyweight champion, a Jew named Erich Seelig (who also held the middleweight title), on its cover. But after that, change came swiftly. Indeed, it was a sign of the importance the Nazis assigned sports in general, and boxing in particular, that they campaigned to make boxing judenrein judenrein-free of Jews-before similar purges in all other sectors of German society. At a meeting on March 30, the deputy chairman of the Deutscher Reichsverband fur Amateurboxen, the organization of German amateur boxers, declared that henceforth all Jews would be barred from the group. The next night, as Seelig prepared to defend one of his two titles, Nazi officials entered his dressing room to say that unless he left the country immediately, his family would be murdered. (He fled, and was promptly stripped of both his titles.) Around the same time, the organization of professional boxers, the Verband Deutscher Faustkampfer, issued a sweeping order removing Jews entirely from its realm. "Finally, Finally! The VDF Purged of Jews," the Angriff Angriff exulted on April 4. exulted on April 4. Box-Sport Box-Sport printed the actual order, which made clear how extraordinarily all-encompassing it was. All Jews, even those who'd been baptized, were stricken from the group's membership rolls and forbidden to enter all association facilities; professional boxers were freed from all contracts with their Jewish managers; all licensed technical personnel were barred from working at any boxing events put on by "Jewish capital or Jewish persons." And, as if to demonstrate the gulf that was now to separate the German boxing establishment from anything Jewish, all German boxers were prohibited from using Jewish doctors, lawyers, and dentists. printed the actual order, which made clear how extraordinarily all-encompassing it was. All Jews, even those who'd been baptized, were stricken from the group's membership rolls and forbidden to enter all association facilities; professional boxers were freed from all contracts with their Jewish managers; all licensed technical personnel were barred from working at any boxing events put on by "Jewish capital or Jewish persons." And, as if to demonstrate the gulf that was now to separate the German boxing establishment from anything Jewish, all German boxers were prohibited from using Jewish doctors, lawyers, and dentists.

The previously apolitical and tempered Box-Sport Box-Sport quickly adapted to the new era, suddenly enumerating all of the long-festering problems in its realm that it had somehow previously overlooked. The new measures were "a defensive action against the countless Jewish profiteers" in German professional boxing, it declared: German boxers trained, fought, and ruined their health, while Jewish promoters, managers, and "whatever else these blood-suckers call themselves" hovered in the background. Though certain boxers had done well under the old regime-Schmeling was mentioned-most couldn't even pay for their training, it asserted, while their Jewish backers always managed to enrich themselves. Respectable Germans who had done great service for German boxing had been marginalized, while "a clique of corrupt and unscrupulous profiteers" took care of one another. Instead of being regulated by trained, expert, independent, and honorable ethnic Germans, the brave young fighters of the Fatherland were dragged before "Jewish big-wigs and corrupt exploiters who know as much about boxing as a donkey knows about jumping rope." With the Jews gone, however, German boxing had lost its economic underpinnings, and quickly adapted to the new era, suddenly enumerating all of the long-festering problems in its realm that it had somehow previously overlooked. The new measures were "a defensive action against the countless Jewish profiteers" in German professional boxing, it declared: German boxers trained, fought, and ruined their health, while Jewish promoters, managers, and "whatever else these blood-suckers call themselves" hovered in the background. Though certain boxers had done well under the old regime-Schmeling was mentioned-most couldn't even pay for their training, it asserted, while their Jewish backers always managed to enrich themselves. Respectable Germans who had done great service for German boxing had been marginalized, while "a clique of corrupt and unscrupulous profiteers" took care of one another. Instead of being regulated by trained, expert, independent, and honorable ethnic Germans, the brave young fighters of the Fatherland were dragged before "Jewish big-wigs and corrupt exploiters who know as much about boxing as a donkey knows about jumping rope." With the Jews gone, however, German boxing had lost its economic underpinnings, and Box-Sport Box-Sport called on the sport's brightest lights, Schmeling included, to stop "giving the cold shoulder to their homeland" and start fighting in Germany. called on the sport's brightest lights, Schmeling included, to stop "giving the cold shoulder to their homeland" and start fighting in Germany.

Under the new rules, Schmeling's fight against the purportedly Jewish Max Baer (he was not) on June 8 in New York could never have been held in Germany. But as was often to be the case, the Nazis could be pragmatic when they needed to be. They knew that to stay in the heavyweight picture, Schmeling had to take the best fights, and fighters, he could find. Prior to Schmeling's departure for the United States, Hitler summoned him to the Reich's chancellory. For Schmeling the encounter was a first- and an impressive, heartening one at that. To meet President Hindenburg, as he had tried to do, you had to be from nobility, and now here was Hitler, coming to him. him. "If anyone over there asks how it's going in Germany, you can reassure the doomsayers that everything is moving along quite peacefully," the Fuhrer told him. Hitler was not at all the overwrought, comical character Schmeling had expected, but charming, calm, quietly confident. Goebbels and Goring were friendly, too. As Schmeling departed, Hitler told him to let him know if he ever needed anything. Schmeling turned out to be a faithful emissary, though it wasn't easy. The world had already changed too much for that. "If anyone over there asks how it's going in Germany, you can reassure the doomsayers that everything is moving along quite peacefully," the Fuhrer told him. Hitler was not at all the overwrought, comical character Schmeling had expected, but charming, calm, quietly confident. Goebbels and Goring were friendly, too. As Schmeling departed, Hitler told him to let him know if he ever needed anything. Schmeling turned out to be a faithful emissary, though it wasn't easy. The world had already changed too much for that.

Because sports and politics were considered strictly separate, or because no editors much cared, or because there were too many other horror stories coming out of Germany, or because it all seemed so far away, the purge of Jews from German boxing went unnoted in the sports pages of most American newspapers. Three weeks went by before The New York Times The New York Times even mentioned it in a short, inconspicuous wire dispatch at the back of its sports section, beneath a banner headline about a horse show. The story got better play in papers such as the even mentioned it in a short, inconspicuous wire dispatch at the back of its sports section, beneath a banner headline about a horse show. The story got better play in papers such as the Ironwood (Michigan) Daily Globe Ironwood (Michigan) Daily Globe than in the most important paper in the city with the largest population of Jews in the country. In Britain, too, the German edict excited little comment. than in the most important paper in the city with the largest population of Jews in the country. In Britain, too, the German edict excited little comment.* Only the French sports newspaper Only the French sports newspaper L'Auto L'Auto gave it the attention it deserved, noting how it countered every effort to banish prejudice from sports. "It would be paradoxical to see Jews evicted from the 'Noble Art' exactly at the same time as Negroes are having their natural rights recognized all the way to the top, including in world title fights," it said. It expressed regret over such a political incursion into sports, particularly one aimed at a group that had produced so many champion boxers. But events in Germany inevitably seeped into American sports coverage. On March 27, the gave it the attention it deserved, noting how it countered every effort to banish prejudice from sports. "It would be paradoxical to see Jews evicted from the 'Noble Art' exactly at the same time as Negroes are having their natural rights recognized all the way to the top, including in world title fights," it said. It expressed regret over such a political incursion into sports, particularly one aimed at a group that had produced so many champion boxers. But events in Germany inevitably seeped into American sports coverage. On March 27, the New York Mirror New York Mirror printed an extraordinary half-page notice in Yiddish-with no English translation-on its back page (the front page of the tabloid's sports section), urging people to rally that night in Madison Square Garden against "the decrepit medievalism that has darkened the skies of the Jewish people in the land of Goethe and Mendelssohn." printed an extraordinary half-page notice in Yiddish-with no English translation-on its back page (the front page of the tabloid's sports section), urging people to rally that night in Madison Square Garden against "the decrepit medievalism that has darkened the skies of the Jewish people in the land of Goethe and Mendelssohn."

Pushing for boycotts of anything connected to the Nazis, some members of the Jewish War Veterans asked American immigration authorities to bar Schmeling. The day before Schmeling arrived, Congressman Emmanuel Celler, who represented the Flatbush section of Brooklyn, urged a boycott of the exhibition tour Schmeling was to take prior to the Baer fight. "We all know what would happen if the situation were reversed and a Jewish prize fighter like Maxie Rosenbloom or Max Baer were scheduled to enter the prize ring in Germany against Max Schmeling," he said.* So poisoned had the atmosphere in New York grown against Schmeling that Jacobs considered having him train in Montreal instead. Jacobs now served as Schmeling's Jewish shield: the So poisoned had the atmosphere in New York grown against Schmeling that Jacobs considered having him train in Montreal instead. Jacobs now served as Schmeling's Jewish shield: the Daily News Daily News reported that the "Delancey Street dandy" had neutralized anti-Schmeling sentiment by procuring letters from several rabbis. "There are many Hebrews here and they are bitter against Hitler and confuse every German with the Nazis, which is tough for Schmeling," Jacobs told a Montreal newspaper. "He is not a Nazi by any means, and not at all in sympathy with their propaganda." Schmeling, he insisted, was willing to box free for any Jewish charity, and had even accompanied him to synagogue. reported that the "Delancey Street dandy" had neutralized anti-Schmeling sentiment by procuring letters from several rabbis. "There are many Hebrews here and they are bitter against Hitler and confuse every German with the Nazis, which is tough for Schmeling," Jacobs told a Montreal newspaper. "He is not a Nazi by any means, and not at all in sympathy with their propaganda." Schmeling, he insisted, was willing to box free for any Jewish charity, and had even accompanied him to synagogue.

When Schmeling arrived aboard the Bremen Bremen on that April day in 1933, with the horde of boxing writers awaiting him, he stepped into precisely the kind of atmosphere Jacobs feared. Though he spoke little English when he'd first come to New York, Schmeling had picked it up quite well and even understood the dialect favored by fast-talking New York newspapermen, at least most of the time; whenever anyone asked him something sensitive, he liked to play dumb, requesting that the question be repeated more slowly, or asking Jacobs to recast it for him in some combination of Yiddish and German. Then he wouldn't answer it anyway. "He dodges embarrassing questions even more adroitly than he dodges punches," the on that April day in 1933, with the horde of boxing writers awaiting him, he stepped into precisely the kind of atmosphere Jacobs feared. Though he spoke little English when he'd first come to New York, Schmeling had picked it up quite well and even understood the dialect favored by fast-talking New York newspapermen, at least most of the time; whenever anyone asked him something sensitive, he liked to play dumb, requesting that the question be repeated more slowly, or asking Jacobs to recast it for him in some combination of Yiddish and German. Then he wouldn't answer it anyway. "He dodges embarrassing questions even more adroitly than he dodges punches," the Sun Sun reporter wrote. But this time the newspapermen who greeted him were a bit more insistent, especially on the state of Germany's Jews. Jacobs had warned him of this in advance, radioing him instructions aboard the reporter wrote. But this time the newspapermen who greeted him were a bit more insistent, especially on the state of Germany's Jews. Jacobs had warned him of this in advance, radioing him instructions aboard the Bremen Bremen to disparage the reports of Nazi anti-Semitism. This Schmeling promptly did, even though the roster of Jews in his life was long. Most of his friends in the ateliers, salons, and cabarets of Berlin had been Jewish. A Jew named Paul Damski may have discovered him, had promoted many of his fights, and had purchased in his own name a country house for Schmeling, no doubt to save the Uhlan some money. Since Schmeling had come to New York, Nat Fleischer, Harry Sperber, and Jacobs himself had all assisted him. Moreover, the Hitler regime was still young, and Schmeling-a former world champion and Germany's most famous athlete, as well as someone who made his living abroad-presumably was freer to speak his mind than just about any German citizen. But when asked about what Hitler was up to, Schmeling had little to offer but praise. to disparage the reports of Nazi anti-Semitism. This Schmeling promptly did, even though the roster of Jews in his life was long. Most of his friends in the ateliers, salons, and cabarets of Berlin had been Jewish. A Jew named Paul Damski may have discovered him, had promoted many of his fights, and had purchased in his own name a country house for Schmeling, no doubt to save the Uhlan some money. Since Schmeling had come to New York, Nat Fleischer, Harry Sperber, and Jacobs himself had all assisted him. Moreover, the Hitler regime was still young, and Schmeling-a former world champion and Germany's most famous athlete, as well as someone who made his living abroad-presumably was freer to speak his mind than just about any German citizen. But when asked about what Hitler was up to, Schmeling had little to offer but praise.

"What do you think of conditions in Germany?" one reporter asked.

"What conditions?"

"The political situation."

"I don't know anything about politics," Schmeling replied. "Why don't you ask Dr. Luther?" He was referring to Germany's new ambassador to the United States, who had been on the same voyage. When pressed, Schmeling answered in essence that he'd seen nothing, but that what he'd seen was good. "I haff never seen Yermany so quiet," he told the reporters. "Yermany has never been unify as it is now under Hitler." True, there'd been that one-day boycott of Jewish businesses, but the Jews had brought that upon themselves with their anti-Nazi protests and propaganda in places like New York, and he'd seen no one actually physically molested. So confident was he that the dire reports from Germany had been exaggerated that he proposed taking Jacobs-"my friend Joe"-over as a test: Yussel, he predicted cheerily, would find himself "the most popular person in Germany." Just to show how he felt about the Jews, Schmeling said he had accepted an invitation to attend Passover services at Jacobs's synagogue. No one asked Schmeling about the purge of Jews from German boxing, and he did not bring it up himself. "I tell you this- Germany is improving," Schmeling continued. "More people are going to work. Employers seem to have more confidence. Conditions are brighter. My people are much more hopeful." Besides, he added, "prices on the Boerse [sic] [sic] are going up." Schmeling lied to the reporters that he had not met Hitler. He also urged his interlocutors not to be "silly" about the man. "Were I to meet Baer in Germany instead of here, Hitler most assuredly would occupy a ringside seat," he said. are going up." Schmeling lied to the reporters that he had not met Hitler. He also urged his interlocutors not to be "silly" about the man. "Were I to meet Baer in Germany instead of here, Hitler most assuredly would occupy a ringside seat," he said.

One could hardly fault Schmeling for failing to understand the full significance of what was happening; most Jews didn't, either. Schmeling himself later insisted that he'd simply not been paying any attention, caught up as he was in his own career. But that day on the Brooklyn pier, he had done more than protect his interests or betray his ignorance. He'd participated in a cover-up-becoming, as a result, a propagandist for the Nazi regime. The next morning, a headline in a small Pennsylvania daily encapsulated his message better than any New York newspaper: MAX SCHMELING SAYS GERMANY IS NOT CRUEL TO JEWISH FOLKS MAX SCHMELING SAYS GERMANY IS NOT CRUEL TO JEWISH FOLKS.

Afterward, the Warsaw Yiddish paper Moment Moment said Schmeling had proved himself "100 percent Hitlerist" with his answers. The German press agreed, congratulating Schmeling on his fine performance. "Schmeling pulled himself through the affair brilliantly, admired all around for the quick-wittedness with which he met the questions," said Schmeling had proved himself "100 percent Hitlerist" with his answers. The German press agreed, congratulating Schmeling on his fine performance. "Schmeling pulled himself through the affair brilliantly, admired all around for the quick-wittedness with which he met the questions," Box-Sport Box-Sport reported. Schmeling wrote many years later that following his interrogation, he went off to see his New York friends, many of them Jews. "When I told them about the reception at the Reich's chancellory, they kidded me and asked what Hitler had said when I told him that I would be boxing a Jewish Max Baer," he recalled. "'Wouldn't that be forbidden in the new Reich as a form of athletic "race crime"?' We just laughed." reported. Schmeling wrote many years later that following his interrogation, he went off to see his New York friends, many of them Jews. "When I told them about the reception at the Reich's chancellory, they kidded me and asked what Hitler had said when I told him that I would be boxing a Jewish Max Baer," he recalled. "'Wouldn't that be forbidden in the new Reich as a form of athletic "race crime"?' We just laughed."

One more reliable contemporary press report had him going back to the Commodore Hotel, where he was staying, and then out by himself for a show. He was last spotted that night at the Majestic Theater, where Jimmy Durante was appearing. He was rolling in the aisles.

* Fleischer wrote years later that Schmeling never repaid the $250. Fleischer wrote years later that Schmeling never repaid the $250.* The British magazine The British magazine Boxing Boxing initially said nothing about the ban, and when it finally did, its Berlin correspondent, H. V. Gunnell, blamed foreign Jews, and their "exaggerated and untruthful stories" about Nazi persecutions, for what had happened. Three weeks later he praised the anti-Jewish measures. In a guest column for initially said nothing about the ban, and when it finally did, its Berlin correspondent, H. V. Gunnell, blamed foreign Jews, and their "exaggerated and untruthful stories" about Nazi persecutions, for what had happened. Three weeks later he praised the anti-Jewish measures. In a guest column for Box-Sport Box-Sport in October 1933, he wrote: "The fact that the new, great leader of the German people, Adolf Hitler, has spoken out precisely in support of boxing means not a little for this sport in Germany. Since the reorganized boxing authorities in Germany have weeded out the undesired elements that until recently have so hindered the development of boxing and so damaged the reputation of it, the prospects of German boxing are now on the best imaginable course of further development." in October 1933, he wrote: "The fact that the new, great leader of the German people, Adolf Hitler, has spoken out precisely in support of boxing means not a little for this sport in Germany. Since the reorganized boxing authorities in Germany have weeded out the undesired elements that until recently have so hindered the development of boxing and so damaged the reputation of it, the prospects of German boxing are now on the best imaginable course of further development."* Not everyone agreed: Pegler said that Celler's plan was to "shame the Nazis by lying down and rolling in the same gutter with them." Nazi discrimination against Jewish athletes would surely pass over, he predicted, "and the victims will be no worse for it." Not everyone agreed: Pegler said that Celler's plan was to "shame the Nazis by lying down and rolling in the same gutter with them." Nazi discrimination against Jewish athletes would surely pass over, he predicted, "and the victims will be no worse for it."

A Regime's Embrace

ADOLF H HITLER TURNED FORTY-FOUR on April 20, 1933, and among the many greetings he received were messages from the Deutscher Reichsverband fur Amateurboxen. They assured him they stood ready at all times to assist him in his great work and to "stand in defense, with clenched fist, against all enemies." At the national championships a week later, each of the winners received a silver-framed, autographed picture of Hitler. There was a speech from a Nazi functionary, reiterating Hitler's devotion to boxing. Then came the singing of "Deutschland uber Alles" and the "Horst Wessel Song." The boxers greeted the crowd with the Hitler salute. They also telegrammed the Fuhrer, thanking him again and promising "to follow in his path with iron decisiveness and unswerving trust." What had formerly been a sporting event had turned into a Nazi pageant. on April 20, 1933, and among the many greetings he received were messages from the Deutscher Reichsverband fur Amateurboxen. They assured him they stood ready at all times to assist him in his great work and to "stand in defense, with clenched fist, against all enemies." At the national championships a week later, each of the winners received a silver-framed, autographed picture of Hitler. There was a speech from a Nazi functionary, reiterating Hitler's devotion to boxing. Then came the singing of "Deutschland uber Alles" and the "Horst Wessel Song." The boxers greeted the crowd with the Hitler salute. They also telegrammed the Fuhrer, thanking him again and promising "to follow in his path with iron decisiveness and unswerving trust." What had formerly been a sporting event had turned into a Nazi pageant.

Everywhere, the Nazification of German boxing was intensifying. In the upcoming competition with Italy, German boxers would sport new uniforms, with black swastikas on the left leg of their white trunks; among the sponsors of a boxing tournament staged by the German police were the two principal Nazi party newspapers: the Angriff Angriff and the and the Volkischer Beobachter. Volkischer Beobachter. Just about the only remnant of the old-style German boxing was Schmeling, now poised to start a tour that would take him to several northeastern American cities and a couple more in Canada before the Baer fight in June. Just about the only remnant of the old-style German boxing was Schmeling, now poised to start a tour that would take him to several northeastern American cities and a couple more in Canada before the Baer fight in June.

The man watching, and judging, Schmeling most closely was Dan Parker of the New York Mirror. New York Mirror. It was an unlikely role for both Parker, a Catholic New Englander, and the It was an unlikely role for both Parker, a Catholic New Englander, and the Mirror, Mirror, a Hearst tabloid whose proprietor, according to his critics, was vaguely sympathetic to Hitler. Parker served his readers zealously and colorfully. Unlike most sportswriters, he did not buy the Schmeling line that politics and sports were automatically and perpetually distinct, and more than anyone else, he took on the vexing task of figuring out just who Schmeling was, how he was behaving, and what the best way was to deal fairly with him. a Hearst tabloid whose proprietor, according to his critics, was vaguely sympathetic to Hitler. Parker served his readers zealously and colorfully. Unlike most sportswriters, he did not buy the Schmeling line that politics and sports were automatically and perpetually distinct, and more than anyone else, he took on the vexing task of figuring out just who Schmeling was, how he was behaving, and what the best way was to deal fairly with him.

"The movement to make Max Schmeling suffer for Halitosis Hitler's oppressive policies against Jews in Germany is gaining terrific momentum," Parker reported a week after Schmeling arrived. He then yielded to Morris Mendelsohn, chairman of the "Nazi Boycott Committee" of the Jewish War Veterans. Schmeling's insistence that all was well with the Jews in Germany, Mendelsohn wrote, merely emphasized that "none is so blind as they who won't see." "We think, however, his eyesight will not fail Mr. Schmeling when he notes the empty seats in all of his scheduled encounters here in America," Mendelsohn warned. "Why should we send Schmeling back to Germany with a bag of gold to throw into Hitler's lap? Let us send him back with a ringing message that America will not countenance the persecution of helpless minorities in this advanced age."

Two days later, Parker heard from Heinz Reichmann, the American correspondent for the Ullstein papers, the Jewish-owned German publications which, the Nazis had previously charged, Schmeling had used as his mouthpiece. Reichmann, who had joined Harry Sperber in broadcasting Schmeling's fights back to Germany, defended Schmeling, who, he said, was "no more of a Jew-hater than Rabbi Wise," referring to Stephen Wise, then one of America's most prominent Jews. Reichmann said he didn't know any Germans with so many Jewish friends as Schmeling: nine out of ten, by his estimation. Ernst Lubitsch and Max Reinhardt, notable figures in German entertainment, would burst out laughing if they heard that busybodies were portraying Schmeling as an anti-Semite, he declared. It was a stirring defense, one that could hardly have helped Schmeling back home. Reichmann, like all Jewish reporters, was soon out of a job, and his Jewish publisher was soon out of business.

Parker's column also provided a forum on Joe Jacobs. Jacobs's rabbi declared that by boycotting Schmeling, the Jews were descending to the Nazis' level. And though he'd parted bitterly from Jacobs (after smashing a plaster bust of Schmeling over his head), Jacobs's former business partner, an Irish Catholic named Bill McCarney, now touted Yussel's credentials as a Jew. (Jacobs was not one of those High Holy Day-only types, he wrote; traveling in Europe, the first thing Jacobs always did was find a synagogue in which to say kaddish for his father.) Parker acknowledged the awkward position in which Schmeling now found himself. He "has to return to Germany some time and doesn't want to find a room in the hoosegow awaiting him," he wrote. "All he can do is point to the fact that his record has always been clean and that his long association with Jacobs proves that he doesn't go in for Jew-baiting or hate."

In mid-April 1933, Schmeling and Jacobs set out on their tour. Some five thousand people came to see Schmeling in Pittsburgh. "I'll try to make [Max Baer] think you're to blame for all that trouble over in your country," Jack Dempsey joked to Schmeling before an audience there. "That will be all right," Schmeling replied. "I never care what they say." He even made light of his predicament. "Shall I give them a political talk?" he quipped to Joe Jacobs before going on a local radio station. Although Jewish boxing fans were urged to stay away, four thousand people greeted Schmeling in Montreal. One local cartoonist gave him a Hitler mustache, but he was also feted at a Jewish nightclub there. A special train ferried fans to see Schmeling in Bangor, Maine. But an appearance before the German club at the state university was hastily canceled-ostensibly because Schmeling had to train, but more likely to avoid a ruckus.

Schmeling and Jacobs were in Maine when word of the ban on Jews in German boxing dribbled belatedly into the American press. Schmeling had no comment, but Jacobs did. "We simply ignore it," he said. A German boxing official hastily explained that Schmeling was free to keep Jacobs, but only for bouts outside Germany. "Well, that's awfully nice of him, telling Schmeling what he can do in the United States," Jacobs snapped. "Max and I, we don't have nothin' to do with them guys." Few columnists ever commented on the Jewish ban. One of them was Fleischer, who called Hitler's actions "malicious, vitriolic, and imbecilic." But Fleischer still had faith in Schmeling. "Will he throw aside the man who made him a world champion, Joe Jacobs, American Hebrew, to abide by the German edict?" he asked. "I venture to predict that he will tell the Federation officials to take a trip to Hades, where they belong."

Whatever Schmeling elected to do, New York's Jewish boxing fans now had to decide whether to boycott the fight against Baer. It was difficult to take anything involving the wacky and undisciplined Baer very seriously; certainly, Baer himself rarely did. This was, after all, a man who, when he first came to New York, had banged his head against a radiator to prove his durability. When a boxer named Frankie Campbell died after he was done with him, Baer became afraid of his own strength; that fear, plus his own sunny nature, left him erratic for the rest of his career. Baer could have been the greatest of them all, Benny Leonard, the legendary Jewish lightweight, once said, had he only been able to concentrate. He'd start his fights seriously, only to spot a friend in the crowd; "at that moment," said Leonard, he'd stop being a fighter and become "a friend, or a lover, or something. He'd wave, and the other guy would hit him while he was doing it." "I've got a million-dollar body and a ten-cent brain," admitted Baer, who once sold more than 100 percent of himself because, he explained, he thought he had 1,000 percent to parcel out. Baer was confused about his purported Jewishness, too, a matter with considerable commercial consequences in New York. He said that his father was Jewish, though reports that the old man raised pigs in California did not bolster his case. Many years later, the trainer Ray Arcel claimed that having seen Baer in the shower, he could definitively say Baer was no Jew at all. What Baer was, in fact, was strategically strategically Jewish. Jewish.

In America, Jews were all over boxing, not just as fighters and fans but as everything in between: promoters, trainers, managers, referees, propagandists, equipment manufacturers, suppliers, chroniclers. No major ethnic group in American history ever so dominated an important sport. The phenomenon is largely forgotten, in part because it was only scantily analyzed at the time. For Gentile writers, the topic might have been too sensitive; for Jewish ones, the problem may have been embarrassment. The various strains of American Jewish culture at the time-elite German Jewry; secular, socialist eastern European Yiddishists; the religiously observant-all disdained the sport. They deemed it coarse, uncouth, inappropriate-"goyishe nakhes," the kind of foolishness Christians enjoyed. the kind of foolishness Christians enjoyed.

Few of the great Jewish boxers were heavyweights-another reason people questioned Baer's Jewish credentials-but at one time or another, Jews dominated all of the lighter categories. Surely the most storied Jewish fighter was Leonard, who sat atop his division from 1917 to 1925, who parlayed his deftness, lethal punch, and good looks into enormous fame and popularity. One Jewish newspaper said he was far more famous than Einstein, and maybe more important. In 1923, in a match with another Jew, Lew Tendler, in the newly opened Yankee Stadium, he fought in front of nearly seventy thousand people. Small wonder, then, that Tex Rickard once said he'd pay all the money in the world for a great Jewish heavyweight. Apparently as a publicity stunt, someone had floated rumors prior to the first Schmeling-Sharkey fight that Schmeling himself was Jewish, and that he had relatives on the Lower East Side with whom he ate gefilte fish every Friday night. Schmeling politely brushed the stories aside, while stressing that if he really were Jewish, he'd not be ashamed of it. Of course, he'd be unlikely to reiterate that now.

For the Jewish boxers themselves, fighting may have been strictly an economic proposition, a brutal but lucrative alternative to the sweatshops. But for their fans, its appeal was more tribal, and primeval. It was a way to assert their status as bona fide Americans, to express ethnic pride, settle ethnic scores, refute ethnic stereotypes; after all, no one ever cast the Irish and Italians as victims and bookworms, cowards and runts. Every Jewish kid ever set upon by street toughs lived vicariously through his Jewish ring heroes, and the heroes encouraged this, often wearing Stars of David on their trunks. After Arabs murdered sixty-seven Jews in Palestine in 1929, five Jewish fighters took on five non-Jews at a Madison Square Garden benefit; the "Hebrews" scored a clean sweep in front of sixteen thousand feverish fans. Many of them came from the Garment Center, either rank-and-file workers in the needle trades or executives who passed around fight tickets to their customers. But Jews of every background and economic stratum went to the fights. If the garment workers were fans, so too was Bernard Gimbel, whose family store sold what those workers made. What drew Jews to boxing was more than chauvinism, though. Perhaps it was also part of relishing America after their cloistered lives in Europe, or the Jewish love of going out, whether to vaudeville or to Broadway or to the Yiddish theater of Second Avenue.

So pronounced was Jewish hegemony over boxing that some attributed the eclipse into which the sport had fallen by the early 1930s less to the Depression than to the paucity of good Jewish fighters. The exception was Barney Ross, a scrappy lightweight from Chicago. ("Hey, Barney," Ross's trainer asked him before one of his big fights in New York, "if Hitler dropped a bomb on this place, how many of our tribe would he kill off?") The grim news from Germany only intensified the pride Jews already took in their fighters, especially when they were taking on Germans. So while some Jewish boxers in Germany were fleeing for their lives, Gentile boxers in America were pretending to be Jews. Baer did even more, turning himself into a modern, if uncircumsized, Maccabee. "Every punch in the eye I give Schmeling is one for Adolf Hitler," he declared.

Several writers saw through Baer's ruse, though it was hard to get very worked up over it. One newspaperman said Baer was "reported to have become a Jew by press agent edict rather than by Bar Mitzvah." "Baer was only a 50 per cent Hebrew when he set out for New York," Parker wrote. "He became a 100 per cent when he arrived in Gotham and were it not for the fact that the Atlantic seaboard intervened, he might have kept right on traveling until he was at least 350 per cent Yiddle." "Hitler is more of a Jew than is Baer," Fleischer claimed. But his image as a Jew persisted, in both New York and Berlin, infusing the Schmeling-Baer bout with a significance it would not normally have had. Boycotting it was wrong, some argued, because with people like Baer and Joe Jacobs involved, American Jews would suffer a lot more than Hitler ever would. German papers opined that Baer's Jewish talk, along with his anti-Nazi saber rattling, was simply reklame, reklame, the kind of shameless huckstering for which Americans, and Jews in particular, were so noted. The virulently anti-Semitic the kind of shameless huckstering for which Americans, and Jews in particular, were so noted. The virulently anti-Semitic Der Sturmer Der Sturmer took Schmeling to task for fighting a non-Aryan, calling it a "racial and cultural disgrace." took Schmeling to task for fighting a non-Aryan, calling it a "racial and cultural disgrace."

As the fight approached, Schmeling continued to talk up the "New Germany," but selectively-for instance, to German-language publications few ordinary New Yorkers read. "Abroad, one can have no concept of how Germany looks today," he told the New Yorker Staats-Zeitung. New Yorker Staats-Zeitung. "A renewal of the Reich is under way which can only be in the best interest of Germany." Otherwise, he made few waves. His German compatriot Walter Neusel had not only kept his Jewish manager but had briefly gone into exile, something Schmeling was not about to do. Neusel had also provided that a part of the gate from a forthcoming fight in London be devoted to a Jewish relief fund; Schmeling was not about to do that, either. "A renewal of the Reich is under way which can only be in the best interest of Germany." Otherwise, he made few waves. His German compatriot Walter Neusel had not only kept his Jewish manager but had briefly gone into exile, something Schmeling was not about to do. Neusel had also provided that a part of the gate from a forthcoming fight in London be devoted to a Jewish relief fund; Schmeling was not about to do that, either.

Four days before the fight, at a dinner given by the Jewish War Veterans, Congressman Celler renewed calls for a boycott. "Schmeling is a friend of Hitler," he said. But the protests fizzled. Fight backers worried that Baer's non-Semitism was actually driving away more Jewish fight fans than was Hitler's anti-Semitism. Baer's manager begged Jewish fans to ignore the doubts cast on Baer's ethnic credentials and go watch "a genuine half-Jewish boy fight a 100 percent German." Ticket sales in Yorkville, the German community on New York's Upper East Side, were said to be making up for any losses in the Jewish community. The Staats-Zeitung Staats-Zeitung warned that given "the growing antipathy against everything German" in New York, Schmeling would have a hard time landing another fight there were he to lose. Meanwhile, the fight would not be aired in Germany. Sperber and Reichmann, after all, were Jews; shortly before the fight the Nazis decreed that henceforth only Aryan broadcasters would do. (Sperber promptly wired Goebbels to "Leck' mich am Arsch"-to lick his ass-a message the non-German-speaking Western Union operator dutifully took down and transmitted.) warned that given "the growing antipathy against everything German" in New York, Schmeling would have a hard time landing another fight there were he to lose. Meanwhile, the fight would not be aired in Germany. Sperber and Reichmann, after all, were Jews; shortly before the fight the Nazis decreed that henceforth only Aryan broadcasters would do. (Sperber promptly wired Goebbels to "Leck' mich am Arsch"-to lick his ass-a message the non-German-speaking Western Union operator dutifully took down and transmitted.) Sixty thousand people, many getting in at the Depression-era price of a dollar a seat, attended the fight, at least fifteen thousand more than would watch Sharkey lose the heavyweight title to Primo Carnera three weeks later. Millions more were updated by bulletins on NBC. Schmeling was the heavy favorite, but no one knew he was under the weather (or at least he later said he was), and that the heat-the night was stifling even without the powerful lights over the ring-made things worse. Baer, who for the first time was wearing the Star of David on his trunks, started out the fight furiously, while Schmeling was leaden. In the tenth round Baer put an end to things. "A punch all the boxing instructors decry as the sucker's wallop, suddenly arched through atmosphere made milky by tobacco smoke and resin dust," wrote Pegler, and Schmeling was down and out. "That wasn't a defeat, that was a disaster," Machon said afterward in the dressing room. Meantime, Baer was looking at his puffed-up nose in the mirror. "They thought I was a Hebe and now I look like one," he said.

Politics permeated the postfight analysis. The Nazis would probably claim Schmeling had been done in by international Jewry, the Times Times editorialized. In the American Jewish press, there was hope that the outcome presaged better days. With Schmeling's loss, one commentator speculated, maybe those two "gas bags," Hitler and Goebbels, would now harness their energies more usefully. "Let Hitler stop gassing and go to work," he declared. One of New York's Yiddish dailies, editorialized. In the American Jewish press, there was hope that the outcome presaged better days. With Schmeling's loss, one commentator speculated, maybe those two "gas bags," Hitler and Goebbels, would now harness their energies more usefully. "Let Hitler stop gassing and go to work," he declared. One of New York's Yiddish dailies, Der Tog, Der Tog, acknowledged its embarrassment over even caring about a prizefight. Before Hitler came to power, "who would have been interested if [Schmeling] is a German or a Tatar-and whether the boxer who beat him, Max Baer, is a Jew or a Turk?" it asked. But the Hitler crowd had changed all that, it pointed out, and so for the Jews, now facing a peril unlike any other, Baer's feat had come to symbolize Jewry's struggle against the Nazis. acknowledged its embarrassment over even caring about a prizefight. Before Hitler came to power, "who would have been interested if [Schmeling] is a German or a Tatar-and whether the boxer who beat him, Max Baer, is a Jew or a Turk?" it asked. But the Hitler crowd had changed all that, it pointed out, and so for the Jews, now facing a peril unlike any other, Baer's feat had come to symbolize Jewry's struggle against the Nazis.

Schmeling vowed to keep fighting until he became champion again, but Gallico thought his pal was washed up. So did many in Germany. "Schmeling's dream of regaining the world's championship is over," the 12 Uhr-Blatt 12 Uhr-Blatt declared. Other publications claimed Schmeling had been done in by a life of celebrity, wealth, and luxury. "A man who travels only first-class, sleeps under down covers, and eats the food of millionaires will, after a short while, no longer possess the constitution necessary to grapple with the 'roughnecks' of the American rings," said the declared. Other publications claimed Schmeling had been done in by a life of celebrity, wealth, and luxury. "A man who travels only first-class, sleeps under down covers, and eats the food of millionaires will, after a short while, no longer possess the constitution necessary to grapple with the 'roughnecks' of the American rings," said the Volkischer Beobachter. Volkischer Beobachter. Not surprisingly, the Nazi papers blamed the debacle on Jacobs-for giving Schmeling poor counsel, for letting him remain idle for too long, for having him train in excessively hot Pompton Lakes, New Jersey, rather than in a climate more congenial to a German, for steering him toward Baer rather than to an easier rubber match with Sharkey. Not surprisingly, the Nazi papers blamed the debacle on Jacobs-for giving Schmeling poor counsel, for letting him remain idle for too long, for having him train in excessively hot Pompton Lakes, New Jersey, rather than in a climate more congenial to a German, for steering him toward Baer rather than to an easier rubber match with Sharkey.

Perhaps because the boxing writers thought they were bidding him farewell, Schmeling got a rousing ovation at a lunch Jack Dempsey threw for him at Gallagher's Steak House five days after the fight. Ring Ring magazine even wrote a requiem for the Schmeling-Jacobs partnership. But when Schmeling returned to Hamburg on June 23, he insisted he would not retire. In any case, his relationship with Hitler was intact, possibly even enhanced by a new empathy, as a meeting Schmeling had subsequently with the Fuhrer revealed. "He encouraged me, and told me that he, too, had suffered setbacks," Schmeling later recalled. magazine even wrote a requiem for the Schmeling-Jacobs partnership. But when Schmeling returned to Hamburg on June 23, he insisted he would not retire. In any case, his relationship with Hitler was intact, possibly even enhanced by a new empathy, as a meeting Schmeling had subsequently with the Fuhrer revealed. "He encouraged me, and told me that he, too, had suffered setbacks," Schmeling later recalled.

The German reaction to Schmeling's loss was overshadowed by something more dramatic: news of his engagement to an actress named Anny Ondra. Ondra, born in Poland to Czech parents, had won a bit of fame abroad: Alfred Hitchcock had given her a bit part in one of his early films, The Manxman, The Manxman, then a starring role in his first talkie, then a starring role in his first talkie, Blackmail. Blackmail. Blond and perky, she was better known in Germany as a comedienne; "the female Chaplin," one newspaper called her. The pair put out several contradictory versions of their courtship; most stressed Schmeling's infatuated diffidence and Ondra's initial reluctance, usually attributed to her distaste for boxing. Some said they'd been introduced by the film director Karl Lamac; all neglected to mention that she'd been married to Lamac at the time. In the most credible version, Schmeling's friend, the Jewish boxing promoter Paul Damski, played intermediary. The two were married in July 1933, as dozens of photographers hovered nearby. Hitler sent the newlyweds a Japanese maple. Ring lore had it that marriage was very bad for a boxer, and that it took some time to get over it; in any case, Schmeling had no fights that fall. Instead, he and Jacobs went to Rome in October to see Carnera defend his title against Paolino Uzcudun. From the ring, Schmeling gave the Hitler salute to Mussolini, then to the audience, while Jacobs sat with Josef Kirmeier, a Nazi official doubling as a sports-writer. "Yussel Jacobs will be ostracized when he gets back to Lindy's," Parker predicted. Blond and perky, she was better known in Germany as a comedienne; "the female Chaplin," one newspaper called her. The pair put out several contradictory versions of their courtship; most stressed Schmeling's infatuated diffidence and Ondra's initial reluctance, usually attributed to her distaste for boxing. Some said they'd been introduced by the film director Karl Lamac; all neglected to mention that she'd been married to Lamac at the time. In the most credible version, Schmeling's friend, the Jewish boxing promoter Paul Damski, played intermediary. The two were married in July 1933, as dozens of photographers hovered nearby. Hitler sent the newlyweds a Japanese maple. Ring lore had it that marriage was very bad for a boxer, and that it took some time to get over it; in any case, Schmeling had no fights that fall. Instead, he and Jacobs went to Rome in October to see Carnera defend his title against Paolino Uzcudun. From the ring, Schmeling gave the Hitler salute to Mussolini, then to the audience, while Jacobs sat with Josef Kirmeier, a Nazi official doubling as a sports-writer. "Yussel Jacobs will be ostracized when he gets back to Lindy's," Parker predicted.

The European trip marked Jacobs's debut as Nazi Germany's most improbable propagandist. When he left New York, the odds among boxing writers there were five to one that he would not dare set foot in Germany, and initially, Jacobs later recalled, he'd been reluctant to do so. But Schmeling had assured him that all this talk of Nazi anti-Semitism was a lot of hooey, and, as it turned out, Schmeling had been absolutely right. "I got to Berlin and when I entered the Bristol they treated me like a king," Jacobs told the press when he returned. "I was treated everywhere with courtesy and consideration." From what he observed, Jews were at all the cafes and restaurants; Jewish businesses were prospering; Jews still supervised various things at the Bristol; the Jewish owner of his favorite cabaret was still packing them in. Nowhere, Jacobs said, had he been embarrassed or humiliated, nor had he been afraid to tour the nightclubs by himself, now that Schmeling was a married man. "All any Nazi ever had to do was to take one look at me to know my name wasn't Murphy," he explained, "but I got along all right. Had a grand time in fact, and even closed up a couple of spots. ... I suppose there have been tense times in Germany for the Jews, but I saw no evidence of it."

One of Fleischer's German sources speculated that the Nazis would not let Schmeling appear in the States again unless he severed his tie with Jacobs, and that he even risked losing his German property. But any hints of official unhappiness with Schmeling were quashed in late December, when, shortly before he was to leave for another trip to America, Schmeling and Ondra were invited for a "farewell tea" with Hitler in the Reich's chancellory. "The chancellor took a lively interest in Schmeling's plans," said one report. Schmeling, in turn, glowed with enthusiasm when describing the encounter, telling an American correspondent that he had been "deeply stirred by Hitler's personality." Schmeling also discussed the meeting with the sports editor of the Angriff, Angriff, Herbert Obscherningkat. As he described it, Schmeling's audience with Hitler was an eye-opening experience for someone who had strayed too far from his homeland over the past few years and had therefore underestimated its new Fuhrer, but who now saw the error of his ways. "Years ago, in America, [Schmeling] perhaps couldn't understand why thousands of German national comrades were so given over to their Fuhrer and fought for him," wrote Obscherningkat, who himself would soon be described as the "fuhrer" of the newly Nazified Berlin sports press. "He sees more clearly now that behind him stands Adolf Hitler and, with him, the German people." "It was an experience, it was the most wonderful hour of my life!" Schmeling told him. Schmeling would soon return to America, Obscherningkat went on, but now, he would no longer be out only for himself, "but also for his nation, to which he now feels more bound than ever before." And it was true that while so many of their friends and colleagues fled, Schmeling and Ondra sank their roots deeper into Germany. Exile is always a trauma, of course, but their livelihoods were uniquely mobile; Schmeling essentially made his living in the United States, while, with Hollywood filling up with emigres, Ondra clearly could have found work there. But one more thing separated Schmeling from his departing friends: his life in Nazi Germany was actually getting better. Principles aside, there was no reason to leave. Herbert Obscherningkat. As he described it, Schmeling's audience with Hitler was an eye-opening experience for someone who had strayed too far from his homeland over the past few years and had therefore underestimated its new Fuhrer, but who now saw the error of his ways. "Years ago, in America, [Schmeling] perhaps couldn't understand why thousands of German national comrades were so given over to their Fuhrer and fought for him," wrote Obscherningkat, who himself would soon be described as the "fuhrer" of the newly Nazified Berlin sports press. "He sees more clearly now that behind him stands Adolf Hitler and, with him, the German people." "It was an experience, it was the most wonderful hour of my life!" Schmeling told him. Schmeling would soon return to America, Obscherningkat went on, but now, he would no longer be out only for himself, "but also for his nation, to which he now feels more bound than ever before." And it was true that while so many of their friends and colleagues fled, Schmeling and Ondra sank their roots deeper into Germany. Exile is always a trauma, of course, but their livelihoods were uniquely mobile; Schmeling essentially made his living in the United States, while, with Hollywood filling up with emigres, Ondra clearly could have found work there. But one more thing separated Schmeling from his departing friends: his life in Nazi Germany was actually getting better. Principles aside, there was no reason to leave.

Schmeling's next scheduled fight, a bout in February 1934 against a Jewish boxer named Kingfish Levinsky in Chicago, had been called off the previous month, ostensibly because, according to the local boxing promoter, Hitler either objected to Schmeling fighting or to his being managed by a Jew. The Kingfish, another of the vaguely (and sometimes deliberately) ridiculous figures who populated prizefighting, had waxed indignant. "Say, wasn't there a lot of Jewish boys in the German army and wasn't there quite a few Jewish fellows who wrote some of those big thick books for the Germans and gave them the big high brow tone?" he asked. Levinsky even offered to fight Schmeling for nothing. Jacobs, too, was indignant. "Hitler may not want Schmeling to fight a Jew," he said, "but Hitler isn't Schmeling's manager and he isn't dictator of the boxing business." "Herr Hitler does not care who Max fights," he added, sounding, oddly, like the Fuhrer's official spokesman. "He does not have the time or inclination to bother in such things." In Berlin, Schmeling called reports of the Fuhrer's interference "absurd." "Herr Hitler advised against any break with my manager, Joe Jacobs, who is Jewish," he said. "So why should he object to Levinsky?" ("It was evident," the reporter noted, that Anny Ondra was "quite in accord" with her husband's "admiration of the chancellor." "Herr Hitler is charming," she said. "He complimented my films in the nicest way imaginable.") The more Jews he fought, "the better Hitler will like it," Schmeling told the Chicago Tribune's Chicago Tribune's Sigrid Schultz. Jacobs quickly signed up Schmeling to fight a promising young New Jersey heavyweight named Steve Hamas (pronounced HAY-mess), in Philadelphia on February 13. The Sigrid Schultz. Jacobs quickly signed up Schmeling to fight a promising young New Jersey heavyweight named Steve Hamas (pronounced HAY-mess), in Philadelphia on February 13. The 12 Uhr-Blatt 12 Uhr-Blatt accused Jacobs of making the match because he was broke; it dismissed Hamas as a second-rater unworthy of Schmeling. But the accused Jacobs of making the match because he was broke; it dismissed Hamas as a second-rater unworthy of Schmeling. But the Volkischer Beobachter Volkischer Beobachter warned Schmeling not to underestimate Hamas, a former star athlete at Penn State. "He is a football player, and what American football is, we know from the list of the dead this sport is blamed for every year," it stated. warned Schmeling not to underestimate Hamas, a former star athlete at Penn State. "He is a football player, and what American football is, we know from the list of the dead this sport is blamed for every year," it stated.

Defying the odds, Hamas bloodied up an overconfident Schmeling and won a twelve-round decision. Once again there were the instant obituaries for Schmeling, but this time, they were especially harsh. "The Schmeling we saw last night would have been a set-up for any fast moving heavyweight," wrote Ike Gellis of the New York Evening Post. New York Evening Post. "His timing gone, his style a memory-really, it was pathetic." Even the loyal Gallico, who had shouted advice to Schmeling throughout a fight he was ostensibly covering, conceded his man was through. And in America, that appeared to be the case; if Schmeling were to make a comeback now, it would have to be in Europe, something for which the Nazis had been pushing anyway. Even on his home turf, however, Schmeling's prospects appeared bleak. "Yesterday Max Schmeling was crossed off the list of leading heavyweights in the world," pronounced the "His timing gone, his style a memory-really, it was pathetic." Even the loyal Gallico, who had shouted advice to Schmeling throughout a fight he was ostensibly covering, conceded his man was through. And in America, that appeared to be the case; if Schmeling were to make a comeback now, it would have to be in Europe, something for which the Nazis had been pushing anyway. Even on his home turf, however, Schmeling's prospects appeared bleak. "Yesterday Max Schmeling was crossed off the list of leading heavyweights in the world," pronounced the 12 Uhr-Blatt. 12 Uhr-Blatt. Again, it blamed the Jew Jacobs; meeting him, it said, had been "Schmeling's great misfortune." Again, it blamed the Jew Jacobs; meeting him, it said, had been "Schmeling's great misfortune." Der Deutsche, Der Deutsche, the paper of the Nazis' pseudo-labor union, expressed schadenfreude over Schmeling's loss. Schmeling had turned his back on German boxing when he'd first gone to America, it said, leaving behind the "international Jewish swamp" that it had become, and hadn't returned home to help revive the sport once the Nazis had deloused it. The the paper of the Nazis' pseudo-labor union, expressed schadenfreude over Schmeling's loss. Schmeling had turned his back on German boxing when he'd first gone to America, it said, leaving behind the "international Jewish swamp" that it had become, and hadn't returned home to help revive the sport once the Nazis had deloused it. The Angriff, Angriff, though, praised Schmeling's fighting spirit. When he landed at Bremerhaven, only two press people showed up to greet him. Before the Nazis came to power, though, praised Schmeling's fighting spirit. When he landed at Bremerhaven, only two press people showed up to greet him. Before the Nazis came to power, Box-Sport Box-Sport lamented how Germany always lost boxers like Schmeling to America. Now, Germany had him back. lamented how Germany always lost boxers like Schmeling to America. Now, Germany had him back.

He returned to a country transformed. His friends from the Weimar days, with whom he'd spent time at the Roxy-Bar, had disappeared, to exile, concentration camps, or suicide. The same was true of Ondra's associates in the film industry, so many of whom were Jews. But boxing was more entrenched, and important, than ever. In early 1934, it had become compulsory for all boys from the ninth grade up, and younger boys were encouraged to learn it, too. And if boxing had come to permeate German life, German life (as defined by the Nazis) had continued to permeate boxing. Box-Sport Box-Sport now ventured into eugenics, lamenting the deterioration, physical and mental, of German stock, and complaining of a society encumbered by the weak and the sick. It urged the end of all state-financed medical support and aid for the "inferior"-that is, the blind, the retarded, the mentally unstable, and other incurables. Though he would normally have praised the growth of boxing anywhere, Fleischer castigated the "Mad Monkey of Germany" and his "outrageous, lunatic government." But Fleischer distanced Schmeling from all that: "Herr Hitler, the Jew Hater, can take a few lessons in true red-blooded sportsmanship" from Schmeling, he wrote. now ventured into eugenics, lamenting the deterioration, physical and mental, of German stock, and complaining of a society encumbered by the weak and the sick. It urged the end of all state-financed medical support and aid for the "inferior"-that is, the blind, the retarded, the mentally unstable, and other incurables. Though he would normally have praised the growth of boxing anywhere, Fleischer castigated the "Mad Monkey of Germany" and his "outrageous, lunatic government." But Fleischer distanced Schmeling from all that: "Herr Hitler, the Jew Hater, can take a few lessons in true red-blooded sportsmanship" from Schmeling, he wrote.

Schmeling's climb back got off to a bad start. In April 1934, after another meeting with Hitler-this one lasting at least four hours-he left for Spain to fight Paolino Uzcudun on May 13. He'd beaten Uzcudun five years earlier, but this time he could only manage a draw, even though neutral observers had Schmeling winning overwhelmingly. But Schmeling was still Germany's best boxer, its most promising hope in the international arena, and he remained in Hitler's good graces; shortly after returning to Germany, he was invited to see the Fuhrer again. When, a bit later, he was charged with a currency violation, Schmeling asked for and received yet another audience with Hitler, who fixed things for his friend.

The next stop on Schmeling's comeback trail was in Hamburg, for a fight on August 29 against Walter Neusel, who by now had returned from his brief exile. More than just a contest between Germany's two top heavyweights, this would be a celebration of the new Germany and an audition for what Germany really coveted: a heavyweight title fight. The setting would be rudimentary: a dirt track normally used for motorcycle races. But what the event lacked in elegance it would make up for in enormousness and efficiency. The Volkischer Beobachter Volkischer Beobachter bestowed upon the spectacle what was, in its eyes, the ultimate accolade: "American." bestowed upon the spectacle what was, in its eyes, the ultimate accolade: "American."

In one sense, though, the Nazis were determined to differentiate themselves from the Yankees. Sports was serious business in the new Germany, and the Nazi sports commissar, Hans von Tschammer und Osten, believed German writers weren't according it due solemnity. Or, to put it another way, they were covering it with the usual propaganda and trivia, hero worshipping and hyperbole, that American sportswriters favored. This was undignified and useless, and had to change. "Sensationalism and star worship are not befitting the National Socialist Man!" the Angriff Angriff exhorted. Coverage of athletes should not include "how they cleared their throats and how they spat, what they ate, the manner in which they deigned to go walking, what kind of family life they led, all... treated in epic breadth such that a sports report became nothing more than a primitive piece of gossip." The exhorted. Coverage of athletes should not include "how they cleared their throats and how they spat, what they ate, the manner in which they deigned to go walking, what kind of family life they led, all... treated in epic breadth such that a sports report became nothing more than a primitive piece of gossip." The Volkischer Beobachter Volkischer Beobachter urged that all talk of matchmakers, managers, promoters, and camps be eliminated; coverage should focus on the athletes themselves, "who through their honorable striving and struggle are in reality the carriers of the movement." urged that all talk of matchmakers, managers, promoters, and camps be eliminated; coverage should focus on the athletes themselves, "who through their honorable striving and struggle are in reality the carriers of the movement."

The new "stadium"-really just some seats in the open air-was completed just before the fight, and was lavishly praised in the cheerleading German press. It spouted off the statistics: with 51,000 seats and standing room for 60,000 more it was an awe-inspiring sight, unlike anything else in Europe, with parking for 20,000 cars and 20,000 bicycles. One could even make long-distance calls from special ringside phones. Some 29,000 visitors were expected for the fight; at least 21 special trains were due from all over Germany, 5 from Berlin alone, carrying 7,000 Berliners belonging to Kraft durch Freude ("Strength through Joy"), the official recreational association of Nazi Germany's sole "labor union." The fight would be a great populist celebration, with plenty of cheap seats for the working class; scalpers were to be arrested. The entire undertaking was suffused with an upstart's insecurity and boosterism. A cartoon in a Hamburg newspaper showed two skyscrapers, one with MADISON SQ. GARDEN on its marquee, the other with HAMBURGER PUNCHING. The promoter of the Hamburg fight, Walter "Wero" Rothenburg, was shown pasting a "Schmeling-Neusel" poster on the front of the second, as an envious Uncle Sam watched from the balcony of "Madison Square Garden." "Now you're speechless!" Rothenburg tells his counterpart. "We build our 'skyscrapers' by ourselves now!"*

To secure such a fight, and fighter-that is, to have enticed the great Schmeling to fight on his native soil-was deemed an important tribute to the new order, "eloquent testimony to the success of National Socialist leadership," declared the Volkischer Beobachter, Volkischer Beobachter, which also moved to build up Schmeling by denigrating his Jewish biographer. "A man capable of arousing so much true Jewish hate must certainly have character!" it said. Schmeling never disowned that sentiment, nor anything else the Nazis said about him. And this was easily understood, because most of what they now said was positive, even heroic: he was being recast into a Nazi hero-"a model of professionalism, sporting decency, and fairness," as the which also moved to build up Schmeling by denigrating his Jewish biographer. "A man capable of arousing so much true Jewish hate must certainly have character!" it said. Schmeling never disowned that sentiment, nor anything else the Nazis said about him. And this was easily understood, because most of what they now said was positive, even heroic: he was being recast into a Nazi hero-"a model of professionalism, sporting decency, and fairness," as the Volkischer Beobachter Volkischer Beobachter put it. But the Nazi newspaper also gave Schmeling some tactical advice, urging him not to fight Neusel in his typical plodding, methodical fashion. Many people who were not traditional fans were digging deeply into their pockets to attend the fight, it explained, and it would be disastrous if their first encounter with boxing, newly exalted in Nazi culture, was a dull fight. In other words, it was Schmeling's patriotic duty to change his style. put it. But the Nazi newspaper also gave Schmeling some tactical advice, urging him not to fight Neusel in his typical plodding, methodical fashion. Many people who were not traditional fans were digging deeply into their pockets to attend the fight, it explained, and it would be disastrous if their first encounter with boxing, newly exalted in Nazi culture, was a dull fight. In other words, it was Schmeling's patriotic duty to change his style.

Remarkably, over 100,000 people attended, the largest fight crowd in Germany or Europe before or since, and a number that outstripped all American boxing crowds except those for the two Dempsey-Tunney bouts. The Angriff Angriff proclaimed "a frenzy of boxing enthusiasm, the likes of which one never imagined was possible for us." In so supercharged a setting, it would have been anticlimactic if Schmeling, too, had not been reborn, and in the ninth round he scored a technical knockout. His comeback had begun. As Schmeling left the ring, fans chanted his name. The proclaimed "a frenzy of boxing enthusiasm, the likes of which one never imagined was possible for us." In so supercharged a setting, it would have been anticlimactic if Schmeling, too, had not been reborn, and in the ninth round he scored a technical knockout. His comeback had begun. As Schmeling left the ring, fans chanted his name. The Berliner Zeitung am Mittag Berliner Zeitung am Mittag devoted more of its front page to the fight the next day than to Hitler's speech in the Saarland. devoted more of its front page to the fight the next day than to Hitler's speech in the Saarland.

Both boxers had Jewish managers (Neusel's was Paul Damski), and neither could work in his man's corner that night. But while Damski, who had once done business in Germany, had been banned from the country, Jacobs was at least let in, again suggesting the special treatment he enjoyed. Fearing the Nazis would subject him to the kind of terror he'd once suffered at the hands of the Klan, Jacobs had reportedly agonized over whether to go. But he was not about to pass up the chance to bask in Schmeling's glory, no matter the humiliation or risk. And besides, the free-spending Jacobs always welcomed the chance to escape from his creditors, even-it seemed-if it meant going to Nazi Germany. Not since the days of Dempsey, he wrote upon returning to New York, had he seen such excitement over boxing: riding with Schmeling through the teeming streets of Hamburg afterward, Jacobs said that every window in their car was smashed by the adoring crowds. He also marveled at German orderliness. "I expected Max to win decisively, but I didn't expect 100,000 people to respect authority to the point where they needed no official to keep them in their proper seats," he wrote. (The crowd's docility was all the more noteworthy because the seats were rock hard, and many offered only an obscured view of the action.) Once more, Jacobs insisted he'd been treated well in Germany. So extravagant was his praise, in fact, that it even prompted the German press to belatedly acknowledge he'd been there. In his memoirs, Schmeling wrote that he stood publicly by Jacobs and that when the Hotel Bristol in Berlin refused to give Yussel a room, he threatened to go public with its bad behavior. (Why that would have alarmed the hotel, given official attitudes toward the Jews, is unclear.) Whatever induced Schmeling to keep Jacobs on impressed people like Kurt Tucholsky, the anti-Nazi writer who was to commit suicide in Swedish exile a year later; he described Schmeling's treatment of Jacobs as "very decent indeed." But Tucholsky probably did not know that Jacobs no longer represented Schmeling in Germany and collected nothing from his fights there.

That the Neusel fight had come off so beautifully was, to the Nazi press, proof positive that Germany now counted, in boxing and beyond. But if the Germans had pulled off something of American proportions, they had done so without all that American vulgarity or sensationalism; while the American fight mob was a mob, the German one was a community of patriots. Schmeling basked in the adulation; a week later he was in Nuremberg for the annual Nazi Party congress, and he was greeted warmly wherever he appeared. While never mouthing explicitly Nazi rhetoric, he participated in other rituals: as newsreel cameras filmed the scene, Schmeling, along with Ondra, Leni Riefenstahl, and others, collected funds for one of the Nazis' favorite charities, the Winterhilfswerk, or Winter Relief Fund. So close did Hitler become to Ondra that his mistress, Eva Braun, apparently grew jealous; once, according to Braun's diary, the Fuhrer kept her waiting three hours outside a hotel while taking Ondra flowers and inviting her to supper.