Summary: On the eve of WWII, America and Nazi Germany began a ruthless proxy battle over national superiority in the form of a boxing match, forcing America to ask what it means to represent his country. Historical Characters. No Pairings.
Rating: T for dark themes (war, racial and religious bigotry, and Nazism).
A cotton field near Lafayette, Alabama. 1926.
What did it mean to be a national personification?
Did he represent only what was great about his nation, or did he embody his country in all its gory, complicated details?
America had asked himself that question once before, when the hell of his civil war made him choose between the Union and the Confederacy. Although he fought on the side of the blue uniforms (why did it seem like he was always dressed in blue as his heart tore in two?), he knew that he was still the United States of America. He loved all of his people, even when they fought each other. The war left terrible scars that continued to fester, but America learned to plaster over the pain with a gilded age as he became a rising power.
In the midst of the roaring twenties, after the swing dancing and smuggled booze lost their luster, he had decided to visit the rural fields of Alabama, seeking to remember the injustice that so many of his citizens wanted to forget. And in the hollow faces of the black children working in sharecropper fields, he could see the battle still being fought. It was easy to forget in the speak easies. To remember, he had to come and see for himself.
America stretched out in a patch of weeds near the edge of the field and compared the fluffy balls of cotton to the clouds in the sky. They both looked soft and inviting, but he knew from personal experience that the clouds in the sky were nothing more than moisture and the cotton plants had a number of prickly thorns. He plucked a piece of cotton from the closest plant and rubbed it between his fingers. So soft, and yet the cause of so much misery because it had to be picked by hand. He compared himself to the clouds and the cotton, and concluded that none of them were what they seemed.
America sat up, startling a nearby child.
He grinned and the kid relaxed. If nothing else, at least being a national personification gave him the automatic trust of all of his citizens. He apologized in a soft southern drawl and asked the child's name. Soon he knew Joe's entire life story. Joe's grandparents were former slaves and he'd been born in 1914 as the seventh of eight children. His father was committed to a mental institution when he was two. A few years later, they heard news of his father's death and his mother remarried. His family was heading north soon, fleeing the masked klansmen and hoping for a better life in Detroit.
The blond nation felt his stomach clench, the way it always did when he heard news of the klansmen terrorizing their fellow citizens.
Joe asked Alfred why he was sitting in a cotton field on a warm summer day, just staring at the sky. America shrugged apologetically, knowing that he'd never be able to explain the full truth of it. Only another nation would be able to understand and America had never been willing to bear his deepest national shame to another country.
"I'm trying to remember something important," he said.
"And did you?" Joe asked.
"For now," America replied as he waved goodbye.
"These dark days will be worth all they cost us if they teach us that our true destiny is not to be ministered unto but to minister to ourselves and to our fellow men."
– President Franklin Delano Roosevelt, First Inaugural Address, 1933.
America lost sight of his citizens' individual struggles as the Great Depression brought him to his knees. Like many of his people, he looked for a diversion to forget the national malaise and he found one in the sport of boxing. Watching two men duke it out in a ring, he could forget the aches and pains of the Great Depression. America celebrated his birthday in Chicago in 1934 with fireworks and a boxing match. He recognized the young man he had met in a cotton field more than a decade prior and smiled at the thought that the child had found success. It was the first time he saw the boxer Joe Louis win a knock-out victory. It wouldn't be the last.
Joe Louis won more victories, soon earning himself the name of the "Brown Bomber" and the title of heavyweight boxing champion of the world. With his victories came national prestige and international attention.
Before they fired guns, before they dug trenches, before they had even declared war, America and Nazi Germany began a ruthless proxy battle over national superiority in the form of a boxing match between Joe Louis and the German boxer Max Schmeling.
In June 1936, Schmeling eked out a surprise victory over Louis, which the Nazi press characterized as proof of Aryan superiority. Eager to reclaim his mantle as boxing champion, Louis challenged Schmeling to a rematch in 1938. The papers called it the "Fight of the Century," although the real fight of the century wouldn't begin for another year…
America read each newspaper article that breathlessly praised Louis even as it demonized Schmeling, accusing him of being a Nazi supporter. Alfred knew that Louis would win because he was American and America was the best. He pulled strings to get front-row tickets to the match and he suggested that the President invite the American boxer to dinner. To his surprise, the President agreed.
"I knew I had to get Schmeling good. I had my own personal reasons and the whole damned country was depending on me." – Joe Louis.
Washington, D.C. – June 1938.
Joe Louis didn't know what he had expected when he agreed to dine at the White House before his big match, but the bouncing blonde teenager seated across from him was certainly not part of any possible scenario he had contemplated.
President Roosevelt barely had time to introduce the young man as "Alfred Jones, my nephew and a very dedicated fan of yours," before the boy interrupted the president with a non-stop barrage of words.
"The biggest fan!" Alfred exclaimed, grinning widely and almost knocking over his glass of soda in his excitement. He continued without noticing the near miss, "I was there for the 1936 match, and I hope you wallop him good this time. We're really counting on you to stand up for America, you know? Show them Nazis that they can't push Americans around. I would put all of my money on you, except Uncle Roosevelt here says I'm too young for gambling." The President only smiled indulgently, leading Joe to believe that interruptions and non-stop chatter were a common occurrence around Alfred.
"I'm thinking of becoming a boxer myself," Alfred added.
"Well, if you toss out punches the way you toss out words, I'd say you got the makings of a great fighter," Joe replied, earning a quiet chuckle from the President.
"I am a fighter, not a politician. I am no superman in any way." – Max Schmeling.
New York City - June 22, 1938.
Seventy thousand fans filled Yankee Stadium, creating a dull roar of sound that reached Max Schmeling's ears despite the heavy doors separating his locker room from the main arena. He sat alone in the cold room, mentally preparing himself for the upcoming boxing match and wishing once again that his manager could have joined him. The Nazi party had tried to convince him to fire his Jewish manager for years, but Schmeling had always refused. He was proud to be German, but lately, his government's actions had gone too far.
The sound of a door opening distracted Max from his thoughts. He looked up, expecting to see an attendant ready to lead him outside for the match. Instead, he saw a smiling blonde teenager wearing jeans and a leather bomber jacket. Max eyed him warily, suspecting that the teenager was some fan who had bribed his way into the locker room. He certainly looked like he might be German or at least German-American, with his blonde hair and bright blue eyes.
"Are you looking for an autograph?" Max asked with a heavy German accent. Given his reception as he entered Yankee Stadium—the Americans had actually thrown cigarette butts as he walked through the doors—it was nice to think he had at least one supporter in the crowd, even if the supporter was the type to circumvent security.
"Actually, I was hoping I could offer you something," the blonde replied, maintaining his smile all the while. He leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially, "I heard rumors you're lookin' to defect and I want you to know that I can help you."
Max tensed, suspecting that this was another attempt by the Party to test his loyalty. They had already made it clear that they didn't trust him. They put a Nazi loyalist in charge of his publicity and refused to allow his wife to accompany him. The publicist had even claimed that if Max won, he would give the purse to the Party to help build tanks for the coming war. "I'm not interested," he replied tersely. Even if it wasn't a trap, there wasn't much an American teenager could do to help him.
"Of course you are. Everyone wants to live in America," the stranger replied cheerfully. He spent the next few minutes extolling the many virtues of America ranging from its "snazzy national parks, I mean, Yellowstone has these geysers that explode like clockwork" to its "cool cities filled with all kinds of delicious food from all around the world." He concluded by noting that America was the birthplace of Coca-Cola, "the best drink ever," as if carbonated beverages were the highest standard for national excellence.
Max snorted. The young man was ridiculously guileless—he clearly didn't spend any time thinking before words left his mouth. But at the same time there was something magnetic about his personality, something that invited trust and easy confidences. Max decided that it probably wasn't a trap, but the kid was still an idiot if he thought he had any real power. He was probably just some politician's spoiled son. At least that would explain his love affair with America.
"What is your name, kid?" Max asked.
"You can call me Alfred F. Jones, but I want you to think of me as a representative of the United States of America," the blonde said with a wink and a cocky grin. He stuck out a hand and Max responded by grasping it in a tight handshake. They tested each other's strength as they shook hands and Max realized that Alfred had a surprisingly strong grip despite his relative youth. He looked at the blonde teenager with a new measure of respect.
"Well, Alfred, you should know that I'm proud to be a German and I have no intention of leaving my country." Max caught the American's gaze and held it. He had asked himself many times if he should defect and he had always reached the same conclusion. He wasn't going to let a mere child come into his locker room and attempt to lecture him on morality. Despite the stereotypes about boxers, he was not a stupid man.
"Have you ever wanted to stop being American?" he challenged. "Think of your Jim Crow laws and your lynchings. You hold up Joe Louis as your champion, but you don't let him use the same fountain or schools. And you should know that Hitler borrowed his ideas on eugenics from American academics and politicians."
Alfred's smile dropped and he sucked in a breath. "I hate that kinda stuff… but I couldn't stop being American any more than I could cut off my arm."
Max looked him squarely in the eye. "Then you know how I feel."
Alfred smiled, but it was a sadder, more wistful smile, as if he too understood the harsh reality of being forced to make difficult choices. For a second he looked much older than his apparent age, but the moment quickly passed. He lifted up his hands in a gesture of acquiescence. "Okay, I get it. I hope you have a good match, but I'm rooting for the other guy. Gotta support the home team, y'know. You seem like a decent guy, so if you ever change your mind, Lady Liberty's arms are always open."
Alfred walked toward the door, preparing to leave, but it opened before he could reach it. The man who entered was also blonde and blue-eyed, although slightly older than Alfred and wearing a German military outfit. Max recognized him as one of the German officers who traveled with him, even though he had no idea what the man did. The German closed the door behind him and glared at Alfred.
"You shouldn't be here, Alfred," the man said disapprovingly.
"Hey Luddy, I was wondering when you would show up," Alfred replied casually. "You know, I was thinking we should have a boxing match ourselves."
"We will have a chance to test our strength soon enough and it will not be a game," Ludwig replied harshly.
"Geez, Ludwig, you're always so serious. I'd blame the Nazis, but you've been that way forever," said Alfred with a cruel smirk, all traces of the carefree teen Max had spoken with completely gone. "Did you decide to drag Roderich along for the match, or do you still have him caged up at your house?"
"Get out," Ludwig ordered through gritted teeth.
Alfred placed his hand on the door, but turned back for one last parting shot. "We both know it's coming, Ludwig. But I know why you're going to lose. Because the hero always wins." He strode out, laughing loudly.
Joe Louis won with a knock-out in the first round. People across the United States cheered the victory of an African-American boxer over a German boxer, treating it as a victory over the Nazi party itself. And none celebrated more than America himself.
Noisy, dancing crowds filled Harlem, Chicago, Detroit, and other cities across the nation. Bands left the nightclubs and bars and played out on the streets. The whole area was filled with celebration, noise, and saxophones, continuously punctuated by the shouting of Joe Louis' name.
America joined the celebrations, smiling and laughing with his people. Joe Louis had won the match because democracy was better than Nazism. And America was going to win the war for the same reason.
"There are a lot of things wrong with America, but Hitler ain't gonna fix them." – Joe Louis.
Louis and Schmeling eventually fought again—this time on opposite sides of World War II. When the United States finally went to war in 1941, Louis enlisted in the Army. The army brass decided that his star power would be best used to boost troop morale with exhibition matches. He fought nearly a hundred matches in front of more than two million troops.
Schmeling continued publicly resisting the Nazi Party, leading Hitler to finally draft him into paratrooper duty in the German Luftwaffe.
They both survived the war.
"The atom bomb was no 'great decision.' It was merely another powerful weapon in the arsenal of righteousness." – President Harry S Truman.
A Desert near Death Valley, California – November 1945
After landing his personal aircraft at the airport in Independence, California, Germany walked the mile to the location listed on the note in his hand. He hadn't spoken to America at the Nuremburg trials, but America had passed him a piece of paper with a date, time, and location. It gave no explanation other than the words "Come and see."
Germany had been distracted by his own problems since the end of the war, but even he had noticed the subtle changes in America's demeanor since August. The North American nation still laughed and smiled, but his smiles looked brittle and his laughs rang false. They all knew that with his atomic weapons, he had created a new world order—one with America on top.
The Sierra Nevada mountain range towered above him to the east, the only visual marker in the otherwise brown and barren plain. Germany found his fellow blond nation outside a fence at a military encampment. It looked deserted.
"Are we supposed to be here?" Germany asked as he came within speaking distance.
America shrugged. "I can do what I want, I'm a free country."
He climbed over the fence and beckoned for Germany to follow. Germany sighed and complied. He knew that in the horrible aftermath of the war, he was going to depend heavily on America's generosity. Prussia was obnoxious, but not one deserved to be trapped in Russia's house.
"Why did you ask me to come here?" Germany asked as they walked silently through the camp. He frowned, still not understanding the purpose of his visit. From the scattered personal belongings he was starting to believe that this camp had held civilians.
America confirmed Germany's suspicions with his next words. "This is one of my Japanese Relocation camps. But they should have called it what it is—a concentration camp. Looks familiar, don't it?" He laughed harshly.
"Ja," Ludwig agreed, turning around slowly so he could see the whole camp. The buildings and the fence looked familiar, but they didn't bring the immediate rush of pain that he felt at his own camps.
America picked up a doll some child had left behind in her rush to leave at the end of the war. Germany shivered as he remembered the piles of children's shoes outside the gas chambers. The younger nation continued to gaze at the doll as he spoke. "If you guys had won, we'd be the ones facing the tribunals. But you didn't. So we'll force you to remember, and let ourselves forget."
He gestured at the abandoned buildings. "They're going to tear it down soon. Pretend it never existed. And when it's gone…."
America didn't finish the sentence, but Germany knew as well as any nation that they never remembered what their people chose to forget. It was their blessing and their curse. Germany stared at the empty buildings and imagined his own camps. He'd lied to himself during the war and pretended that the ones they were killing hadn't been his people. That they hadn't been real Germans. But even then, he'd known that they were every bit as German as he was and that he'd been killing a part of himself each day.
America set the doll on a window sill, where it would be protected from the wind, at least until they tore down the buildings. "I don't blame you, Germany. None of us can control what our citizens want. But I find it helps to remember the ones who fought back and didn't stay silent."
Germany glanced at the younger nation in surprise. He had spoken with all of the Western allies after the war. England had cussed him out (mein gott, that country had a mouth like a sailor), France had hit him with a stick (while he was still reeling from England's verbal abuse), and Russia had just stared at him with a creepy smile. He'd never expected brash, narcissistic America to be the one to attempt to offer comforting words that he didn't deserve.
"I will remember," Germany promised, finally understanding why America had asked him to come see a soon-to-be-destroyed camp in this barren desert. If he could do nothing else, Germany would carry the memory of all the internment camps so that it would never happen again.
They stood in silence. Germany had never been the expressive sort and although he could think of a number of things to say ('At least you didn't kill your citizens' 'The bomb was a necessary evil' 'War makes monsters of us all') none of them seemed right. Coming to terms with the past was never an easy task, made more difficult by the fickle nature of national memory.
As Germany turned to leave, America called out, "Ludwig, the next time you see Kiku… can you tell him that I hope we can be friends again some day?"
"Looking back, I'm almost happy I lost that fight. Just imagine if I would have come back to Germany with a victory. I had nothing to do with the Nazis, but they would have given me a medal. After the war I might have been considered a war criminal." – Max Schmeling.
Schmeling ended his boxing career and began working for the German Coca-Cola offices. In time, he was recognized for his bravery in hiding two Jewish boys in his apartment during Kristallnacht.
Arlington National Cemetery – April 1981
When Joe Louis died, the president waived the technical requirements for burial at Arlington and gave him a service with full military honors. Max Schmeling served as a pallbearer, having become friends with Louis after the war.
America watched as hundreds of people paid their respects. Even though drugs and debt had taken their toll on Louis in his later years, the country still remembered the boxer for his stirring victory in the dark days before World War II and his service during the war. America remembered him as the child hoping for a better life in an Alabama cotton field, the young man earning his first boxing victory in Chicago, and as a man at the height of his career winning a victory for America in New York.
After the last mourner left, America approached the tombstone with a bas-relief of the famous boxer and the inscription "The Brown Bomber." He laid a wreath of red poppies near all of the other flowers and said softly:
"You were America, too."
Author's Notes
I read about this boxing match and I knew I had to write a hetalia story about it. It was so interesting to me because both sides could really be seen as representing the best of their nation. I also feel that historical APH stories tend to gloss over a lot of racial and religious bigotry (but at least we know how to deal with homophobia!). I've tried to make the quotes and historical facts reasonably accurate.
If the storage cleaning strips are any indication, I think that America is capable of introspection, but it seems that he needs to actually see the items to remember. Otherwise, he is very good at forgetting.
Historical notes:
The United States began offering $20,000 in reparations to the survivors of the Japanese internment camps in 1988. The President also issued a formal apology on December 7, 1991, the 50th anniversary of the attack on Pearl Harbor: "In remembering, it is important to come to grips with the past. No nation can fully understand itself or find its place in the world if it does not look with clear eyes at all the glories and disgraces of its past."
In 2008, the U.S. House of Representatives formally apologized for slavery. The Senate apologized one year later. Neither apology included reparations.
Manzanar is now a national historical site and the most famous of the ten Japanese internment camps. Hundreds of people visit on a yearly pilgrimage in April.
And now I'll head back to writing my usual romantic fluff...