Authenticity Builds our Relationship with Historical Fiction Characters

Authenticity in historical fiction transports us beyond when and where. Authenticity lets us meet the characters. When we read genuine characters, we open ourselves and want to share their fears, their kindness and their wickedness. We gain relationship. In writing Newark Minutemen with my 90 year old Mom, our goal was to send the reader back to the Great Depression. Together, we relived the smells, the tastes and the touches. But most importantly, we relived the "who."

Here's a sample:

"On the trolley toward the docks, I clutch the suitcase between my legs so it won’t bounce. The window is frosty, but I can see Prince Street of the Third Ward where we used to live. Carts begin to line the curbs next to the shops. Pop says in this part of town they still don’t have hot water upstairs in the apartments like we do.

We pass the live poultry market where I often shop with Mama to buy chicken for Friday dinners. When we’re at the market, Ma sticks her hand in the cage and picks the chicken with the most fat on the bottom. The butcher chops it’s head off and plucks the feathers. My oldest brother Marty can’t stand all the blood splattered in the sawdust, but it doesn’t bother me.

The trolley clacks past dry goods stores, soda fountain shops, movie houses, bakeries, breweries and synagogues. We stop for passengers. As bodies pack the trolley, the accents of Russians, Irish, Germans and Italians collide. I can’t help but breathe in the hodgepodge of baked bread mixed with freshly gutted fish. Last week, I picked out a fish at the market. My ma smelled the gills and made me throw it back into the tank. Mama drives the butcher crazy. She embarrasses me when she makes him clean out the meat grinder every time. Still, he admires her.

I draw a triangle on the frosty window with the finger that sticks out of my glove and wipe away the film inside the shape. Through the cleared glass, I spot men waitin’ in the soup lines. Their knees judder against their baggy clothes like a car engine without enough fuel. Jobs are rare these days. My father and uncles are lucky. They’re bootleggers for Longie Zwillman. Pop calls Longie the King of the Jewish mob. Pop makes good money at the docks where runner boats drop booze. That’s illegal. The cops don’t bother him though, because Longie takes care of everyone. With my finger, I add an upside-down triangle to make a star.

Just as I arrive at the foggy Newark bay docks, an old war truck swerves around me. “This ain’t a place for a kid!” the gunman hangin’ off the side yells at me. The curlin’ fog reminds me of ghosts clawin’ for my throat. Through it, it’s hard to spot any ship riggin’. I can only see the tips of bouncin’ bows. I balance myself along a braided boat line that guides me down the dock toward Pop’s runner boat at the end of the pier. I swing the suitcase to pitch me forward. As I near the boat, the mist shifts just enough for me to see my tall father. Next to him another man scratches the red stubble across his face. They’re securing ropes over the side of their boat.

When Pop opens a thermos and fills two cups, I’m close enough to sniff the roasted coffee, but he still doesn’t know I’m here. The opportunity is too good to pass. I smile to myself and spring into the boat, landin’ with a bang. Pop and the man swing around with guns aimed at my head. I dodge the flyin’ coffee just in time.

“Drek!” Pop curses. “Yael Newman! You know better than that.” He and his mate tuck the guns back under their shirts into their waistbands. Red-faced, he won’t look at me.

With my heart in my throat, I try to break the ice. “You forgot your clothes-bag, Pop. I brought it for ya.” I hold his scuffed suitcase high like a trophy. My brother’s sweater swings across my knees.