Chap­ter 20: The Antes House begins with an annu­al tra­di­tion drenched in irony and con­tra­dic­tion. What appeared to be a grand cel­e­bra­tion of local her­itage was, at its core, a parade of contradictions—where brass instru­ments blared for a for­got­ten com­pos­er and flags flut­tered over a build­ing more often used as a back-alley dive than a his­tor­i­cal mon­u­ment. The John Antes His­tor­i­cal Soci­ety and Pottstown’s city coun­cil observed Memo­r­i­al Day with feigned rev­er­ence and the­atri­cal rit­u­als, while res­i­dents gorged on sausages and beer. But under­neath the rev­el­ry lay hypocrisy. The Antes House, glo­ri­fied once a year as a shrine to patri­o­tism, spent the oth­er 364 days as a hid­ing spot, hang­out, and refuge for Pottstown’s out­casts. The tem­po­rary trans­for­ma­tion of the prop­er­ty, scrubbed and paint­ed for the occa­sion, was a des­per­ate attempt to pre­serve the illu­sion of nobil­i­ty. But his­to­ry, espe­cial­ly Amer­i­can his­to­ry, doesn’t scrub clean that easily—it’s lay­ered with blood, prej­u­dice, and uncom­fort­able truths no parade can ful­ly con­ceal.

Gus Plitz­ka sat through the cer­e­monies more out of oblig­a­tion than pride, hid­ing a throb­bing toe and a gnaw­ing anx­i­ety far greater than phys­i­cal pain. He had recent­ly tak­en over Clover Dairy and was bur­dened with a $1,400 debt owed to a Philadel­phia gang­ster named Nig Rosen—an arrange­ment that spi­raled into extor­tion. Gus’s fear grew with each pass­ing day, know­ing the loan shark’s men had already made appear­ances at his office. Every uni­formed trum­pet blast in the parade was over­shad­owed by the fear that a dif­fer­ent kind of uniform—dark suits and hard faces—might be wait­ing at his door. Amid the march­ing and speech­es, he searched for a quick fix to his swollen toe, cor­ner­ing Doc Roberts, an old rival, for a diag­no­sis. Their mutu­al dis­dain lin­gered, a rel­ic of past polit­i­cal slights and eth­nic ten­sions between old-line fam­i­lies and new-mon­ey immi­grants. Still, des­per­a­tion made allies of enemies—at least temporarily—and Doc reluc­tant­ly agreed to check on his foot lat­er that day.

Doc, though pos­tur­ing as indif­fer­ent, was unrav­el­ing beneath the sur­face. Ever since the death of Chona, a local woman shroud­ed in mys­tery and accu­sa­tion, he had been car­ry­ing a heavy weight. A mezuzah, which had some­how end­ed up in his pock­et, remind­ed him of her and the chaos that fol­lowed her death. His plan to leave it qui­et­ly near Chick­en Hill sym­bol­ized his guilt and the fear of being con­nect­ed to some­thing that might not have been ful­ly acci­den­tal. Pottstown whis­pered with rumors, and Doc sus­pect­ed they all point­ed to him. The parade, meant to hon­or free­dom and tra­di­tion, instead became a stage for unease and unre­solved tension—between white lead­ers and Black res­i­dents, between mem­o­ry and for­get­ting, between Doc’s past and the silence press­ing in on him. The crowd shift­ed. New faces walked by. Doc noticed. So did Gus, who mut­tered racist slurs with­out restraint, reveal­ing the true spir­it beneath the cer­e­mo­ni­al uni­forms.

Their con­ver­sa­tion teetered between veiled threats and mutu­al sus­pi­cion. When Gus probed Doc about the “Jew­ess,” Doc tried to appear unfazed, though every word land­ed like a ham­mer on his nerves. The men­tion of rumors, of what peo­ple might be say­ing, was a not-so-sub­tle accu­sa­tion. Doc deflect­ed with care­ful­ly cho­sen words, cling­ing to the offi­cial nar­ra­tive of a seizure, a fright­ened boy, and a trag­ic mis­un­der­stand­ing. But Gus wasn’t sat­is­fied, and his part­ing com­ments stung: there were no wit­ness­es to con­firm Doc’s sto­ry, and the whis­pers in town weren’t going away. The old polit­i­cal rival now held pow­er over him—not just with votes or coun­cil deci­sions, but with secrets. Doc’s care­ful, com­posed world was unrav­el­ing in the shad­ow of the Antes House, and even the town’s attempt to pre­serve its myth­ic past couldn’t dis­guise the rot creep­ing in from beneath.

Behind the spec­ta­cle and speech­es, this chap­ter reveals how small-town pow­er operates—not through jus­tice or lega­cy, but through alliances, secrets, and fear. Both Plitz­ka and Doc car­ry his­to­ries of con­trol and com­pro­mise, each try­ing to pro­tect what they’ve built, even if it means rewrit­ing or ignor­ing truth. The Antes House, a crum­bling rel­ic of rev­o­lu­tion­ary pride, becomes a per­fect metaphor for this decay. Its façade is pol­ished once a year to dis­tract from its actu­al use: a gath­er­ing point for those pushed to the mar­gins. And beneath the sur­face, Pottstown is shift­ing. African Amer­i­can res­i­dents grow more vis­i­ble, their pres­ence stir­ring old prej­u­dices. But their glances, their qui­et walks up Chick­en Hill, speak vol­umes. They’ve noticed. They remem­ber. And even with­out a parade, they car­ry their own history—one not etched in plaques but passed through sur­vival and strength.

This chap­ter illus­trates how pub­lic rit­u­als often mask pri­vate ten­sions. While flags wave and cor­nets sound, men like Plitz­ka fear the con­se­quences of their deci­sions, and men like Doc wres­tle with guilt cloaked in silence. Amer­i­can his­to­ry, cel­e­brat­ed with fan­fare in front of the Antes House, is revealed here as some­thing far more complex—layered with exploita­tion, denial, and the des­per­ate need to appear hon­or­able while bury­ing the truth. And still, the town march­es on. The parade con­tin­ues. But not every­one claps. Some watch. Some wait. And some remem­ber what oth­ers would rather for­get.