he old man smiled and told me with his shaking hands to fold up my torn bus schedule. He pointed to his watch, gave me a tug on the arm, and led me to a bar across the tree-lined street as we dodged the trams. We sat at a small round table, still wet from the last patron’s spill, and he ordered in German with two raised fingers, and a gesture to his new friend. Two drafts were set on coasters emblazoned with Diekirch Reserve, and I accepted his offer of a darkly wrapped cigarette. He blew smoke in no particular direction and asked "futball, eh? American futball?" He made an overhand motion with his arm and said "futball" again, always smiling. I lit my cigarette and tried to explain the sport. It didn’t go well, so I fell back to poking fun at his country’s pastime. "Your football, soccer?" I countered, as I played with an invisible ball bouncing off my head. The couple at the next table giggled and the old man nodded gracefully in defeat.

We touched awkwardly on what I was studying and on my German travels; on the virtues of European cafes, and the failure of American beer. Being a history major, my curiosity got the better of me. "The war. Were you in the war?" He kept smiling, not finding any meaning in my words. I took out a pen and wrote on a napkin "1939-1945," and slid it across the wet table. He looked down, then away, and then looked at me with a small shrug of his shoulders, as though he didn’t understand. I made some stupid gestures of bombs dropping and said "boom, boom." He looked away, at nothing again, and then looked back gravely into my eyes.

"Friends, eh? he asked, looking for reassurance.

"Yes. Of course," I implored, but I wasn’t going to take his hint. I had struck on something, and the mystery of the old man was too great. I continued to push. He shook his head, not in the sense of "no, I wasn’t there," but "no, please, don’t take me back there."

He finished his Diekirch and dropped some marks on the table. Giving me a weak smile he stood, patted my back, almost in apology, and walked quickly out the door. I downed my draft, and when I placed the glass on the coaster I noticed my scrawl on the napkin, the years dissolving in a blur from the beer soaked table. I jumped up and followed. I called to him. He stopped a few meters ahead and turned, looking slightly puzzled.

"Friends, eh? Friends?" he pleaded.

"Yes. Friends now."

He turned and walked to the bus stop.

Copyright © 2000 Jeffrey N. Johnson