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SACHSEN-ANHALT, GERMANY Just Enough to Be Dangerous
The men, hunkered down in the corner with their cups of coffee, eyed the new customer suspiciously. The bakery was a small neighborhood business, and the two of them didn't particularly like newcomers. They had been coming to the bakery for over three years during the wintertime, and the woman who worked the counter always gave them free coffee to get them going in the morning. They were of the official 20% unemployed in the Sachsen-Anhalt Bundestadt of Deutschland, one of the former East German states. Nowadays in these parts, the fall of The Wall was seen as more bad than good. The new customer, 30ish and just shy of stocky, looked at the baked goods, especially the wide variety of cakes that were fresh and savory. He felt the eyes of the lean, wiry men on him but ignored it. Instead, he gave the woman a "Guten Tag" and continued looking at the Pannenkuchen. The men's suspicions were piqued and they leaned toward the counter to hear better. The accent was definitely not Sachsen. They suspected it wasn't even German. They looked at each other in confirmation and then back at the new customer. This time, the new customer regarded them calmly. They glowered back at him. Frank looked back at the woman behind the counter. She hadn't returned his greeting. "Eine Stadt Brot, bitte," said Frank. "A city bread, please." He thought he might have made a grammar mistake in ordering, but didn't know what it was. The woman reached up on the rack behind her and took down one of the dense, round loaves. She placed it in a paper bag and said, "1.99 Euro." Like all Germans, she pronounced the "Euro" like Oylo. Oddly, she didn't include the word "bitte," "please," at the end of the sentence, which is customary for shopkeepers in all of Germany. Meanwhile, the grammar mistakes and the sporty attire had convinced the men that the newcomer was American. And even though they were too young to be of the generation that was greatly affected by the reduction and rebuilding of their society during the Second World War, they still harbored misgivings about Amerikaner. They stood up, gulped down their coffee and placed their cups on the counter, never taking their eyes off the newcomer. Frank felt their suspicion. He had always been astute at body language, but since coming to Europe a few years before, he had become even better. He placed his money on the counter in the plastic money tray, which was between himself and the men. The woman placed his penny in change not in the money tray, but on the glass countertop close to the men. She again failed to say "bitte." Frank looked at her as he put his gloves on. "Deine," he said. It would have been better to use "Ihren," the proper and polite form of saying "Yours" when addressing strangers, but he wasn't about to be rude politely. He picked up the bread from the counter and looked at the men who were now turned and facing him from the corner. The man on the left spoke in German. "You're American, aren't you?" "Nein, Ich bin Tsechische." "No, I'm Czech," he lied. "You sound American." "Meine Frau ist Amerikanishe." They narrowed their eyes in disbelief. "Your president is an ass, and he is making a mess of the world. Why does he want to make war? There is no sense in fighting; there is never any sense in fighting." The shopkeeper looked nervously at the newcomer. She agreed with her compatriot, but didn't like his tough talk. She had seen the two men fight before - over nothing - and she didn't want it happening in her store. Frank, meanwhile, had only understood the words "president, war, and fighting." He thought the men were saying that they wanted to fight, and he felt himself tense up. Ok, he thought to himself, first talk like a diplomat, then talk tough. If that fails, fight hard. That system had gotten him out of many fights before. The Germans didn't look tough to Frank. They were medium-sized, and had looks of uncertainty and questioning on their faces. Frank searched his brain for any German that might be of use and found only "That's not my problem." "It is so your problem, it's all of our problem, and when the fighting starts, it will be even worse for you, being married to an American." Frank understood the man to say, "It's your problem, and we're going to fight and it will be bad for you and your American wife." He had heard enough. He put down the bread and faced them. He thought they were going to come at him at any second and he had never fought two men before. He thought about the Swiss Army knife in his pocket, and how he might hold it in his fist to make it harder, like holding a roll of quarters. But for now, he put up his hands and said, "I don't want to fight you." The men blinked at him and said, "Who said anything about fighting? We are talking about war! War and your president! We don't want to fight, and we don't want your president to fight!" Frank blinked at the man. He understood all of the last sentence. The men didn't want to fight. He looked at the shopkeeper. She looked back at him anxiously. He looked back at the men and noticed they hadn't stepped toward him as he had thought they had. They were still in the corner. He stood there for a moment not knowing what to do. Just then the door opened, ringing the chimes that hung over it. Frank looked over his shoulder at the door and saw a young girl and her mother coming in. He turned back and looked at the men, then picked up his bread. He stood aside for the mother and young girl, and walked out the door. Even though he lived right across the street, he walked around the block to make sure he wasn't followed. 
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