Mr Dietrich

One afternoon my dad was standing out in our front yard watering the lawn when one of our new neighbors Mrs. Dietrich came out through their gate to put out the garbage can for collection day.

And they struck up a conversation. That's when my dad found out Mr. Dietrich was a chess player. It was a lifelong hobby of his and he still enjoyed it, even though he hardly ever got the chance to play anymore.

So that Saturday afternoon I was getting all dressed up to head over there.

Not before my dad gave me something of a visitor's lecture though. He told me to be nice. I mean, like if he didn't put a good word in, I was gonna end up soiling their carpet or something.

"He's from another country and he doesn't have a lot of friends over here. He probably had to leave them all behind when they got out. Any who survived.

"So just shake his hand and be polite. And thank him and his wife for the games."

I stood for a moment at their gate. It was in the midst of this huge hedge that went all the way around the front of their place, on all three sides.

I headed through and went up the stairs and rang the doorbell. Mrs. Dietrich was greeting me right away: "Hallo," she beamed. She pushed the screen open, beckoning me to come inside. "Come along, come along. I'm so glad you could come for a visit." My dad had been right--she did have a strong accent but you could understand her (if you listened close).

I followed her through the kitchen and into the dining room. "Werner is outside. It is such a lovely day." She smiled back at me. "Would you like something to drink? Some lemonade?--or iced tea?--no, lemonade."

I thanked her. No.

"Ja, it is such a warm day. You should have something to drink. Lemonade." With a hand to my forearm and nod of good common sense.

Okay, since she'd brought it up, I had to agree. :)

"I will bring it out to you. Come on out and get started playing. Werner is waiting."

We stepped through the sliding glass door, out toward the patio. And there was Mr. Dietrich. Sitting in his chair in a white suit. He had on a Panama hat and he was pale in the shade, but the skin of his forearm where the sun touched it was stark and white. He wore glasses too--huge and thick with large black rims. The kind that made you feel almost like you were falling into these two wide distorted pools of his eyes.

The cords of old age stuck out from his neck. He put his pipe down absent-mindedly and moved to stand with a bit of a jerk from his chair. And we were shaking hands. Then we got settled in to our chairs, each on our side of the table, and she was bustling back indoors to fix my lemonade.

He had his already, in a tall tumbler at his side on the table. He took a pawn from the black pieces, and reached over toward my side for a white pawn, held them each briefly behind his back, then held out his two closed fists toward me.

I'm not sure whether I had actually ever seen this gesture--possibly not; in any event, I guessed its meaning and pointed toward a fist. He opened it to reveal the white pawn; smiled, replaced the men on the board and we started in.

They'd come over from Nazi Germany. Sailed over right after the war and made their way across the continent. My dad said he could only imagine what that must've been like: to have to leave your country in mid-life to go somewhere else and start completely afresh. Fortunately for Mr. Dietrich, he had been an engineer (he was of course long retired), so he had been able to find work somewhere or other. Enough to support him and his wife.

And so all that summer, once or perhaps twice a week I would head over there. Mrs. Dietrich would invariably answer the door and lead me once again through the dimness of the house--the living room roughly the same shape and size as our own, but looking nothing like ours, cluttered with strange old furniture and knick-knacks and other things glimpsed only dimly among the thick drapes perpetually covering the windows.

Mrs. Dietrich would offer me a small plateful of cookies or something else which she had just baked for my visit. Then we were going out back into that little space of arbor. Like stepping into some other world.

He usually seemed a bit startled to see me, even with the chess board and pieces set up in front of him. But then he would move to rise from his seat, hand out for the handshake that I would dutifully return, and I would be seated across from him, with Mrs. Dietrich making sure that he had everything he needed and that we both were comfortable and well-provided for.

Then she was heading back inside, leaving us to our game. Or games. Mr. Dietrich's tall glass knocking ice cubes together, clattering as he picked it up to drink; then reaching out for the pawns, the ritual of the choice for color. And we would begin.

Mrs. Dietrich came out through the gate again as my dad and I were standing in the front yard and he was watering the lawn. And he asked her again about the war.

In truth, my dad had never quite forgiven the Nazis or their minions for souring his otherwise idyllic childhood with their antics. And somehow from that seemed to grow a strange fascination with the conditions the German people had lived in, privations they had endured and so forth.

He asked how it was possible that so many had followed Hitler--blindly, without regard for consequence to themselves or millions of others.

She said she did not understand. She had never understood. From the moment he came to power she had not been able to stomach him or his screaming voice or the chants of his ubiquitous cohorts.

There had been a picture of Hitler in the local grocery store right as you walked in and you were supposed to salute it and say "Sieg heil" every time you went in.

"Oh Lord--" My father looked a bit queasy.

"Yes...but I would not do it." With this sour blunt face of refusal. "I just walked by."

"You did?" My father gave a laugh that sounded like genuine delight.

"I would not salute that man." With a swipe of her hand, that little slap of dismissal; moving away from us, like she was walking past for a moment. Then the fury that had illuminated her face briefly was gone, as she stepped back in our direction.

"Ha ha!--good for you." My dad put a hand to her arm.

"Ja--ja--" This set face unseeing, eyes not quite looking out in front toward him. "Because..." She looked like she had more to say, but no more words came out.

My father looked to me: "Did you hear that?--she wouldn't salute Hitler!" He'd started a snickering laugh.

"Yeah, I heard." He was starting to repeat things again (I'd been noticing that more and more).

I can recall Mr. Dietrich saying very little in all those afternoons that we spent together. Whenever he saw me coming--after he had recognized me and was rising up out of his chair to meet my hand for our handshake--he would let out with a sort of murmur: "Schach--schach--"

And I would hear the slow chomping pull of his pipe overhead while I was thinking about my next move. Glancing up to see the orange pulsing and rapid thatches of smoke as he puffed away while pondering. Then there were the little mmph's, which he'd do sometimes while he was drawing on the pipe; or anytime he resettled into his chair, shifted to one side (no doubt because his back was bothering him again, like Mrs. Dietrich had said).

And once in a while, when he puffed on his pipe and found there was nothing left, he'd look into the bowl with a little tone of surprise, this time more like a question: "Mmph?--mmph?" Then he'd look around for the can of tobacco, taking off the screen (which was there to prevent the dottle from spilling all over) and reloading it.

And there'd be an occasional "Ja...ja..." Him mouthing it kind of to himself right after my move, nodding meditatively.

Mrs. Dietrich would come out periodically to check on how the game was going. And to make sure that we had everything we needed to be comfortable, and that Mr. Dietrich still had plenty of lemonade in his glass.

Whenever we'd played enough I'd stand up, and he would reach out his hand, sometimes half-standing himself with a series of mmph's and nods as we'd shake.

Mrs. Dietrich would be there to show me out of the house. Smiling and telling me how much Werner enjoyed our visits, and that she hoped I would come back again soon.

Mostly though what I remember about that summer is sitting there in the mottled shade of their arbor, staring down at the board, trying to decide upon a strategy.

And glancing occasionally up at him--lost in thought, puffing away on his pipe. I wasn't thinking about world wars or anything like that (except maybe the miniature one taking place on the board between us). But I did have to wonder on occasion how that must've felt. To have come so far away and now somehow inexplicably to find yourself in the midst of this quiet little neighborhood.

Then I'd look back down to the board and the pieces scattered about. Reaching out to make another move.