Most of my childhood was spent growing up in Germany. My father and I lived off base on the German economy so most of my friends were German. Warm weather afternoons were spent at a local beer garden on the edge of a forest I considered my playground. On one particular Saturday afternoon, I was introduced to an elderly gentleman my friends called Opah Kross (Grandpa Kross). I’m being polite. The introduction was more of a warning and he didn’t behave like much of a gentleman. “Dies ist der Amerikaner?” I heard behind me as I talked to my would-be girlfriend. I turned around, long since used to being either an outcast or a novelty in my neighborhood. I’d been asked after as the “Amerikaner” so often there didn’t seem anything odd in it happening again, “Psst, Davit, nein!” my friend, Iris, tried to warn me. I ignored her.
I found myself face to chin with a tall, white-haired man wielding a cane in one hand and a smoldering pipe in the other. He’d penetrated uncomfortably far into my personal space and I resisted the urge to take a step back. Trying on my most disarming smile, I greeted the man with “Grüße Gott! Sie sind Herr Kross, Ja?” Loosely translated, I told him Greet God, you are Mr. Kross, correct? Greet God may sound odd, but it was a common salutation in that part of Germany. I’d seen him around before. The question was just a courtesy.
Kross stepped back a bit and narrowed his eyes. He addressed my friend over my shoulder, “He’s no American,” he challenged her, “his German is too good.” I don’t know why I took offense at that or why I elected to continue ignoring Iris who, at this point, was tugging at the back of my shirt and trying to get me away, but for some reason I decided to stand up for my heritage despite no real offense having been given. I spoke German fluently, having learned both languages at the same time, but I was intent on proving him wrong. Things took a bad turn from there. Continued…