I nodded, not trusting my voice. I turned and climbed into the machine.
Hans Deckert was surprised to see a fellow walking alone so far from town. From here it was a good walk without a horse, and the stranger had none. Hans reined in his horse, and his wagon jounced to a stop. The fellow looked up—a tall, strapping fellow with black hair and dark eyes. The look on his face, too—one who was expecting trouble, and seemed ready to deal with it.
“Hello, mein Herr,” Hans called quickly, trying to project cheerfulness. “Are you needing a ride into town?”
The stranger looked at him with those dark eyes, and Hans felt a twinge of fear. But the stranger seemed to hesitate. “Is it far?”
“Ja, it is far, for a man on foot. More than a mile, maybe two.”
“They got me pretty close,” the man muttered so softly that Hans wasn’t sure if he heard right. But then the stranger was climbing in beside him. "I’m grateful," he said simply.
“Ach, next time, I will be needing the ride, and you will give it to me,” Hans said expansively. He clucked to the horse and they moved off again.
The stranger sat silently, seeming to be sunk in his own thoughts. Hans kept glancing at him, and finally made an attempt. “And what are you doing out here, so far from town, mein Herr?”
The stranger looked at him with a scowl, and Hans regretted the question. He quailed before the hard stare, and spoke quickly. “I’m sorry to ask,” he said. “Your business is your own.”
The stranger looked away, and then spoke. “I’m looking for a job in the mines.”
“The mines, ach, they always have work for another man. For such a man as you, there will be no problem.”
The stranger looked at him. “ ‘Such as me?’ What do you mean?”
“I mean no offense,” Hans said hastily. “I mean only that you are the biggest man I have ever seen. They will be glad to hire you.”
“Really?”
“Ja!" Hans assured him, thinking he was asking for reassurance about the hiring situation. “They will hire you, or my name is not Hans Deckert.”
The stranger seemed to hesitate, then offered his hand. “John. John Andropolis.”
Hans shook his hand. “Well met, well met." He turned back to the road and looked at this John Andropolis out of the corner of his eye. An odd enough last name, although nothing remarkable in this area crawling with Poles and Czechs and Norsks, where an honest German felt out of place. But no last names for you, my massive friend, Hans thought silently. You I will call Big John. And a man like you could come in handy. Yes.
“So, John—Big John—have you a place to stay in town?”
Big John stirred at the use of his nickname, but then gave a small smile. “No. Nothing yet.”
Hans waved it away as a minor detail. “No matter. You must have supper with me and Frau Deckert, and then I show you to the boarding houses in town, ja?”
Big John considered, then nodded slowly. “I’m grateful,” he said again.
I didn’t know what I expected, but I hadn’t expected to be befriended so early. It was disconcerting. I was trying to be a loner, and I seemed to have convinced this little guy of that. If he thought I was so big, that wasn’t saying much. What was he—a little over five feet tall?
We clopped slowly into the mining town, the potholes just about jouncing the teeth out of my head. Hans seemed to know most of the people, and waved to several. They waved back and stared at me. I gave them my dark look I’d perfected at the Collective Bargaining table, and they looked away.
Hans pulled up to one of the dilapidated shacks that huddled in with the others with a mud yard lacing the rutted street. I activated my belt camera and got a good pan shot of the wretched neighborhood, and then a slow zoom at his house. He called toward the house, and a woman came out.
I stared at her, and tried to look impassive again as Hans introduced me to Helga. She was a pretty little thing with light brown hair, in her midtwenties, with delicate features and a stomach that announced that she was about eight months pregnant. I looked closely at Hans again, and reduced my guess about his age by fifteen years. He was about twenty-five. He looked forty.
I was shown into their shabby hut, and was almost overwhelmed by the poverty that these miners lived in. But they didn’t act like they felt poor, and their hospitality was wonderful. I complimented Helga on the meal we ate, and tried to get them to tell me about themselves, so they wouldn’t have the chance to ask about me.
“We are German peoples, in America for seven years living,” Helga said. “And where are you from, Herr Big John?”
I did not have the ability to cut her off rudely as I had with Hans, so I called on the story Sara and I had prepared. “Louisiana,” I muttered.
“Donnerwetter!” Hans exclaimed. “Louisiana, she is far from here!”
“How come you so far from your home?” Helga asked with sweet concern.
“Trouble,” I said evasively. “I don’t like to talk of it.”
“Of course,” she said tactfully. “We will have no more of it.”
Hans pushed his empty plate away. “So. We are finished. Come with me and I will introduce you to some of the fellows,” he said, smiling broadly.
Helga smiled quietly. “He means he would go and drink beer,” she said. “But not too much, please, Hans. And not with the trouble man.” She didn’t seem to be referring to me.
“Of course not, Liebchen. Come, Big John. You must meet the men you will work with tomorrow. They are mostly a good sort, although many Poles and Norsks and Czechs. But there are some Germans still. And no Irish, thanks to God.”
Helga nodded, her face screwed in disgust. “The Irish are animals,” she told me.
“Even worse than the Swedes,” Hans agreed. “Some tried to live here among us. They quickly learned otherwise. Come. We will get a drink.”
I walked with him, ignoring his chattering. I was stunned by the comments of this friendly couple. So they hated the Irish and the Swedes. They hadn’t even mentioned blacks. But then, even though the AFL formed around 1886 and worked to improve working conditions in mines, blacks weren’t allowed in the union for decades after. I supposed that if Hans ever joined a union, he’d feel he was being excessively tolerant if he allowed Swedes to be in the same union.
How the country had changed! I wondered how he would have felt if he knew that I came from a time where all of the ethnic groups that he so carefully differentiated were grouped together simply as “Caucasian,” and were no longer a majority. And how would he have felt if he knew that my president was black?
Hans pulled me out of my reverie by gripping my arm. I looked at his hand, surprised, and he mistook it for displeasure. “I’m sorry, Big John. I merely wanted to point out the tavern.”
It was a small, sprawling, ramshackle place that seemed full of men. Loud laughter and tortured strains of music were coming from it. I activated my belt video and got a good view of the tavern and some of the men staggering out and falling into mud puddles.
We walked into the building—gad, that’s right, they still smoked back then!— and Hans shouldered his way up to the bar. Mr. Degeneres had supplied me with authentic money he had obtained from a collector, but Hans waved me off. “Nein, it is my treat tonight. Come. We will drink.”
I knew he must not have much money, but he was determined to be hospitable. We found a table and sat down. We drank, and he beamed at me.