Years ago, Kreimer's Bier Haus on Reading Avenue at the edge of the German District had had a certain elegance. But when Frau Kreimer succumbed to pneumonia, old man Kreimer gave up the façade of respectability. The once jazzed up bar smelled of old carpet and furniture oil. Cigar smoke clung to the ceiling like dirty gilt. The sagging springs on the bar stools embodied the drab anonymity of a thousand shabby lives. With each passing year, Kreimer's lost a little more class and a little more clientele. And with the uprising in Europe, Kreimer's had fallen even further out of favor.
Moe wasn't a bar polisher, but he had been to Kreimer's more than a time or two. It was his kind of place. It was a good place to go when he was down on his luck and looking for a cheap lager. It was an even better place when he was in the money looking for an expensive import. In Moe's line of work, it paid to make yourself known in local establishments and to learn just enough lingo to be accepted. At Kreimer's, a man could sit for hours nursing a beer and never have to say a word unless he wanted to. On a few occasions, Moe had wanted to, and Jonas Kreimer would listen.
Jonas was a stout man with thick forearms and smooth hands. Laugh lines dug into his face like grooves on a Victrola. When he talked, his bristly mustache wiggled like a caterpillar. Moe could never be sure if Jonas was happy in spite of living alone or because of it. But one thing was certain: Jonas Kreimer knew everyone that still resided in the old German neighborhood, and that was why Moe stopped in.
"
Hallo,
Jonas."
"
Wie geht's,
Moe?"
"I'm getting by, Jonas." Moe looked around. The place was empty except for a couple sitting at a rear table and a saucehound at the other end of the bar. Moe knew the answer, but he asked the question anyway. "How's things with you?"
Jonas braced his hands against the bar and frowned. "Not so good, Moe, not so good. These dealings across the ocean are not good for business here in America."
The rumor of another war had put the pinch on everyone.
"I'm sorry to hear that, Jonas."
"America has been my home for twenty-three years. Some of the
Schurke
that break my windows and destroy my walls were not even born when I came here."
The German community, which had been one of Cincinnati's distinguishing characteristics when Jonas Kreimer had arrived, had nearly ceased to exist thanks to The Great War. And now with the new uprising, it was risky being a German. But the people intent on destruction rarely needed an excuse.
"Thugs come in all ages, Jonas. And from all countries."
"You are right, Moe. Very right. Bah! Let us talk of something else. What would you like? A Burger Brau?"
"A local lager, Jonas?"
"It is a little difficult to get the imported nowadays."
"I guess the local it is then."
Moe was dryer than a cork leg. It'd been too long since he'd had a beer. With the first gulp, cool suds trailed down his throat to his empty stomach like when he was a kid eating snow instead of answering his mama's lunch call. He wiped the suds from his mouth and sighed.
"What brings you here today, Moe, business or pleasure?"
"A little of both, Jonas, a little bit of both." Moe took another swig and savored the hoppy aftertaste. "This lager hits the spot."
Jonas wrinkled up his nose and his moustache danced. "Ugh! A cheap imitation of greater
