He came here out of nowhere, a small thin old man with a strong accent. It wasn't that his English wasn't perfect, only that certain words were hard to understand, as though slowly dredged up from an imperfect memory, pronounced as though reading from a textbook.
Northern Ohio has plenty of such characters, most drifting around the lakes from one odd job to another. I own a family junkyard, which seems to attract seasonal workers like that stranger.
Many would love to retire to a shack somewhere, living out the rest of their lives in anonymity. Their problem is not having ever entered our Social Security system when younger, thusly not qualifying for basic sustenance. Many farm and service workers are in that category.
"Sure. If you can drive a forklift, I'll pay you a little to move old cars around the lot."
"Thank you, sir. Do you happen to know of a place with cheap rent, within walking distance, that is?"
"If you care to clean it up, you can use that shed behind the office. It has a coal heater inside. I think the damned thing works." Like most of them, I didn't think he'd stay around long. The guy seemed frail as hell and the work would be hard for him. If not, at least my sense of justice was salved.
Conrad surprised me. He was a good worker, though not much of a conversationalist, preferring his own counsel.
One time he was asked about his past. It was in idle conversation in the office during a snowstorm, too cold and windy to work outside. I'd ordered a couple of pizzas and we sat around the furnace, cold air coming in via cracks around doors and windows.
"I suffered greatly in the world war," he answered my daughter, who worked the phone in the office.
Jeff Adams was also there. An old man, himself, he had also been in the war in Europe in the 40's.
Jeff perked up. "All of us did, Conrad. All of us did." His eyes narrowed slightly. It took a lot to get Jeff talking about that conflagration. "Uh. If you don't mind, which side, uh, were you on?"
"The wrong side."
We sat around for awhile, enjoying toasted cheese and pepperoni, along with the heat of an overworked propane stove. I could see Jeff open his mouth a couple of times, as though something about the old man stirred a dim memory. Blissfully unaware, Conrad stared into space, lost in his own memories. Maybe memories of that long-gone war, I remember thinking.
"Were you an officer, Conrad?" Jeff finally asked.
"The first one was worse, for me, that is," Conrad evaded the question. "I was a corporal in that one. My job was to run down trenches filled with frightened soldiers, jumping over frozen corpses we had no time to remove. It wasn't so bad, you can get used to anything, except I was also required to jump up and run between trenches, feeling like a duck in one of those shooting galleries."
"It was the same on Omaha beach, during 'D' day," Jeff replied. "I was a private back then. Although the fourth day, the beach was still littered by bloated bodies." Looking slyly at Conrad, he added, "Were you an officer?"
Conrad, still staring into space, wiped sauce from a short and thick white mustache. "My job was to worry, the weight of the world on my shoulders. War is both hell and hellish for those involved. It has no saving graces. There's a time to fight, a time to run, and a time to do penance."
Jeff surprised me by jumping to his feet. He took several steps. Knocking the slice of pizza from Conrad's mouth, he twisted the old man's neck toward the one bare light bulb in the shack, staring into his eyes.
"You son-of-a-bitch." Picking the old man up, Jeff rushed him to the door, slamming it open and throwing him outside into a raging storm. "You're supposed to be dead, you bastard."
Jeff turned to me, his face red, stuttering gibberish. I was so shocked by the action of one old man on another that I was frozen to my wooden chair. Jeff stood, quivering in anger, myself too frightened to utter a sound. He stared at the door, hands clenched, and never did say why.
That was the last any of us saw of old Conrad.
Charlie
