The Enemy Within

He walked over and sat down on a red plastic barstool. When the bored-looking young bartender glanced in his direction, he asked for a beer, carefully picking an American brand.

He sipped the pale, cold brew cautiously, comparing it unfavorably to the darker, warmer European beers he’d first tried as a student in Sarajevo and then again as part of the intensive preparation for this mission at Masegarh. Alcohol was forbidden to followers of the Prophet under normal circumstances, but God would understand the need to camouflage himself in this land of unbelievers. He was supposed to be a German and Germans drank beer.

Still drinking slowly, he let his eyes focus on the unfamiliar game being played out on the television set. And then he waited.

“I don’t guess they have much baseball where you come from, mister.”

Halovic looked away from the TV to find the bartender looking at him. He shagged and smiled politely, clearly puzzled by what he had been watching. “That is true. In Ger many we play football what you call soccer. It is a fast game and very simple. But this” he nodded toward the set “this baseball of yours is so difficult. So complicated.”

“It’s not all that tough, actually.” The bartender grinned and held out his hand. “My name’s Ricky Smith, by the way.”

Halovic shook hands with the younger man and introduced himself. “Karl Gruning. From Leipzig.”

“Pleased to meet you.” Smith nodded toward the television again. “You want me to explain the finer points of the game?”

“I would be very grateful,” Halovic lied smoothly. He sat back on his stool and sipped at his beer, content to let the bartender’s gibberish about double plays, foul balls, and the rest wash over him.

The afternoon and early evening passed quietly. Halovic studied the men coming into the bar, noting faces and even names when he could hear them. Most wore work clothes, faded blue jeans or coveralls. Some had obviously come straight from their jobs or farms. While there were men in their twenties and thirties, the bulk of them were older.

By six-thirty there were ten or twelve men inside the Bon Air all familiar to each other. Most came up and greeted the bartender, who in turn introduced the German tourist, “Karl.”

Halovic answered their questions easily, describing Germany and the journey he planned across America. But he was always quick to turn the conversation back to baseball or to firearms and sport shooting.

One of the men talking to him paused to light a cigarette and then spoke around it. “I heard it’s real tough to buy guns overseas. That true?”

Halovic nodded. “That is so. The authorities, they do not like citizens to own weapons. Even for hunting or sport. It is strictly forbidden in many places.”

The man and several of his companions shook their heads in disgust. One muttered something about “goddamn guy’mints.”

Their heads turned toward the TV as a sudden roar burst from the televised crowd. The man with the cigarette whistled and nudged the others. “Well, I’ll be damned! Will you look at that! A grand slam! That boy hit a goddamn grand slam!”

Halovic carefully concealed his contempt. These people were like children easily distracted and amused by trivialities. No wonder they were held in thrall by the rich and powerful in this country’s cities and suburbs. Perhaps it was time to begin shaping the conversation to suit his purpose in coming to this backwater town.

He waited until the cameras cut away from the stadium and back to the network studio for a recap of the other games played that day. The commentator was a black man.

After listening to the sports anchor rattle off meaningless statistics for a few moments, Halovic suddenly remarked sharply, “Ah, get him out of here. I don’t want to see him.”

One of the older men seated nearby shook his head slowly. “He ain’t that bad, Karl. You should hear ”

“No, no, I don’t care if he is good or bad,” Halovic countered. He grimaced. “I am just tired of all the blacks I see on television all the time. It’s worse here even than in Germany.”

Without pausing, he launched into a bitter fusillade against “the Turks, Arabs, and Africans who infest Germany’s streets and steal jobs from true Germans.”

As he spoke, Halovic carefully noted the reaction from the group. The four men he’d been talking with all frowned slightly or showed neutral reactions. When he finished, there was a small embarrassed silence. To his chagrin, nobody took the bait he’d laid out, and someone quickly changed the subject to the latest movies and TV shows.

Dinnertime came and Halovic ordered a barbecue sandwich. The crowd thinned only slightly during the dinner hour, then grew again until the Bon Air was comfortably filled.