When I moved to Ohio back in 1994 I joined a bowling league at Lakewood Lanes on Detroit Avenue. Being new to the area I was placed on a team by the president of the league.

I met my new team mates the first night of the season. Lazlo was an Hungarian immigrant, a jolly sort of man who seemed to love nothing more than diet Coke and the sound of a good solid strike. When a nearby bowler left a five pin standing after the first roll he'd shout out, laughter tinging his thick accent, "Nobody meeses de five peen!" Of course, if the bowler did miss it he was subject to even more playful ribbing. The other two members of the team were a married couple, Heinz and Olga. Olga was a loud and somewhat caustic American with an almost pre-adolescent sense of humor. If a score of 69 was visible on any sheet she'd go into gales of cackling laughter, calling out in braying tones that "69 is my favorite number!" The joke was marginally funny on first hearing, considerably annoying after the twentieth. Olga's husband was a German transplant to America. He was quieter and more subdued than Lazlo and Olga, chuckling softly at the antics around him. He was also the better bowler than any of his team mates, carrying an impressive 215 average throughout the season.

I liked Heinz. His sober intelligence and dignified bearing drew me to him. We often found ourselves in conversations more suited to a quiet bar than a loud bowling alley. He told me he came to America from Germany when he was a young man with his first wife and infant son. He was a carpenter by trade and, according to Olga, was quite a skilled craftsman. When I mentioned my father's hobby as a furniture maker his eyes lit up and we talked about the beauty of a well made chair or table. "Dere is nothing better than creating a lovely object from raw wood." he said.

One night, very near the end of the season, we were talking about money, my lack of it, to be concise. I wasn't really complaining, just pointing out how hard it is to live on a meager salary. He drew himself up and looked me square in the eye. He said with a frown, "It's the Jews, you know." His accent made the word sound like "juice". I was startled by the pronouncement. "What do you mean by that?" I asked. He went on to elaborate, telling me that the Jews controlled all the money in America, that good and decent white people had no chance to thrive while the Jews were in charge. He must have noticed my discomfort at his words. He dropped his gaze and said, "Maybe this is not a good place to talk of these things." I shifted in my seat and said, "Heinz, I don't think there is any good place to talk of these things." He looked at me. "I see." he said. I drifted away from him. We spoke no more words together that night. We spoke no more words together the rest of the season.

Heinz disappointed me. He carried in his heart a hatred and fear that was foreign to me, a prejudice I found repugnant. The next season I asked to be transferred to another team. Heinz and I greeted one another politely each evening but we never spoke at length again.