Hans Bittenhof in America

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Hans Bittenhof in America

Written in October, 1990, about a year after the Berlin wall and all that it represented came tumbling down.

Wandering around the business district downtown, he was like a visitor from another planet. Amid all the Calvin Kleins, Giorgio Armanis, Ralph Laurens, and Oscar de la Rentas, this guy's clothes looked like Bart Simpson originals. I took to him right away.

Turns out his name was Hans Bittenhof, newly arrived in America from what we used to call East Germany. For Hans, freedom from Communism also meant freedom from employment.

To say Hans was pleased to find himself in America is like saying a six-year-old is pleased to find himself in Santa Clause's lap. Truth is, he was giddy with delight. "America land of plenty," gushed Hans Bittenhof.

As though to prove his point, Hans marched across the street to McDonald's, pushed both hands deep into his pockets and put all his money down on the counter.

"Turn cash into fries, please," Hans said eagerly.

It took the kid behind the counter a minute or so, but he counted up all the money – nearly accurately, too. "You want nineteen dollars and forty-seven cents worth of french fries?"

"To go, please."

The counter kid was able enough in math to take in and hand out whatever amount of money the computerized cash register told him to, but figuring out how many orders of fries $19.47 can buy was even easier – he simply turned the matter over to his boss.

Hans' eyes sparkled with pride as he accepted the bulging bag of fries, his first fast food purchase in America. "We do it all for you, ja?"

Ja, right.

Next stop was the supermedia store next door, where there were more records, compact disks, audio cassettes and videotapes than Hans Bittenhof had seen in all his life – all packaged with flashy images of sex, violence and adventure. "Mein Gott," said the amazed Hans, stuffing his mouth with fries. "So many things – all right out in open. There, look – Beatles! She love you ja, ja, ja. Ha-ha! And over there, Dirty Harry – Make my day, ja?" Hans arched his head back, spread his arms wide, and while shaking his body like Topol singing If I Were A Rich Man, he shouted, "Sex, fries, and videotape – I love this country."

Hans Bittenhof was starting to get the hang of being American.

And like all good Americans, Hans wanted – wanted everything he saw, in fact, and he wanted it now. But being broke and jobless, he wanted more than he could pay for. Hans Bittenhof's jaw tightened as he looked around at all the glittering cellophane and shrink-wrapping, realizing he couldn't have any of it. As his frustration intensified, I told him it looked like he had Bittenhof more than he could chew.

Hans didn't think that was very funny.

More disappointed than angry, Hans continued eating from the giant bag of french fries as he made his way slowly towards the door. Preoccupied, he tried walking around the theft-detection machine that seemed to him to be blocking the exit.

"HEY-BOZO-HOLDIT," screamed the store manager.

Hans immediately froze and threw his hands high in the air. For a full five seconds, it seemed to be raining french fries.

I explained to Hans why it was necessary for him to walk through the machine, proving he hadn't stolen anything. "But why? I am not a crook," whined Hans, in America for just a few days but already quoting presidents.

"Yes, but nobody knows that until you walk through the machine." I was able to say that with a straight face.

"But this free country, ja? Why have to walk through machine in America?" We free in America, ja?"

"Well, sure we're free, Hans. We can damn well shop anyplace else in America if we feel our rights are being violated here."

Hans didn't seem satisfied with my little civics lesson. But after years of living in a totalitarian state, he knew when to cave in. Hans Bittenhof meekly walked through the machine as we left.

Hans was running late for a job interview across town, so I drove him there. I decided to wait for him to see how he made out. He was back in the car before I knew it, muttering to himself in German. "I not pass test."

"The aptitude test?"

"The drug test. No drugs in body, just couldn't fill bottle for test. Why have drug test, anyway? I not take drugs. In America, I have rights, ja? This is free country."

"Well of course this is a free country," I assured him in my best tone of Western superiority. "In America, you're free to work anyplace you like, regardless of your race, color, sex or creed. And if a company tries to make you take a drug test – why, you're free to walk right out the door and try to find a job someplace else."

Somehow that didn't make Hans Bittenhof feel any better, so I offered to take him for a bite to eat. As we were driving, a police car appeared out of nowhere, cutting us off and forcing us into the curb. Two officers jumped out of the car, grabbed a black teenager who was minding his own business walking on the sidewalk, threw him against a wall and began frisking him. The officers, talking loud and tough, found nothing, so they roughly pushed the teenager back on his way down the sidewalk and returned to their car.

Hans turned white but didn't say anything until we reached the restaurant. Over some warm food and a cold beer Hans finally found the courage to speak – but only very quietly.

"Why police not arrest boy? Boy must be criminal for police to treat like criminal, ja?"

"Not necessarily," I said, looking down at Hans like someone about to explain the affairs of the world to an innocent. "You see, there are lots of dangerous teenage gangs around here. The police are searching kids they think are gang members to see if they're carrying weapons."

"But he not do anything. Why they think he gang member?"

"Well, because he was black, and because he was a teenager, and because he lived in a part of town where there are gangs." I said all this as though it were a perfectly reasonable thing to say.

Hans seemed to lean inches off his chair. "You mean in America, police can stop and search you on street, even if you not do anything? In free country this can happen?"

"Hey – let's cut the 'free country' stuff." I was starting to get a little testy. Nobody likes a smart-alek immigrant. "If a kid doesn't want to be searched, then he's free to go live in a part of town where he won't be searched."

Hans fell silent again as I drove him home. It was dark as we came to a stop at the end of a long line of cars. Hans' eyes widened as he saw the flashing blue lights at the other end of the line.

"Oh, no! More police? Now they think we gang members?"

"No, it's, nothing like that. They're just checking for drunk drivers. We'll get through this in a few minutes."

When we finally reached the end of the line, the officer stuck his head in the car and smelled the beer I drank at the restaurant. He ordered me out of the car, and Hans panicked.

"It's all right, Hans. He just wants me to prove I'm not drunk, that's all."

"But in free country, you not prove innocent, government must prove guilty, ja?"

"Well, yes, but – uh-oh, he's starting to get mad, Hans. I gotta go."

Hans gripped my arm. "No. You free man. You not go."

"I have to, Hans. I could lose my license."

Hans watched as the officer put me through the field sobriety test. Apparently, Hans enjoyed the sight of a grown man walking an imaginary tightrope, hopping on one leg while trying to recite the alphabet backwards, and otherwise being made a damned fool of, because when I got back to the car, Hans was laughing. I hadn't seen him laugh since his mouth was full of french fries.

"What is so funny, Hans?"

"Watching free man prove innocence – that very funny."

"Have you noticed how I'm not laughing." There's no question mark there because I wasn't asking a question.

Hans was one great big Teutonic smile. "If you not like it – hey, Bozo, this free country. You free not to drive, ja?"

Like I said, nobody likes a smart-alek immigrant.