by Brent Peters

An old man played chess with a young woman. People crowded the St. Drogo public park, taking advantage of a gorgeous summer day. None of them paid any attention to the pair. Clara Froese had grown up in this little town, but she hadn’t spent much time in the park. She’d been here with the stoners at night, but not much in the daylight.

Dietrich Froese was the opposite. He’d lived in St. Drogo for most of his life, and he’d taken advantage of the park every chance he got. When he’d been younger, he ran through it a few times for his health. He’d brought his kids here when they were young and taken them to the community baseball field when they were older. Now, he came for the fresh air. Often, he would just walk along the trails at the bottom of the hill, or he would sit here in a little shaded gazebo with a chess board.

Anyone who’d taken a second glance at the pair would have seen the resemblance. Both had big green eyes; both were tall; both had wide noses. Clara sat tall with wavy blond hair, while Dietrich had a slight hunch and a bald head. Both kept one hand on their coffee and the other leaned on the table.

Nobody noticed the tension beyond this game. It was the sixth time grandfather and granddaughter had ever met. The initial awkwardness had melted, but both remained alert. Neither wanted to spook the other or accidentally offend. She made the effort not to swear or say “like” so often. He made the effort to speak in English and to learn as much as he could about her.

This had all started with annoyance. When the topic of family came up, Clara had always given a simple answer. “My background is Mennonite.” That led to questions. What did that mean? Wasn’t that a religion? She didn’t look Amish. She certainly didn’t act religious. What did it mean, then, to come from Mennonites?

That question had bothered her. It wasn’t just a religion. It was a community, a history, a people. Flawed and complicated and messy. Clara had known her grandfather’s name before she had called him, but she had not known he was born in Mexico. That he spoke fluent Mexican Spanish. That he stayed in touch with family in Mexico.

The details of that phone call had become hazy. One of her many impulsive decisions. Covid had been hurting everyone. One of her aunts had posted about him. Clara didn’t know if the man would make it through the pandemic, so she had done some digging. Dietrich had no social media, so she’d had to find his phone number. When she had called, a hesitant rasping voice had responded, in English first then Low German. “Who’s this?”

“This is Clara Froese,” she had said. “This is a bit awkward. Um, it’s Henry’s daughter. We haven’t talked, but uh, hi Grandpa.” The conversation had been the most awkward she’d ever had over the phone.

It got worse when he told her that his wife, her grandmother, had died recently. Covid. The silence that followed had reached through the phone and smacked her. She’d called a grieving widower just to remind him of his loss. That’s how it felt, but Dietrich kept the conversation going. Awkward stops and starts fired and misfired from both sides, until Dietrich asked a random question. “Do you play chess?”

***

Since then, Clara played with him every time she came to St. Drogo. It remained a slow and cautious process, but it became a little more natural every time. She brought coffee; he brought the game; and they learned about each other. He enjoyed learning about her. How did she take her coffee? Did she speak German? Did she like dogs? When she’d told him her job, he had given her a look of such joy that she hadn’t known how to process it. “You are a veterinarian,” he had said with a massive smile. “You must have worked very hard.”

So far, that had been the most personal thing which had passed between them. A few anecdotes here and there, but little else.

Clara moved her rook. “Good,” Dietrich said. His motions were slow. The hand shook slightly as it went. He moved each piece with care. Either by ritual or habit, he took of drink of coffee after every turn.

As they played today, Clara thought of how to move the conversation. He asked most of the questions. What did she know the least about? What did she want to know? The answer came quickly. “My aunts,” Clara said, “mentioned a Mennonite migration once. Do you have any idea what that was?” She moved a pawn out to be sacrificed.

Dietrich pushed his lips together and stared at the board for a moment. “Your mother didn’t tell you?”

His tone had no judgment. He wanted clarification.

“No. Mom didn’t say anything about Mennonites or dad’s side of the family.”

“I see. Well, I suppose I don’t blame your mother. There is a dark joke among some people in the Mennonites. We are only pacifists to strangers. Among ourselves, people have done things that should never happen. I do not blame your mother for becoming an ex-Mennonite. But I am rambling. Do you yourself know anything about the migration?”

“Nothing.”

The sharp eyes became uncertain as they looked from the board to his granddaughter. “Do you want to know?”

“Yes.”

***

Dietrich nodded, then took the pawn just as Clara had hoped. “We were in that migration, the Froeses. From Canada to Mexico and back. We did that for two reasons, you know. First, there was the war, the first world war. Mennonites are supposed to be pacifists. The people thought their sons and husbands would go to Hell if they were drafted, but that’s not the only reason.”

The old man took a sip of coffee.

“I think I heard about that once,” Clara said as she moved a piece. “What was the second reason?”

“Schools. Canada’s government said we couldn’t keep the Mennonite children in our own schools. We didn’t tell them about our textbooks or what we taught, and we didn’t want to teach the things in Canada’s textbooks. The government here didn’t like that. I don’t know which reason was more important, the war or the government. Either way, we went to Mexico.

“My father was a little boy when that happened. He never said how long it took to walk down. From south Saskatchewan to a place near Chihuahua. The Mennonite people stayed there for decades.”

Another move. Another sip.

“I remember you said you were born there,” Clara took her turn. “When did you come up to Canada? And why St. Drogo?”

“I was fifteen. There was land and family here. It was a different time, you know. I saw it as adventure.”

Sip. Move.

“Do you miss it down there, Grandpa?”

“Oh yes. Very much and very often. Since your grandmother passed away, I dream about it a lot. But maybe that is not so interesting. I don’t want to bore you.”

“It’s not boring.” Clara reached for another piece, then stopped. If she read the board right, it’d be checkmate next round. She considered letting it pass and giving the game to her grandpa, but she decided against it. If they were anything alike, he would hate to be pitied more than anything.

“Oh,” he said. “Good move.”

“I’m sorry,” Clara said. “I didn’t know any of this. I never even thought to ask.”

“Heh!” Dietrich’s whole body bounced with the laugh. “Do not be sorry! You are my first grandchild to ask me about Mexico, you know. Not even my children have wanted to hear these things.”

“Really?” she raised an eyebrow. “I doubt that.”

“It’s true. Look at the language. My wife and I spoke English, Spanish, and High and Low German. Our children picked up a little German only. And your cousins, they know nothing but English. I don’t care if you call yourself Mennonite or you learn the language or anything. You are here. You want to think about your family and to ask what that means for you. I am old-fashioned, maybe, but I think that is a wonderful thing.”

Move. Sip.

“Thank you,” Clara said. “How’d you get into chess?”

“You might find my answer silly.”

“Come on. Tell me.”

“Well, it is not just a game. It is something important to many people in all times in all places. I don’t know any players or fancy moves, but I can still put the pieces on the board. When I do that, I feel like no matter what, I am not so alone. That feeling has been important to me, to feel I am not alone even if I am.”

“I get that,” Clara said. “I feel that way about music.”

“You play music?”

“No, I can’t. I meant listening to it. I know there are a lot of other people listening to it too, getting something out of it right along with me. Is that why you say ‘we’ when you talk about the past?”

Dietrich said nothing for a while. He made a “hmm” sound and stared out into the park. “I don’t know. I have always been raised to think that Mennonites are ‘we.’ Family is ‘we.’ It is habit. It is what I need. After your grandmother died, especially, I needed to know and to feel I wasn’t alone. Maybe that sounds strange to you.”

“Not at all. I, um, want to learn about you. Thank you. If it’s alright, I’d like to hear more about Grandma sometime as well. I never really knew her.”

Dietrich looked at her, then the board. A big smile came over his face. “You can make your last move, you know. I promise I am not a sore loser.”

“Checkmate,” she said as she slid her queen into place. “Up for another game, Grandpa?”

“That would make me very happy. Thank you. If I give you some money, would you please get us both some more coffee?”

“It’s on me.”

“You don’t need to do that.”

“I want to.”

“Please,” he grinned and reached for his wallet. “I have to make up for all the years I could not spoil my grandchild.”

Image by Joe from Pixabay