I was sitting in a lobby of a hotel in Switzerland, playing chess with an acquaintance when a kibbitzer cam over and silently watched the game.
"Would you care to play with me now?" he asked when the game was finished -- in German. Everyone speaks German in Switzerland.
"Why not?" We set up the pieces.
"Take your choice," I said, holding out my hands.
He looked blank for a moment, then smiled. "No speak English," and picked my left hand. White for him.
I can't say I liked his knowing nothing but German!
He opened with a king's gambit. "Where are you from?" He was starting a conversation.
I could have simply answered, "America" -- noncommittal, or I could have said, "Tel Aviv" -- a complete giveaway. My social antennae were wary, alert, sore. I would notice a slight tension around his eyes when I would say, Tel Aviv. I would see the mind behind them thinking, "Jew". I would recognize the faintest of faint rise of the eyebrows --
"They get all over -- those Jews. I would feel the patronizing liberalness of a possible, "Really, how interesting." I would cringe at the apologetics of the "some of my best friends ..." I would smile falsely polite.
I was really tired of the whole thing. I really wasn't up to either game.
The pleasant sociable smile was still on his face. His bow tie black, his collar impeccably white. his face shaven
and powdered -- obviously a gentleman on vacation.
He was waiting for my answer.
"Check," I said.
He looked down at his piece. He looked down at his pieces. His smile changed to a frown of concentration. He moved his bishop. He offered me a cigarette -- German! "No, thanks," I said jerkily -- too hastily.
Did he know why? I saw a flicker in his eyes, but he said nothing. I moved my knight. I weakened my whole attack. It hadn't been nice to refuse. It was socially gauche. I blushed.
But German smoke was too suggestive!
Who was this man I was so pleasantly playing chess with? I wanted to get up and walk away. I could have used a woman's prerogative. "I don't feel well, "I could have said.
somehow it seemed wrong. "Be a person," I Said to myself. tell him plainly, "I don't play with Germans!"
But I couldn't get the words across my lips. In the holiday atmosphere of the hotel lobby, in the calm quiet glow of the hearth fire, I couldn't start a war. I wanted to go home where I wouldn't be bothered with Germans.

That evening, too. My zipper had got caught in the back. I looked for the French maid. She was nowhere about, but my neighbor across the hall was standing in the doorway with her little girl. I had noticed her before. Big, blonde and German. I had named her, Greta, the Jailer when I saw her the first time.
It was the simplest thing in the world to ask her to help me out -- simple and natural--only she was German. I tried again to fix it myself. I couldn't get the dress off or on.
It was ridiculous. It was just a zipper. She was just a woman, mother of a little girl. I didn't have to be so dramatic about it. I asked her to fix the zipper.
She did pleasantly and touched my neck. I felt burnt - from inside. This was more than ridiculous, this being forced to think, German! every minute.
I mumbled something for thanks and ran for the elevator, thinking, "I'm going home where I don't have to be bothered by Germans!"

I played on. He took my rook. I got an idea. Maybe he's not a Nazi. Maybe he's a Jew after all. "What's your name?" I asked. "Gross," he said. Anybody can be Gross. I couldn't ask him if he was Jewish. What if he had said, "No". I took his queen. He took mine. "Checkmate." he said.