The Spy
	It was 1950 on Ellicott Street and I was almost nine. Every neighborhood had its own little mom and pop grocery store, hardware store, and small movie theater that showed only one movie for the week. Because WWII had just ended most of the movies were in black and white, of our boys fighting against the Germans and Japanese, and we always won. Things were so different back then. There were no computers, cell phones or televisions. Most telephones were on a party line and you'd hear everyday phrases like "grass widow" and "The devil's beating his wife", which by the way meant that it was raining and the sun was shining at the same time. A "grass widow" was a "divorcee". A "sod widow" was a woman who's husband had died and was under the sod. On the next street over, which was New Orleans, there was a very small house that was completely hidden behind a huge sleeping hibiscus hedge. There was no sidewalk along the street, just the road, the hedge and the very secluded house. There was a small opening in the hedge that was almost like a tunnel. The old man who lived there was scarcely ever seen ducking through the hole in the hedge. He always wore an overcoat and a hat that he kept pulled down over his face and he had a BEARD! Nobody back then wore beards. He would always glance from side to side when he entered or came out of the hedge always making sure his face was covered. No one knew his name or at least none of us neighborhood kids did. Someone of the adults had heard his name somehow. It was foreign and he spoke with a heavy accent so of course people's suspicions, given the times...and the movies, were raised. "The German spy" as we called him would come to the little grocery store, buy his meager ration of food, hardly speaking a word and quickly leave. Having no car, he would walk back home which was several blocks away. I remember only once being in the store when he came in. I stood way back and just quietly watched. Even at eight I could tell there was a gentleness about this man that I hadn't expected. He looked at me and smiled and I smiled back. He gathered his supplies without speaking, tipped his hat to Mrs. Meyer, the store lady behind the counter, turned his collar up, and he was gone. That was the only time I had actually seen him. Years later, I'm not sure how many, I heard that "the spy" had died in his little hidden house. In the few belongings he had, there was an old trunk that contained a wonderful violin and stacks and pages of newspaper articles and clippings telling about a famous, missing Russian violinist who as a young man had played many concerts and even a command performance for the Czar of Russia. He later defected never to be seen again. But I saw him with his little brown paper bag of groceries and he smiled at me. In looking back after all these years I'm still glad we shared that smile. I think his life must've been very lonely. Lynn Ash