A Good American by Alex George Page A

a raise in salary. Frederick was not a greedy man, but he thought it only fair that he should benefit a little from all his hard work. His sense of injustice began to erode the pleasure he took in his job. Finally he confessed his disenchantment to Kliever.
    “You need to stop complaining and do something about it,” said Kliever.
    “Yes, but what?”
    “Do it the American way. Buy the place off him.”
    Frederick lay awake for most of that night, staring at the ceiling. Buy the place! The thought had never occurred to him.
But this is America
, he kept telling himself. Such things were possible here. By the time the early-morning sun crept across the bedroom window, his head was filled with plans. It was that night, with no ceremony or certificate required, that my grandfather finally became a true American.
    He began to save every cent he could. Rather than joining his customers in convivial drinks, he pocketed his tips. Here and there he denied himself small pleasures. The pain of forbearance was sweetened by the thought that one day, the Nick-Nack would be his. Money accumulated in a small jar that he hid beneath a floorboard in the bedroom. But too slowly.
    “It’s hopeless,” he complained to Kliever one evening as they stood at the end of the pier. “I’ll never save enough money.”
    “Of course you won’t,” agreed Kliever. “You’ll be dead long before, the amount Becker pays you.”
    Frederick stared out across the Missouri River. “What am I going to do?”
    “Have you still got that medal?” asked Kliever after a moment. “The one that belonged to Jette’s grandfather?”
    “Of course.”
    “Can you get off work this weekend?”
    “Why do you ask?”
    Kliever buttoned up his fly. “Come by the house first thing on Saturday morning,” he said. “And bring that medal with you.”
    A t sunrise the following Saturday, Frederick kissed Jette good-bye as she lay sleepily in their bed and walked to the Klievers’ house. The medal was hidden in his pocket. The previous evening he had quietly removed it from the back of the chest of drawers where Jette kept it. He was sure that whatever Johann Kliever had in mind, she would not approve.
    Outside the Klievers’ house, a horse stood waiting, attached to a small buggy. Johann was loading bags into the back. He waved as Frederick approached.
    “Got the medal?” he asked.
    Frederick nodded. “Where are we going?”
    “You’ll see,” said Kliever. “Come on.” He climbed up onto the buggy and took the reins. Moments later the horse was trotting through the town’s empty streets.
    As they drove south, the sun rose high in the sky, and a haze of heat shimmered on the road ahead of them. Frederick looked out at the passing countryside. Since their arrival in Beatrice, he had rarely left the town. The journey from Hanover had extinguished any appetite he might have had for travel. Now he felt the first stirrings of excitement at the prospect of discovering new places.
    By mid-morning, the buggy was bouncing over the bridge that spanned the river at Jefferson City. The capitol building sat in imperial splendor on a bluff overlooking the banks of the Missouri. Kliever drove through the town and brought the horse to a stop in front of a row of shops. “That medal won’t do you any good sitting in a sock underneath your bed,” he said as he tethered the horse to a pole. “You need to make it work for you.” Without another word he turned and pushed open the nearest door and went inside.
    Frederick lingered on the sidewalk for a moment, wondering whether he should follow. A wooden screen had been erected in the shop window, obscuring the interior from curious eyes. The door opened and Kliever’s head reappeared. “Come
on
,” he said, blinking with impatience, and then vanished again. Frederick stepped inside.
    The shop was long and narrow. Knotted floorboards ran the length of the room. Two gas lamps glowed dimly from the ceiling. There was a