Sparks Flew Everywhere
When Klaus was a little boy, his mother would read Der Struwwelpeter to him at bedtime; it frightened him into nightmares. This was his mother’s way of making sure he understood that he must cut his hair and nails, stay away from water for fear of drowning, mind his manners so St. Nicholas wouldn’t throw him in an inkwell, or stay away from guns lest he is shot by the very rabbit he is trying to shoot! One particular story piqued his interest more than the others. A girl, Paulinchen looking very much like a boy in drag, with long braided hair, wearing a green dress, spies a box of matches lying on a counter, and two overly concerned cats are pawing at the hem of the dress, mouths open and apparently screaming, “Don’t play with matches.” Well, she does and ends up catching on fire and turning into a pile of ashes while the cats are sitting there crying.
The images in the book haunted Klaus throughout his early childhood. Heinrich Hoffman’s book conveniently made the rounds to every conceivable surface of the Fisher household, except for the Sears and Roebuck bookshelf where Klaus thought it belonged. Actually, the ideal place would be the garbage heap behind the garage where a roaring bonfire would send the obnoxious poetry up in flames, never to be read again. If Klaus could figure out how to sneak it out of the house and discard it without getting caught, he would certainly do so.
Der Struwwelpeter is depicted on the book’s cover; an unkempt boy with an overgrown mop of hair and foot-long fingernails. He’s dressed in a red tunic with green leggings and reminds Klaus of a sick-looking elf that Santa might have discarded for any number of reasons. A morality book written in German depicts the perils of the naughty boys and girls who don’t have enough common sense to avoid doing things that would get them maimed, burned up, or killed.
At a very young age, Klaus was attracted to fire. Everyone in his household smoked and often lit up simultaneously. Uncle Wofgang puffed and chewed Cuban cigars, he got from a shady-looking character that drove a two-toned Edsel Corsair. His name was Guillermo, and he never came into the house. He had a distinct limp, sported a Panama Fedora, and wore an obnoxious gold medallion around his neck. Klaus watched through a crack in the curtains as Guillermo hobbled up the driveway and dropped off the cigars in a plain brown box by the back door.
On Klaus’s twelfth birthday, his sidekick Rudy came over with a paper sack full of goodies. He brought a box of Mike & Ike candy, Boston Baked beans, not real beans but candy-coated peanuts, a box of Chuckles, Dad’s old-fashioned root beer barrels, and in the bottom of the bag a box of Good Housekeepers kitchen matches that he slipped from his mother’s pantry. He planned to sneak back the unused portion after the adventure he planned for Klaus.
“Hey Klaus, grab that Struwwelpeter book and let’s have some fun,” said Rudy.
Klaus wasn’t sure why Rudy wanted him to grab the book, but he did without thinking. It was a hot August afternoon in Columbus, and the boys headed for the shade of the old maple tree whose branches spread into the alley behind Klaus’s house. In 1967 the alley was not paved; a grass strip that ran perpendicular from Atwood terrace to Hiawatha proved a great playing area for a couple of boys pushing their teens. They settled in on opposite sides of an old manhole cover, the perfect table for Rudy to present his bounty. Shielded from most of the adults, the one who had a direct line to their den of cahoots was Mr. Kelly, a bespectacled ancient who must have been pushing 100 or so. At least that’s what the boys thought.
“You think he can see us?” said Rudy
“Can he actually see?” said Klaus
And they laughed as they grabbed at the goodies.
“What are we gonna do with the matches?” said Klaus
“Light ’em, dummy!” said Rudy. “And we’re gonna finally get rid of that book which I can’t pronounce.”
“I don’t know,” said Klaus.
“What, are you a chicken? You’ve wanted to burn that thing up since forever,” said Rudy.
“I’m not a chicken,” Klaus said.
“Oh, I get it. You never lit a match before.”
“I’ve lit plenty of matches,” said Klaus
But he hadn’t. He couldn’t tell Rudy that it was his first time. He feared Rudy might think him a coward. Klaus loved hard candy and sucked on a Root Beer Barrel while Rudy gorged on Boston Baked beans. They went through half the candy and discarded the wrappings on the manhole cover. By the time they were finished munching, they were wired like Clancy. A wind-up wide grinning toy monkey holding copper-colored cymbals. When you turned the crank on Clancy’s back, the symbols banged together, and the monkey would jump up and down. Matches in the hands of these two precocious adolescents was a precarious proposition.
Rudy pulled out the box and slid it to one side to reveal the red-tipped matches.
“Why did you bring the whole box, Rudy?”
“Because the only way you can light a match is with the striker on the side. “
“We can’t just strike ’em on something?”
“No. They’ll fall apart. You have to have the striker.”
“My grandpa strikes his on the side of his pants,” said Klaus
“Well, why don’t you get some of his matches then,” Rudy said.
“No, that’s fine. We have the striker.”
Klaus was filled with anticipation. Although the image of Paulinchen on fire came to mind, he knew that he would be careful and nothing like that would happen to him.
Rudy finished the box of Boston Baked beans. He looked at Klaus with a toothy chocolate grin. “You ready?” Rudy said. He pulled out a match, struck the side of the box with a theatrical flair, and nothing happened. Klaus burst out laughing. Rudy tried again, and nothing happened.
“I’ll get it, I’ll get it,” said Rudy in frustration. The match crumbled, and Rudy’s frustration grew along with Klaus’s laughter.
“You think you can do better? Here have at it,” said Rudy
Here was the challenge. It was up to Klaus to prove he could do something he lied about. On the first couple of passes, he couldn’t get one to light. The tables turned, and Rudy was now doing the laughing. However, on the third try for Klaus, sparks flew everywhere. Klaus stared at the fire on the end of the match head but didn’t notice that a spark ignited the pile of debris.
“Oh shit, Klaus, the candy wrappings are burning!”
The cellophane wrappers were spiraling out of control, and the paper bag caught fire as well, as a plum of fire and smoke rose quickly. A loud voice pierced the air.
“What the hell is going on over there, goddamnit? You trying to burn down the whole neighborhood?”
It was old man, Kelly. The boys were dumbfounded. Neither had ever heard Kelly say a word, and they thought he was blind. But here he came hobbling toward them like a crab on two legs. Klaus dropped the box of matches on the debris, which immediately combusted, and the fire erupted.
“You little sons of bitches. I’m gonna tell your parents!”
With that proclamation, the boys ran as fast as they could. They stopped at the end of the alley- breathless.
“I thought you said he couldn’t see?” said Rudy.
“I didn’t say that. I mean, didn’t you think he couldn’t see?”
“Well, I don’t know,” said Rudy.
Maybe he didn’t recognize us,” said Klaus
“We better hope not, or we’re toast,” said Rudy
After catching their breath, Rudy looked down to see that Klaus had grabbed the book. Rudy started laughing.
“What are you laughing at, Rudy?”
“Look in your hand.”
Klaus wasn’t aware that he had actually picked up the book.
“Why didn’t you just throw it on the fire?” said Rudy.
Klaus thought for a moment. He opened the book to the page where Paulina was burning to a crisp. They looked at each other and reflected on what just happened. Klaus closed the book, and they walked out to Hiawatha and turned for home.
“My mom’s gonna kill me,” Rudy said.
