One May afternoon, a lanky British man in a wool sweater followed William into a London pub, the Blue Ox Tavern. The man got a pint of ale and sauntered up to William.
“You any good at darts, lad?” he asked, taking a sip of his ale, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.
“I’m good at everything,” William said, simply, as if it was an undisputed fact.
“Can I have a go, lad? Winner buys the next ale.”
“I never turn down a free ale.” William handed him a dart. “The center is the bull’s-eye, lad,” he said, mocking the man.
“I would be honored to play with such an expert.” The man smiled. “So, what’s your name?”
“William.” He aimed his dart.
The man grabbed William’s arm, and William shook him off. “Wait your turn!”
“There will be no bull’s-eyes tonight. You’re the one I’ve been looking for. You are under arrest,” the man said.
“Since when is it illegal to get drunk and play darts?” William asked. “This is England, after all.”
“You’re an enemy alien! You’re a Jerry.”
“I’m a German Jew. I’m an enemy of Hitler,” William said. “I was brought into your country on the Kindertransport to escape the Nazis.”
“What a delightful tale. You’re over sixteen, and you’re German. You’re an enemy alien until you can prove otherwise. Your new home is the prison on the Isle of Man.”
The man handcuffed William and marched him out of the pub.
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