The First Time I Met Thomaschen

I met Thomas Wörtche in 1990 at Semana Negra (Black Week), the yearly gathering of international crime novelists, editors, and publishers in Gijón, Spain. The gathering still goes strong, thanks to the fraternal spirit of its founding organizer, the legendary author-journalist-political activist Paco Ignacio Taibo II of Mexico City.

New to the scene of crime literature, I quicky accepted Señor Taibo’s invitation to Gijón, seeing it as a golden opportunity to meet colleagues beyond the clubby boundaries of my own New York City. What I could not foresee was how I accidentally turned the page to my dear friend Thomaschen’s future, and how I enhanced my own.

On the opening evening of Semana Negra, a meet-and-greet reception for us “criminals,” as we came to call ourselves, was held at the municipal police headquarters. We were clustered about the place, gradually stepping out from our own little nationality groups to mingle with others.    

My first conversation was a most pleasant one—in English, regrettably my only tongue—with the wonderful Berlin novelist Pieke Biermann. I moved on to equally pleasant conversations with other non-Americans from here and there around the world, then wound up speaking with a klatsch of German writers and editors, which included Thomas Wörtche.

“I was talking with your wife a few minutes ago,” I said to him.

“My wife?!” Thomas was aghast. “She’s here?!”

“Just across the room,” I said, pointing to Pieke Biermann.

Clearly relieved, Thomas said, “Well, I wouldn’t mind…but my wife is actually at home in Germany. I don’t know Pieke Biermann.”

As the days went on, Herr Wörtche and Frau Biermann became an “item,” as the New York press would say. I imagine the two of them began their fandango with a private laugh over the monolingual American who somehow got it into his head that they were husband and wife.

…But then, some weeks later, came this telephone call:

“Well, since it’s all your fault,” said Thomas over the transatlantic line, “please arrange for us a wedding in New York.”

Which I dutifully did—a civil service at City Hall in lower Manhattan.

The brief ceremony was followed by a nice long luncheon at nearby Fraunces Tavern. This pleased Thomas’ penchant for military history, for in 1783—in the very dining room of that tavern—General George Washington bade farewell to the revolutionary troops he led to victory over British colonial rule. 

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All of us, writers or no, appear as different characters in the multi-chaptered books we make of our lives. There is poetry in that. As the song goes: Sunrise sunset/Swiftly fly the years/One season following another/Laden with happiness and tears…

Nowadays, Thomas is himself husband to a poet, the estimable Anna Hoffmann.

Pieke has written many fine books since 1990, my favorite being “Violetta.” Five years ago, I had another nice long luncheon, this time with Pieke at her home in Berlin. We talked of her research for a possible new book: dark chapters of her father’s life.

Thirteen years ago, I received another telephone call from Thomas Wörtche: Would I be interested in writing for CulturMag—specifically, a running diary of Barack Obama’s campaign for a second term as president of the United States?

Indeed, that interests me, I replied.

Thomas asked, Will you be objective?

Absolutely not, I answered.

Now, thirteen years later, here am I, and it’s all Thomas Wörtche’s fault.

—Thomas Adcock

U.S. Correspondent for CulturMag  – his essays with us, a new one every month, are here to find …