I FIRST met Mr. A at the gate of my apartment building April 30 when we IJP program participants had to leave for our apartments.

　　When I took a taxi to the address Martina Johns, the program coordinator, showed me on a piece of paper, I found myself in trouble. The gate was not open.

　　I tried the doorbell, but the name Martina told me was not there. I tried to make a call with a public phone, but found the phone was out of order. I asked those going in and out of the gate, but nobody seemed to know my landlord who was named Paul.

　　I stood outside the gate, feeling a little worried and silly when a man sitting by another gate came up to me.

　　With everything being strange to me here, I was on guard at first. He said something that I couldn’t understand, but from his expression and gesture I could see he meant no harm to me. I felt a little more relaxed.

　　He looked ordinary, middle-aged, dressed in gray clothes, without a clean shave. I had noticed him sitting there smoking for quite a few moments, but I had not asked him for help, as I thought he was just idling away his time.

　　I anxiously showed him the piece of paper, and told him my problem. He seemed to get an idea. He took me in and asked a man inside about my landlord, but got no positive answer. He took a mobile phone from his jacket pocket and dialed the number I showed him, and then shook his head regretfully.

　　Coming out of the building, I thought I had troubled him enough, so I thanked him for his kindness. It seemed I had to turn to Martina for help when I found the man calling again with his mobile phone. He happily came to me and passed me the phone. Somebody was inside.

　　After I talked to my landlord over the phone, I offered the man two euros for his calls. Much to my surprise, he turned down my offer, showing he was happy to do me the favor.

　　In the following days I did not find Mr. A again. But one morning at 8:30 on my way to the office, I saw him in a supermarket, drinking beer with some friends.

　　My landlord said there were many unemployed people in Germany who lived off government financial aid, and drank almost all day long. He said Mr. A could be one of them.

　　Maybe Mr. A was, and regretfully I don’t even know his real name, but I know he was an ordinary German who was kind and generous to me.