At Dagwood and Blondie's

Early last week I visited Dagwood and Blondie at their home on Long Island. I had told them that I was researching a book on the Sunday funnies, but I was really there for a different reason altogether. I had recently learned that the couple known as Dagwood and Blondie are actually Mr. and Mrs. Hermann Bömstadt, aged ex-Nazis now trying to lead quiet, anonymous lives in the suburbs.

Don't jump to conclusions, I told myself. Give them a chance.

I got there without a hitch. They had given me good directions. "Take the first left after you pass the synagogue. We're the third house on the right." Their name was on the mailbox: The Bumsteads. Their lawn was meticulously mowed and greener, it seemed, than any other lawn on the block. Their welcome mat said WELCOME.

I rang the doorbell and Blondie greeted me, saying, "Welcome, Mr. Cherches," surely thinking, "Vilkommen, Herr Cherches." Blondie's real name is Hilda. "Dagwood is not here yet," she told me. "He just left the American Legion. He should be home shortly." Dagwood, retired for many years, spends most days at the American Legion bar, drinking Beck's beer and eating enormous sandwiches--the kind that are known in Germany as Hermann sandwiches.

While we were waiting for Dagwood, Blondie showed me their collection of Bumstead memorabilia: comic strips, movie stills, and consumer products, like the Dagwood and Blondie bubble bath bottles. When Dagwood got home Blondie served dinner, an American classic, franks and beans. We drank Budweiser. During dinner the Bumsteads reminisced, for my benefit. Dagwood told me several funny Mr. Dithers stories. I found them both quite charming, but at one point in the conversation Dagwood made a telling slip. "Good knockwurst, yes?" he asked, immediately turning red. There was a nervous silence and then Blondie changed the subject.

After dinner we sat around for a while, just talking. They did their best to make me feel welcome, made sure my beer mug was always full. Then Dagwood turned on the television. "Our favorite show," he said. "Please. I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all," I said, and I moved to the sofa. I sat there, between the Bumsteads, munching on pretzels, drinking beer, watching Letterman, laughing at the jokes of a Jewish comedian as we jovially elbowed each other, knowing I’d have to file my report the following day.