Fritz Scharenberg poses for some pictures by a soapstone sculpture of an Arctic seal that stands in a corner of his office.

"This was made by Eskimos north of Siberia," Fritz says, affectionately patting the seal's snow-white head. "I like him because we look alike. We have the same expression."

Oddly enough, it's true. The seal looks content, as though it has a fresh fish still squiggling in its round tummy. And yet, the eyes express a sense of vulnerability, as if the creature instinctively knows that life is a case of give and take, and a full belly today doesn't offset an empty one the next day, or week, or year.

Fritz Scharenberg has a lot of reasons to look content. Developer of Key Colony, he owns an apartment there, a house and 120-foot sailboat in Portugal, commercial properties from the Key to Canada and, no doubt, a fairly robust bank account. Yet his eyes hold a hint of vulnerability that comes from knowing what is gained today could be lost tomorrow.

Key Colony, Fritz's local pride and joy, is winner of numerous accolades, including the National Association of Home Builders Grand Award. Many of the prizes are for landscaping, and you just have to drive by the place to understand why.

"I'm proud of the landscaping for Key Colony," he says. "Each morning I go all the way around--it's 1,200 units that you don't even see."

Perhaps that is a bit of an exaggeration, because it is hard to miss the unique design of the terraced highrises.

"The terraces were an interesting problem because I wanted a lot of area without giving up privacy," he says. "We designed them at a 32 degree angle so that you can't look down from the terrace above to see the one below."

He laughs.

"You have to be a metallurgy engineer to come up with that because the architects don't."

Despite his accomplishments, Fritz is soft-spoken and as private as his lushly landscaped development. He is not much more likely than the soapstone seal to wear a tie, or even socks, for that matter. His hair is the color of straw and looks to be as tough to comb. And beneath the quiet assuredness of a self-made man, that look of vulnerability surfaces from time to time.

You see it when he talks about his latest project on the Key: a commercial/residential development on Crandon Boulevard between the Key Biscayne Arcade and his 35,000 square-foot Offices by the Sea. He presented architect's renderings of the Key West-style development to the Village Council on Feb. 25 and received unanimous support for the project "in theory."

According to Fritz, city planner Raul Lastra has provided input all along, and the building, zoning and planning department has been consulted. But an unexpected problem with land use regulations has threatened to stall the project indefinitely.

"We've spent 10 months and $500,000 planning and designing a project and now they tell me I have to go to Tallahassee to get a change of land use," Fritz says, shaking his head incredulously. "I say I'm not going to do it. I'm going to build whatever I can under the existing land use."

He seems more hurt than angry, disappointed that he might have to compromise the architectural ingenuity of a project that not only oozes an island flavor but also promises to set a standard for future development along Crandon Boulevard.

"I was naive enough to think that what we were going to build could be built," he says. "I'd appreciate a public hearing because I'd like to tell the people why we're not building what we planned."

He says this, but deep down Fritz Scharenberg must know from experience that life doesn't always happen according to plans.

From riches to rags

He was born in eastern Pommeria, which is now Poland. His mother's family were landowners and his father was a forester who eventually joined the army. It was a comfortable, protected life with nannies, private schools and plenty of time for sports such as handball and sailing. But this childhood idyll was rudely disrupted by World War II.

"I was 13 years old and suddenly we were refugees," he says. "That wasn't funny. Five million people moved to the west [of Germany] and were forcibly placed into homes, which didn't endear us to the people already living there. My father, who was wounded now, mother, brother, sister and I all moved into one and a half rooms in a lady's house, sharing the kitchen and one bathroom.

"I was old enough to realize that there wasn't much of a future--no food, no money, no work--so when I was nearly 16, I escaped the misery by joining the Merchant Marines."

His first job was as the mate of a two-man crew aboard a ship which ran from Germany to the Baltic Sea, bringing lumber to the homeland to shore up coal mines because there was no steel available. There is a subtle irony here, because Fritz would eventually make his first fortune producing steel. But that was years away.

He sailed a good part of the world on various ships before settling on the Atlas. This freighter transported general cargo to Morocco, Egypt, Turkey and other Mediterranean ports and brought grain back to Germany. One fateful day in Antwerp, the ship caught fire.

"Everyone in the crew got a discharge and a new suit," Fritz says. "At that age, you live life on a day-to-day basis with no fixed plan. If that ship wouldn't have burned, I probably would have stayed in the Merchant Marines."

Instead, he went back to Germany, got the equivalent of a high school degree in seven months and then attended a university where he studied law. While in school, he won a Fulbright scholarship to attend Columbia University for a year.

"This kind of thing goes back to Roman times," he explains. "If you win a war, you pick some people to bring over for a while, and then send them back to their homeland as ambassadors."

Coming from a totally devastated Europe, the U.S. was a completely different world for him. He lived in a dorm called the International House and worked as a messenger, learning English on the fly.

After the year was up, he put off returning to Germany, opting instead to join his roommate, Juan, in his homeland of Peru. Fritz worked for a bank, then joined Juan on an expedition into the wilds of Madre Dios.

"We hired four Indian guides to carry our tents and supplies and brought salt, dynamite and guns, because you had to kill what you ate," he reminisces. "You had to walk in the rivers; that was the only way through the jungle. We put nails in our boots to keep from slipping on rocks, and by the end of the day, your feet were so sore..." He still grimaces at the memory.

After a year in Peru, Fritz returned to Germany, got a degree in economics from the University of Innsbruck and landed a job with a steel producing company. Bright and eager to learn, he was chosen to study metallurgy. The routine was taxing because he had to work all day and learn his lessons at night. But it would eventually pay off in a big way.

First real money

The steel company sent him to the U.S., where the advanced technology cut costs of the smelting process by half of what it was in Germany. After learning the process and rounding up an American investor, he returned to Germany to start his own metal production plant.

"It was all very new at the time, and you didn't let anyone into the factory to see how it was done," Fritz says. "The first factory was so successful that we built a second one. Eventually, we sold it to an American company, and I made some real money for the first time."

Meanwhile, Fritz had bought a house in Portugal where he'd go for vacation. He decided to move there and soon got into the development business. He developed a large office building in downtown Lisbon as well as a couple of other projects, including the beginnings of a tourist complex in the Algarve, Portugal's southernmost province. But in 1974, for the second time in his life, political upheaval took away everything he had.

"The revolution was a one-night affair," he says. "The communist party got power and nationalized the banks, cancelling all loans. I lost everything but waited around nine months for a counter-revolution, which came but was unsuccessful. "I made the mistake of investing everything in one location, a mistake I won't make again."

Bouncing back

After the fiasco in Portugal, Fritz went to Canada, rounded up some investors and began building the Fininvest Corporation.

In 1977, he came to Key Biscayne to check out an intriguing property even though a water supply problem had caused an island-wide building moratorium.

"At that time, Key Colony was a rundown hotel and nine-hole golf course," he explains. "We wanted to develop it, so I went to the Metro-Dade Water Authority and asked how much it would cost for a new water main. They said $1.8 million, so I asked where they wanted me to open up a bank account for $1.8 million."

It turned out to be a wise investment.

"We started Key Colony in 1977 and had the first closing by the end of 1978," he says. "It was the right timing to make good money."

And so it goes, from project to project. Along with the commercial/residential development on the Key, he's also working on another tourist complex in the Algarve. Hopefully, this one won't be interrupted by a revolution.

Fritz's career has somewhat robbed him of a family life. He married a woman he met while attending the University of Innsbruck and they had a daughter who is now 30 years old and lives with her mother in Germany.

"When I was running the factory in Germany, I worked from six in the morning to 10 at night," he says. "I built a bedroom next to my office, which is not much basis for a marriage." You see that vulnerability in his eyes as he explains how he and his former wife have a good relationship despite the fact that their marriage took a back seat to his career.

More than most of us, Fritz's life has been one of give and take. And what has been taken from Fritz Scharenberg seems to have left as large an impression as what has been given him.

"When you twice lose everything," he says, "it makes you modest."