4
I knew the man who knelt by the cash register to pick up his change. Black coat, silver hair arranged neatly around his square head. I didn’t notice him right away. Only later did I recognize his teetering gait and the pointy tips of his crocodile leather shoes. At school he passed us smilingly, the way you might pass a group of people whose faces you don’t need to discern. Windmill gave consultations and embodied the arrogance of a successful interpreter who wore the starched collar of his shirts turned up, spoke multiple languages to perfection, and got assignments from all the big institutions. Rumor had it that his voice was so agreeable over headphones that at one point he’d received a suggestive offer from a delegate of Liechtenstein. In most of his lectures he reached a state of ultimate self-reference.
Windmill stood at the register and paid for a sandwich. There was nothing but a cemetery, a funeral home, and a drugstore near the Northwest Hospital. I sat in the hospital cafeteria facing a watery soup that I couldn’t bring myself to eat. I kept imagining which bacteria were swimming among the overcooked potatoes and canned carrots. Elias had been in the orthopedic ward for two weeks and still had at least that long to go. We counted the days. The number seemed large or small depending on the mood.
Windmill gave me a smile. I cautiously smiled back. He came over and asked whether he could sit with me. All the other tables in the cafeteria were unoccupied. I nodded.
“You know what? I think we’ve met before.”
Again, I nodded.
“You were one of my students, weren’t you?” He smiled encouragingly. “Why did you drop out of my seminar?” He took a bite of his sandwich.
I remained silent.
“Russian?”
“A bit.”
I was about to elaborate, but Windmill waved dismissively and said, “I’d rather hear about your B-languages.”
“Russian, French, and English.”
“Any others?”
“Not as working languages.”
“But I’m sure you have C-options.”
I nodded and didn’t know what to say. Windmill peered at me. I nodded again and stared into my cup.
On my third day in Germany I went to school and was promptly demoted by two grades. Instead of practicing algebra I was supposed to color mandalas with crayons.
I accompanied my parents to the immigration office and there learned that language meant power. If you didn’t speak any German you had no voice. And if you only spoke a little you went unheard. Applications were accepted and dismissed according to accent. We waited until my parents’ number came up on the monitor above the heavy iron door. The wait was usually very long. The immigration office rarely managed to process more than five migrants a day, and we had to stand in line hours before opening to have a chance at getting our turn before closing time. I also accompanied my mother to parent-teacher meetings—a thoroughly tormenting affair. I sat next to her in the hallway, sporting a bowl cut, substantial eyeglasses, and braces. I stared at my feet and took turns being embarrassed about my mother and myself. The German, math, and geography teachers announced unanimously that my language skills were subpar and that I was out of place at this high school. Impatiently I translated this for my mother. The high school that I attended knew immigrants solely from tabloid papers and afternoon TV shows. In my class there was a girl whose mother was from Finland and in my year a boy whose mother was Dutch, but neither of them wore clothes purchased at the discount store, and both were Mormons anyway. There were no Arabs, blacks, or Turks. I trudged behind my classmates, tried to acquire the same clothing style and hobbies, neither of which we could afford. When the class was too loud I was blamed, despite the fact that I was too ashamed to open my mouth. For three years I hardly spoke a word and instead focused on a vague idea of “later.” I wove dreams: studied maps, read travel guides, and made lists of things I would need on my travels. I was sure that everything would be better once I left and started living, as a photographer, journalist, or stewardess. Our small town had an American military base and sometimes I thought about marrying a soldier. But I didn’t find myself pretty enough and later I learned that the soldiers’ wives stayed in Germany. But I wanted to leave.
In the eleventh grade I had a German teacher who suffered from hair loss. Neither her colleagues nor her students forgave her for that. When she couldn’t take the humiliation any longer, she passed it on. It was a quiet, wan winter afternoon in the airless classroom. The German teacher also taught social studies and we were on the topic of immigrant delinquency. Everybody was in favor of immediate deportation of criminal aliens. Specifically, we were talking about the Mehmet case. Although I wouldn’t want to run into this Mehmet guy in a dark alley, I failed to grasp what set him apart from German criminals. He’d been born in Germany, raised in Munich, and attended only German public schools. The only difference was he didn’t have German citizenship. My teacher made sure to tell us exactly what was wrong with him.
When I couldn’t take the discussion any longer, I took my craft scissors out of my pencil case and approached the teacher. I stood facing her, scissors in my right hand. At that moment, I knew I could do anything I wanted. I tore the wig from her head. Somebody gave a loud laugh as her scalp was revealed, almost bald with only a few streaks of limp hair. She didn’t resist. Just looked at me, shocked. I pitied her, because—like me—she was a victim. But unlike her I’d decided to defend myself.
I was expelled. My mother was horrified, my father amused and a little bit proud. I knew that now everything would get better. At first I wanted to give up school altogether and instead go on a trip around the world, but I had neither the money nor a German passport. Therefore, I switched over to the Max Beckmann School in Frankfurt and moved in with Sibel. I was seventeen.
Now I spoke five languages fluently and a few others like white trash Germans speak German. But I didn’t have anything that resembled free time.
“What are you doing here?” Windmill asked.
“I’m visiting my boyfriend.”
He nodded and didn’t ask about Elias, which was all right by me.
“And you?” I asked.
“I’m going to give you my card. Let me know if I can help with anything.”
Even after Windmill had long finished his meal and left I still held his card in my hand.