Cont'd …

And that’s how your life disappears, she reflected, observing other people’s regulations in a place you don’t belong.

The telephone rang again.  Jennifer was not expecting any calls now, although she was dreading that one might come from her mother in England.  She watched the telephone for a while before lifting the handset.  Placing it carefully to her ear, she listened and heard – nothing.  It was a long, empty nothing that might well be coming from far away, she thought.  Probably her mother.

The instant she replaced the handset in its cradle, the telephone rang again.  Jennifer snatched it up and shouted, “Hallo?”

“Hallo,” said a chatty voice in German at the other end, “I’m ringing up about your fridge.”

“I’m sorry?”

“The fridge you’ve advertised.  Is it gone?”

“I’m sorry, I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You don’t have a fridge for sale?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Oh, I must have the wrong number.  OK.  Sorry. Bye.”  With which words the caller hung up.

Jennifer put the phone down.  Outside, she heard the high, thin screeching of a locomotive’s brakes, followed by the metallic tones of the station announcer. “On platform 3 … The 6:30 from Kiel … Passengers for Munich … Passengers for Stuttgart … Careful at the departure.”  Watching the sun glancing off the roofs of the carriages and turning the electric cables into dewy webs, she was reminded of one of the first English lessons she had given here in Heidelberg.  Standing before a class of old-aged pensioners, second generation immigrants and political refugees, she had solemnly read out from the crisp new textbook before her:

“This is Herr Müller.  He is going to Frankfurt.  This is Mr. Smith.  He is going to Frankfurt, too.”  She had paused and looked up at the faces looking at her.  They were following her performance with silent absorption. “They are both going to Frankfurt,” she had read on. “Herr Müller is going to the Book Fair.  Mr. Smith is going to the Book Fair, too.  Herr Müller is going there by train.  Mr. Smith is going there by plane. They are going to meet there at two o’clock.” The faces all wore the same expression, the heads tilted to one side and a certain slackness discernible about the jaw. “So,” she said, raising her voice and almost clapping her hands as she spoke, “where is Herr Müller going?” Silence.  “Can anyone tell me where Herr Müller is going?” The silence deepened.  Jennifer stole a glance at the register on the desk before her. “Frau Metzner? Herr Yildiz?” Several glances alighted on the register.  “Can anyone tell me where Mr. Smith is going?” attempted Jennifer. “Herr Lu, where is Mr. Smith going, do you think?”

It had been all she could do to keep herself from bursting into tears on the spot.  Later, when she was alone, it all came out, a great hot endless stream of shock and shame and horror.  And yet she had gone back the next day.  She had gone back the next day, and she had stood in front of that class again, and she had gone through it all one more time, five more times, twenty more times, with Herr Müller going to Frankfurt and Mr. Smith going to Frankfurt and the two of them going to meet, and at the end of the day, a triumphant Herr Lu had spontaneously announced, “Now I going schwimm”, pointing to his rucksack and making breast-stroke movements as he spoke.  And that had given her the encouragement to sit down that evening and prepare the next unit in the book, and after that came another unit, and another unit, and then a new chapter, and then a new book, and then a new term, and then a new year – And five years later had seen her doing much the same sort of thing.

But she had not gone back to England.  At least she had not gone back to England, she reflected.

The telephone rang.  She rushed to pick it up.

“Hallo?”

“Jennifer? Hi.” It was the voice of the new tenant’s boyfriend, thick with sleep and Bavarian vowels. “Glad I caught you.  Look, Katrin’s just asked me to ask you whether you’ve got a connection for a washing-machine there.”

“For a washing-machine?”          

“Yeah, is there one plumbed in? Cause we’ve just seen this second-hand washing-machine in the paper –”

“I’ve never had a washing-machine.”

“Yeah, but Katrin thought she’d seen a connection under the sink … No …? You’re sure …? Well, maybe we can have it plumbed in, anyway … Oh, it’s good value, all right.  OK then, sorry to have woken you – oh, no, you must have been awake …”

Page 3

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