All Russians Love Birch Trees (4 page)

I was so angry that I walked the entire way to the university. I hoped that would calm me down. On foot it took an hour. I had to cross the crowded downtown and financial districts. En route I was asked to donate money three times, smiled at six times, two people asked for a cigarette, three people asked me for a euro, and an aging hippie asked me to give him a tantra massage. I was too late for my seminar and my French translation was subadequate. In general, I wasn’t in the mood for
Simultaneous Interpretation French–German III
and
Introduction à la problématique des techniques industrielles
. Or any translation for that matter.

My professor asked me to come to his office hours. Over the course of my studies I had never gotten worse than a 3.7 and that was by accident in the first semester. This afternoon he would be sitting across from me, stirring his spoon around his blue mug and asking me to work harder. Then he would inquire
about vineyards in Azerbaijan and would pity me for becoming multilingual so late in life. I would never be a native speaker, nothing to be done about that. And I would remain silent and stir my unsweetened tea and not mention the superb cognac from Ganja. A cognac that is available neither in an elegant bottle nor at a fancy specialty shop on Fressgass Street, but only in Ganja and only in small canisters that are mailed exclusively to real connoisseurs or close relatives. I furthermore would abstain from mentioning that I didn’t learn Azerbaijani from my parents, but from our neighbors, and that I’d spoken it fluently and without an accent until we emigrated to Germany, where I no longer had a reason to speak it in my daily life anymore. And I would leave him in the dark about the fact that in Azerbaijan, starting at age five, I had a private tutor in English and French and that my mother had to sell her mother’s diamond ring to pay for it. I wouldn’t tell him that people who live without running water aren’t necessarily uneducated. But my professor was my professor. He sponsored foster children in Africa and India. His multiculturalism took place in congress halls, convention centers, and expensive hotels. To him integration meant demanding fewer hijabs and more skin, hunting for exclusive wines and exotic travel destinations.

When I arrived at the hospital I was even angrier. Rainer said that Elias was in the middle of an examination. Heinz added, winking: “It might take a while. But don’t worry, stay with us. We’ll take care of you.” Both laughed.

I slammed my books on the table and went straight back out. There was a little park between the different wards, but it wasn’t quiet there either. The benches were constantly occupied by old people, the narrow paths congested with wheelchairs. I sat down on the only free bench and lit a cigarette. Not five minutes later a delicate old lady with a colorful hijab and golden front teeth sat down next to me. From her hospital pajamas she produced a bag of sunflower seeds, cracked them in her mouth, and spit the empty shells onto the ground directly in front of my feet.

“It’s not allowed inside anymore. The neighbors complain to the doctor.”

I replied in Russian, and her face lit up. She waved the bag of sunflower seeds in my face.

“Do you have a fiancé?”

“No.”

“A boyfriend?”

I nodded. She spit out a bunch of empty shells, satisfied.

“When I was your age I was already married.”

I shrugged.

“How often?”

“Excuse me?”

“How often?” She repeated. “How often does he hit you? Does he hit hard, with full force?”

“He doesn’t.”

“Everybody hits. My husband hit me. My mother-in-law. She, she hit the hardest. She was quite a hitter, that one. But my daughter-in-law was bad, too. I was in a hospital for two years.”

“Two years?”

“Yes. Two years.”

“Was it a locked ward?”

“Of course not, I’m perfectly clear in the head. What are you talking about? I was pregnant. With my seventh.”

I said nothing.

“As if six weren’t enough. I told him not to touch me anymore, but he kept on doing it anyway.”

I nodded.

“I didn’t want anymore. I went up on top of the closet and jumped. The abdominal organs fell out and here I was. And now I’m here again.”

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.

5

The room was overheated and stuffy. Elias didn’t say a word and neither did I. Heinz had been released a couple of days ago and Rainer was being examined.

“I would cover it with a blanket if I could,” said Elias.

I pulled my knees to my chest and rested my head on them, a position in which I saw neither Elias nor his wound.

“Are you not going to look at me until I’m completely healed?”

“I just can’t look at your leg.”

“Why not?”

I paced the room. Elias followed me with his desperate, tired eyes. Still, at his core he was healthy, and I envied him this. He lowered his gaze.

“I don’t know how long I’ll be able to bear this,” he said.

“Are you breaking up with me?”

“I can’t help you.”

“Did I ask for your help?”

“Why don’t you finally tell me what happened to you? You didn’t emigrate until 1996. And by then, you didn’t really have to anymore.”

“Didn’t really have to anymore? What do you know?”

“Exactly. What do I know?” Elias repeated bitterly.

“You sound like the immigration office,” I said, interrupting him.

He took a deep breath and said, “It’s impossible to have a relationship like this.”

“So, that’s it? You’re breaking up with me?” I yelled.

“No!”

“Then none of this bullshit.”

I stormed out and slammed the door behind me. We had this conversation rather frequently and it got worse every time.

In the restroom I held my hands under the warm water. First the backs, then the wrists, until finally I
held my head under the jet. Water dripped onto my feet. I thought about running away. It would take me two hours to pack and be out of the apartment. I could survive in most countries. Actually, now that I thought about it, I didn’t really need anything. I could just go.

I went back in. Elias smiled and reached out for me. I took a step closer to the bed. The sun died in the sky and flooded the room with warm light.

“There was a child and a father. The father wanted to bring the child to safety. It was a ten-minute walk to her grandmother’s apartment. The child wasn’t even seven years old and she felt that something had changed over the past few days, but couldn’t say what. That was what the child was thinking about when next to her a woman hit the asphalt. The pool of blood slowly reached the child’s shoes and the tips of the shoes soaked up the red. The blood was warm and the woman was younger than I am today. The child pushed back a strand of hair and a bit of blood remained on her cheek. It could have been worse, the grandmother said later that evening, as she cleaned the bloody crust off the child’s shoes.”