The move to Munich, Germany, came quickly and with little time to acquire a new language. While Munich turned out to be English-friendly, there were still gaps. Moving to Germany meant releasing competencies like taking less then three hours to go shopping, but I expected to struggle. What I didn’t expect was how much I was cut off from the people in public. In the U.S., I was used to being helpful to strangers in little needs. Directions? I can give them. Help carrying something to the car? I can do that. Do you need medical assistance? I can ask that.
But not in Munich.
Midway through my first winter when the snow was deep and long lingering, I boarded a tram and encountered a strong, sweet, almost rotting smell. Riders were gagging as they stood near a person who looked like he lived on the street. I could see his feet. They were wrapped up in soaking wet socks, no shoes. I wanted to call someone. I wanted to ask the man if he was OK. I wanted to tell the tram driver that there was a passenger who may have a rampaging case of gangrene, but my language skills left me mute and powerless. So I silently got off at my stop, hoping for the best for the stranger.
I think the enforced silence was good for me. I learned that Munich already takes care of each other without me. Like many big cities, everyone ignores everyone in public until someone falls down and then five people have the fallen back on their feet before the first bounce. I could let go of saving the world.
After four years, I shop with the same speed and confidence as I did back home. I understand most train announcements. I achieve basic communication as long as we are task orientated and in the present tense. I’ve also become pretty good at not getting involved in other people’s problems. Perhaps too good.
Recently, while waiting for a bus, I noticed an older woman, hunched over her walker, coming toward me. I turned my head away and kept it turned while she spoke to me in German. Finally, I said in English, “I’m sorry, I don’t speak German.” I didn’t want to feel bad about not understanding her, about not being able to help her. She didn’t care. Instead she started asking for help in English. She needed a complicated transfer to get from where we were to where she wanted to be.
My self-protection game was called out.
A few minutes later, a stop after I boarded my bus, a tired, worn-down man entered. He spoke to a woman and she began searching her purse for something. Not finding it, she smiled at him. He turned to me and I was sure that he was about to beg for spare change. I was sure he was a drunk, that he was part of the begging gangs that roam Europe. I was sure I didn’t want any part of him so I said, “I’m sorry, I don’t speak German.”
And, of course, he replied in English, “Do you have a tissue?”
Oh shame on me. Shame on me for pre-judging this man, for pre-judging his request, for trying so hard to hide from his need. At least I had a travel tissue pack.
Then, on yet another bus ride, I noticed an older woman sitting across from me with pain in her knee. She spoke in lament, her voice nearly breaking into tears. This time I knew I had some aspirin. This time our language was a mix of German, Italian and pantomime with large gaps of understanding all mixed up with clear pain relief.
After four years, I learned that I had become helpful again.
Anitra Kitts is a Minister of the Word and Sacrament, member of the Redwoods Presbytery and resident of Munich, Germany, where there are not very many Presbyterians. She occasionally preaches in local English-speaking congregations and writes about theology and migration. Visit her at grace-dancer.org.
