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hundred kilometres from Munich. It was so close to
Belgium that Grandpa could get their Sunday night chips
just over the border before he bought the sausage on the
way back in Mathildesberg’s Currywurst booth. I went for
the ride every time we visited them, hoping we’d meet
some British soldiers in their grey-green trucks on the way
and that they’d answer my friendly waving. Possibly – as a
collective – they were my second love. My first love was
Fergus, and at some point he taught me a few words so
that, leaning out of the back window of Grandpa’s car, I was
able to address them in English.
“Hallo,”
I yelled into the wind, towards the military trucks.
“How do you do!”
Paul had wanted to hear nothing of Grandma’s and
Grandpa’s theories that it would be better for me to grow
up in a small village like Mathildesberg rather than in a,
well, turbulent city like Munich. He decided to finish
university in Munich and, most importantly, to stay with
me in the commune, no matter how difficult life might be
for a penniless, single-parent biology student living with a
bunch of constantly changing flatmates. He never explained
why, although this was a question that could and had to be
asked, because with me in Mathildeberg things would
certainly have been easier. Grandma would have continued
ironing at home for her neighbours while I would have
been sitting at her feet watching the steam billowing from
her ironing machine, which puffed and hissed and spat tiny