ONE – MEETING
Therese Lohmeyer is verbally abusing a hospital coffee maker when I first meet her. The accent suggest she’s German.
The vocabulary confirms it. No disrespect to my Australian friends but nobody tops a German for swearing. I’m still trying to sort out where one insult ends and another begins when she realizes I’m there and turns around, some red in her cheeks.
“No, go on, this is educational,” I assure her with a smile.
“This is – it is not making the coffee,” she says, shaking a fist at the machine in question. “Where is the coffee to put into it?”
I look past her and, sure enough, the little tray alongside the machine has packets of sugar and cream, paper cups, plastic lids, stirrers, but no actual coffee. Well, there are packets of decaffeinated coffee, but Britain being a civilized country, no one has availed themselves of the wretched things.
“Well, let’s see.” I get to my feet and look around in the manner of a TV sleuth before opening up one of the low cabinets at the side of the empty cafeteria. “Here we go.” I pull out a cardboard box holding the great prize – packets of ground coffee, just waiting to be dumped into the maw of the machine.
“Coffee!” she exclaims, confirming my suspicions she’s been up for an indecent amount of time.
“Don’t tell anyone.”
“How did you know it was in there?”
I just smile knowingly. (I saw a nurse do the same thing last night, but never mind that.)
She smirks and I suppose she’s guessed my mysterious trick. “Well, okay. Thank you.”
The machine takes its sweet time to dispense the coffee.
“You’re not a patient, are you?” she asks me after a minute or two.
“No, just visiting. My brother’s gone and broken his leg, the git.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. What happened?”
“Icy pavement, mobile phone, not a smashing combination this time around.”
She winces. “Sorry.”
“What about you?”
“I’m here to get stabbed with needles.”
“How’s that?”
“A blood examination. A blood test, I mean.”
I start to put the pieces together. German. Blood test. “Citizenship?”
“Citizenship, yes!” Her face lights up for a second and then she rubs her arm. “But this blood test, I don’t like it.”
It’s rather stupid, I agree, a relic of the grim old days when British policy was designed to keep Germans out and, failing that, to make the process as miserable as possible. There’s little medical reason for it, at least in this century.
I don’t ask why she didn’t go to a clinic (later, it turns out she lives five minutes walk from the hospital, although I’m not sure that compensates for waiting around two hours after the test to get the results).
I have a hundred more interesting questions.
I introduce myself.
“Very nice to meet you. I am Therese Lohmeyer.”
“Very nice to meet you, Miss Lohmeyer.”
We sip at our coffee in silence for a while.
“What do you do?” I finally ask.
“I am stewardess on Air Thames.”
I nod. Air Thames is one of the smaller airlines in Britain. They have flights to Manchester and Newcastle, as best I can remember. It is not exactly Commonwealth Air.
“How do you like it?”
“It’s better than home. Everything here is better.”
“Even the weather?”
“Ach, not the weather, no,” she admits. “I like snow. I miss snow. In Posen, there were real winters. And in Frankfurt, not so cloudy all of the time.”
“Are you from Posen, then?” I assume as much. Even with all the Reich’s incentives, the general drift is still from East to West, at least if you don’t want to become a yeoman farmer.
Her expression hardens a little. This is a little too much like an interview or an interrogation, maybe.
“I’m sorry, I’m asking too many questions. We don't see many Germans in London, that’s all.” And they’re usual the bastards at the embassy.
“No, no, it is okay.”
“You know, it’s only cloudy two out of every three days here,” I say as I finish my coffee.
She smiles a little, finishes her own. “I hope your brother is on both feet again soon,” she says before heading out.
Just a passing encounter between a native and an expatriate. Happens all the time, especially in a city like London.
Except of course that was only the first meeting.
Therese Lohmeyer is verbally abusing a hospital coffee maker when I first meet her. The accent suggest she’s German.
The vocabulary confirms it. No disrespect to my Australian friends but nobody tops a German for swearing. I’m still trying to sort out where one insult ends and another begins when she realizes I’m there and turns around, some red in her cheeks.
“No, go on, this is educational,” I assure her with a smile.
“This is – it is not making the coffee,” she says, shaking a fist at the machine in question. “Where is the coffee to put into it?”
I look past her and, sure enough, the little tray alongside the machine has packets of sugar and cream, paper cups, plastic lids, stirrers, but no actual coffee. Well, there are packets of decaffeinated coffee, but Britain being a civilized country, no one has availed themselves of the wretched things.
“Well, let’s see.” I get to my feet and look around in the manner of a TV sleuth before opening up one of the low cabinets at the side of the empty cafeteria. “Here we go.” I pull out a cardboard box holding the great prize – packets of ground coffee, just waiting to be dumped into the maw of the machine.
“Coffee!” she exclaims, confirming my suspicions she’s been up for an indecent amount of time.
“Don’t tell anyone.”
“How did you know it was in there?”
I just smile knowingly. (I saw a nurse do the same thing last night, but never mind that.)
She smirks and I suppose she’s guessed my mysterious trick. “Well, okay. Thank you.”
The machine takes its sweet time to dispense the coffee.
“You’re not a patient, are you?” she asks me after a minute or two.
“No, just visiting. My brother’s gone and broken his leg, the git.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. What happened?”
“Icy pavement, mobile phone, not a smashing combination this time around.”
She winces. “Sorry.”
“What about you?”
“I’m here to get stabbed with needles.”
“How’s that?”
“A blood examination. A blood test, I mean.”
I start to put the pieces together. German. Blood test. “Citizenship?”
“Citizenship, yes!” Her face lights up for a second and then she rubs her arm. “But this blood test, I don’t like it.”
It’s rather stupid, I agree, a relic of the grim old days when British policy was designed to keep Germans out and, failing that, to make the process as miserable as possible. There’s little medical reason for it, at least in this century.
I don’t ask why she didn’t go to a clinic (later, it turns out she lives five minutes walk from the hospital, although I’m not sure that compensates for waiting around two hours after the test to get the results).
I have a hundred more interesting questions.
I introduce myself.
“Very nice to meet you. I am Therese Lohmeyer.”
“Very nice to meet you, Miss Lohmeyer.”
We sip at our coffee in silence for a while.
“What do you do?” I finally ask.
“I am stewardess on Air Thames.”
I nod. Air Thames is one of the smaller airlines in Britain. They have flights to Manchester and Newcastle, as best I can remember. It is not exactly Commonwealth Air.
“How do you like it?”
“It’s better than home. Everything here is better.”
“Even the weather?”
“Ach, not the weather, no,” she admits. “I like snow. I miss snow. In Posen, there were real winters. And in Frankfurt, not so cloudy all of the time.”
“Are you from Posen, then?” I assume as much. Even with all the Reich’s incentives, the general drift is still from East to West, at least if you don’t want to become a yeoman farmer.
Her expression hardens a little. This is a little too much like an interview or an interrogation, maybe.
“I’m sorry, I’m asking too many questions. We don't see many Germans in London, that’s all.” And they’re usual the bastards at the embassy.
“No, no, it is okay.”
“You know, it’s only cloudy two out of every three days here,” I say as I finish my coffee.
She smiles a little, finishes her own. “I hope your brother is on both feet again soon,” she says before heading out.
Just a passing encounter between a native and an expatriate. Happens all the time, especially in a city like London.
Except of course that was only the first meeting.
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