In the Twilight Zone

I'm not sure what I expected from this student exchange venture. I'm sure I hoped I would be speaking fluent German by the time I returned to the U.K. I know I hoped that this friendship with Brigitte would be a great one -- and really it could have been, if her family hadn't been so weird.

I knew I was in trouble when, alone with Brigitte's mother for less than an hour, I was asked to vacuum the house. It wasn't that she was a slave-driver, she was a hypochondriac (or, on reflection, maybe she just hated housework). She had been in the middle of vacuuming when I arrived, and got back to it after our awkward introductions. But suddenly she put her hand to her forehead and made as if she was going to faint. She turned off the vacuum cleaner and collapsed on the couch.

Terrified, I ran over and asked if she was ok. She held out her hands and pointed to her nails. I did understand the word for 'blue' and realized she was telling me her fingernails were turning blue -- and clutching her heart she began to pant. She thought she was having a heart-attack. But she was well enough to point me toward the vacuum cleaner and make me understand I was to finish the job for her - which I did. I hadn't even seen my room or unpacked yet! She had a miraculously recovery soon after I finished.

Later, when I asked to use the bathroom, she showed me a bathtub full of clothes, lying in dirty water. The smell was overpowering. She explained, rubbing her back, that she was in great pain and hadn't been able to do the laundry. The pile of clothes grew, the water rose higher, and I didn't have a bath in those three weeks.

She asked if I was hungry, but said I'd have to wait till her husband arrived home before I could eat, as she had a tremendous headache. All this was communicated via great drama and miming actions.
I was happy to finally meet Brigitte, and eventually her dad arrived home and we had something to eat. It was a rather hurried meal as his favourite TV program was coming on and with great pomp and ceremony, he settled Brigitte, me and her mom on the couch. He pulled up an armchair and positioned himself in front of us, as close to the TV as he could get.

We were watching a program about the Second World War -- specifically about the bombing of Germany by the British. B's dad was getting angrier and angrier as the program progressed. His face was beet red, and he was waving his arms and stomping his feet...I was petrified. He began to rant and rave about the British and all the damage they had done -- and kept turning to me and shouting: "See? See what you did to us? Bah! Englander!" and then he would spit on the floor (honestly!). This went on for the rest of the program -- and this was my first day there!

I was so relieved to go to bed, but I was scared of this man who blamed me for the whole war, so I moved a chair up against the door -- not that it would have kept him out. I buried myself under the thick, feather duvet and cried myself to sleep. I quickly learned that there could not be a more inflamatory subject than the war, to this man -- and it came up time and again. To think that I had to go through three weeks of this!

The aroma of coffee woke me up the next morning and I crept into the kitchen in my PJs, hoping he had already left for work. But no, there he was -- bright and chipper, smiling, welcoming me as if nothing has happened the night before! Brigitte and her mom joined us and we had a lovely breakfast together: coffee, rye bread and cream cheese and some slices of ham and tomato. Breakfast became my most favourite and welcomed meal, since just about everything else we ate was always floating in a few centimetres of oil.

Sunday came and Brigitte's mom insisted that we go to church. She herself was 'just not well enough' to go, but conscripted her husband to take us, so that we could go light a candle and say a prayer for her. B's dad was none too pleased but relented, so off we three went in our Sunday best -- to the local pub! Off came his tie and jacket and he sat us at a table outside. Giving us strict instructions to stay there, he brought us some apple juice and disappeared inside. We didn't see him again for an hour and a half!

On the way home, he told us to be sure to say what a great message the priest had given, and yes, we confessed our sins, and yes, we put the money in the offering. And yes, we enjoyed it so much we'd like to go again next week! So the Sunday morning jaunt to the pub was a ritual for the next two weeks.

One day, Brigitte's 18 year-old cousin came to visit. She'd told me how good-looking he was -- I thought he was pretty geeky-looking. Anyway, he came to invite us to a party the following Saturday. Brigitte's mom was adamant. Brigitte couldn't go; she was too young. But it would be a great experience for me, and Hans would be a reliable escort. I was 15, the same age as Brigitte, and had never been to a party in my life, and the thought of going with a boy 'so much older' than me scared me to death. Besides I couldn't dance, so what was the point?

No problem, says Hans, I'll teach you. It was torture. I was mortified; blushing from the roots up, not wanting to hold his hand, never mind have his arm around me. I had two left feet and was stumbling all over the place.

He finally gave up.

The party was in someone's home and as we entered the door there was an awful smell. The lights were all out, just candles everywhere, and there was a haze of smoke hanging over the room. Couples were curled up together on couches, in chairs, and in corners, all wrapped around each other. We walked through the house and every room was the same -- candles, couples and strong-smelling smoke. I was so naive, I had never heard of marijuana until Hans asked me if I smoked it. I'd never had a panic attack before, either, but I launched into a major one -- crying and shaking and pleading to be taken out of there. It was quite a scene.

He was none too pleased when we arrived back at B's house, and I was in the dog-house for the next few days. B's mom and dad were most upset that I had spoiled Hans' evening.

I could continue to tell you of the constant, violent arguments that B's mom and dad had with each other. And relate to you the nightmare trip into Cologne where I could see for myself the terrible after-effects of all "YOU did to us in the war," and where they refused to take me to the top of Cologne Cathedral because it was too expensive, even though I offered to pay for us all. And, oh, so many other incidents.


But I'll end it here simply to say that I was so grateful to get back home to England. I never did tell my parents the worst of the stuff that happened, and Brigitte never did come on her return visit to me. We received a letter from her mom saying that B just 'wasn't well enough or old enough' to travel all that way to a strange country and face new circumstances. Ha! She should worry!

Next time, I'll tell of a couple of pleasant occasions that happened while I lived in Goole.