Three Generations
Each of us weaved our own way to Heathrow to congregate in Leon before the flight. Watching the departures board keenly for the gate number, our conversation swung from recounting the few days separation since Christmas (hectic, filled with children, relaxed) and vague outlines of how we felt about the coming trip (uncertain). An unannounced family reunion at Grandpa’s was in motion.
We landed in Köln under a grey sky and faffed with ticket machines to get to our mistakenly booked Airbnb; a loft for 16 people, rather than the cosy 3 bed my mother had favoured. Its bare-wood interior and responsive heating system made up for the less than ideal location and unmercifully open plan.
Unencumbered by luggage, we enjoyed vietnamese coffee and dined over bowls of fresh veggies and homemade seitan, before jumping on the tram to Brühl. The grey industrial skyline of Köln flattened into residential streets of diverse houses, muted by the cloud heavy sky.
Outside his block, we rang the bell with his handwritten surname expecting no response. The buzzer rang. The door clicked open without inquiry. Mum stepped in quickly, followed by my brother and I, whose heart rates rose and throats tightened as unfamiliarity mixed with shock. Our feet clattered out of time as we ascended the three stone floors to their flat and turned the last corner to their front door. Irene’s smile dropped. Mum kept her smile wide and voice jovial as she stepped forward to say hello. Our efforts to project warmth was met with solemn words . he’s not well. I’ll let him know you’re here. The door rested on the latch while we listened to their muffled german. Our eyes glanced between each other, the white walls and the floors of the apartment building while we pulled tight smiles and raised our eyebrows at each other unsure of what to expect - a door closed in our faces? A chat in the corridor? An invitation to come in?
Irene returned to the door, with Jean Jacques, Grandpa, beside her. In black jogging bottoms and a jumper, he looked tired despite the surprise in his bright blue eyes. Holding his cheek, he explained he was unwell but we could come back tomorrow. We loitered a little longer, their perspective growing to include my brother and I as their shock subsided. “C’est William?” Irene asked as she pointed to the now 6ft man she last saw as a toddler in her partners lap. We laughed over the dissonance between memory and now, and chuckled through the unavoidable barrier of language between us. We parted to the promise of “à demain à 10h”.
10 o’clock came as we piled out of the taxi onto the curb. The sky was blue and frost dusted the pavements and tree branches around us. As we walked towards their apartment building we spotted an envelope taped over their doorbell. Helene Sarah + William. Our hearts dropped, all three of us imagining their gently worded letter informing us they changed their minds.
Instead, they had gone to the dentist. Please meet us there, address provided, or at 13:00. We searched the address. A mere 20 minute walk away. Off we went. Aware of the oddity of meeting family at the dentist, we favoured silence over articulating our mixed feelings. Instead we formed back up plans. If they’re not there, we’ll go for breakfast, explore the high street, maybe see the castle. A car horn interrupted our planning. Irene and Jean Jacques, faces obscured with P45 face masks, waved us over to their taxi. Post-dentist and post-anaesthetic, they needed some time to rest. Plans were made: 13:00 at their flat. We waved them goodbye as they headed home and we walked into town.
Settled in a cafe, we stayed warm with cups of tea and coffee as we chatted between what could happen and how we’d spend the evening regardless. Families and friends ate noisily at the tables around us, with platters of fresh bread and crudités and lattes precariously balanced on the edge of their tables. Cloaked in German, their brunch time conversations easily absorbed the uncertain patterns of our own chat.
We reappeared. The same steps. The same doorbell. No envelope. We rang. We waited. Time stretched for each second which passed compared the speedy response of yesterday’s bell.
The intercom buzzed and the door clicked open. Again we hiked upstairs. Again Irene stood in the doorway. Her face warmer, welcoming us each for a brief hug and kiss on the cheek. We slid our shoes off and piled our coats on the table. Irene tidied them away as we took our turns leaning down to kiss Jean Jacques cheeks and say hello before settling around the table. Awkward smiles, stilted and broken sentences followed. Where were we in our lives? Education and work. Partners and holidays. Accidents and apologies. Irene meandered through small talk with us. Jean Jacques adjusted to English in silence.
With one hand on my mums arm he spoke. Stumbling a little on his words, his perfectly rehearsed english accent was startling. Bright blue eyes shone from beneath his brows as he spoke, my mind unable to take in what he was saying at the surprise of hearing my grandfather speak for the first time. But his tone stuck; considered, kind, aged. We sunk back into small talk with tumblers topped up with sparkling water and rhubarb. Time marched on and we donned our coats to trek to a local bakery together.
Compressed on the pavement, we rotated through triplets and pairs of language-limited conversations; little history lessons and snippets of family stories. Silence and a smile was enough beneath the icy blue skies when language failed us.
Teas and cakes soon covered the cafes lino table tops. More chit chat. Occasionally cryptic, Jean Jacques spoke of a global identity. He had left France behind, England too, and now settled in Germany without tie to a nation. But in his disconnecting from nationhood he left behind his family. While ideologically lovely to leave borders behind and find comfort in the concept of community, doing so with broken relationships and dishonesty behind felt incomplete.
And in these moments I saw myself. The idea of not being bound by nationality and erasing the categories from which xenophobia rises is beautiful. Feeling connected to the world, in all the wonder of nature, the billions of smiles, and shared experiences of hurt is heart warming. But it’s also easier to get lost in these ideas than to have difficult conversations. It’s easier to turn to notions that promote progress than to truly be vulnerable in relationships.
It seems my grandfather saw parts of himself in me too. Before bidding farewell at the tram platform, we exchanged hugs, laughter, and more broken english. He noted my giggles and smile, my un-seriousness. He’d been a teacher decades earlier, told to be more serious; more respectable. But he kept laughing, kept joking with his students and finding reasons to stay light hearted. Bundled with a hug, he reminded me to never let that lightheartedness go. In his late 90s, it seems like fair advice to take. And easy - just keep finding a reason to smile. I hope though I can find ways to smile with the people I love, rather than leave them behind in unresolved conversations.
