Coincidence Not Spoken

Their small talk is less memorable today than it was that spring morning eight years ago. Only the feelings, hers, of needing to create meaning and a place for herself on that street in that neighborhood, with that particular German woman, remain.

It was hard for Zena to keep up with the brusque woman beside her. She could not leave off her wondering: Why exactly she had agreed to come for this walk, meet with these various woman, and particularly this one, who didn't seem to want to connect deeply with her? How quickly could she either create common ground, or leave politely? She was supposed to be social, do her part for these newest comers to her town. But she was the only mom with a young child who even made time for these walks. Zena could feel the anxiety of her own needs not being met.

How would she make a weekly walk with these women, who had grown, invisible children, when her own son was needing to be pushed ahead of her in a jogging stroller, her nearly-ignored companion on this Georgia spring morning?

She'd had to change her own schedule to break away from home to drive to this strange neighborhood. Beside her, Jutta talked too fast. Zena knew she had to create a calm place to connect, or her own anxiety would only escalate. Why was it so hard for Zena to feel mature enough to warrant the German woman's attention? Was it just that she had such a young child? Zena tried to make eye contact with Jutta, and noticed that neither the sharp lines of Jutta's features nor her eyes were patient. Looking around at the houses they passed by, trying to follow Jutta's abrupt speech, Zena was out of her element. The houses were too huge for her taste, and Zena knew instinctively that each house was cleaner inside than her own home left behind in disarray.

Yet it was a sunny day, still sparkling fresh with dew. Zena's own habit was to find a natural connection for herself with most strangers. She could reach for common ground, or create it if necessary.

Today it made Zena anxious that she had her young child, not yet two, with needs she was only just beginning to fathom. Instinctively she knew T would only allow so much of his day to be spent listening to adult conversation. She would have to connect fast with this woman, to make them both comfortable, and get a lay of the neighborhood so she could cut the walk short if needed.

Jutta's small talk about landmarks in the neighborhood didn't make Zena feel at home. If only she could find a place to insert a snippet of her own story in one of the breaks in Jutta's chatting. And Zena's telling Jutta that her mother was German from the Black Sea region of Russia, hadn't triggered further interest. Well, hadn't her mother told her that immigrants after the War hadn't been welcome? That is why they didn't stay, but came to America.

But as Jutta became more personal, Zena found herself listening with interest as she explained how and why she and her husband were here from Florida. And then, Jutta began to talk of her German family.

There was an urgency as Zena waited for the right time to ask her question. She was excited to know just what aspect of German life they would have in common. Together, they would heal something, she could sense it.

For she too had German roots, had lived in Germany herself, was first generation American. Just 10 years before she had lived in Germany as the Berlin Wall had been dismantled.

When the moment came to ask, Zena said, "Where did you come from in Germany?"

Jutta, was terse in her reply, assuming that Zena was an average American-born with Casual Interest. "I lived in the south of Germany, " she answered. " A village you wouldn't know." Zena knew the south of Germany well enough. She was curious, able to make eye contact now. She had a genuine interest in this woman's story of an earlier life. Zena knew she finally would have an appropriate way to share. Story about family living in the south of Germany, after the War. Of her Uncle who was a dentist there still.

There was just one part of her own story that Zena rarely thought about these days, that took place in a shadow of a place whose name she had nearly forgotten by the time she walked with Jutta. It was village in a district near where her uncle lived that very few people knew about, or came from. Ansbach. The Germans still used words like insane asylum. Tiny Ansbach was home to an insane asylum.

Zena had been in that asylum for a brief time and had recovered her sanity. Her husband told her later that when he visited her by train, he sometimes walked the grounds. One day he saw a building (not the one she was in) surrounded by high and treacherous barbed wire. But today, Zena had her life back, complete with the faith to mother a child. Ansbach was far from her mind.

"What village?" Zena asked, thinking it might be Hausen-am-Bach where her uncle had his home and practice, a stone's throw from a community church. Zena loved coincidences, wondered what meaning there would be in the surprise Jutta would share.

"Ansbach," said Jutta. Fortunately Jutta was not an intuitive at all. She didn't stop to take in Zena's shock; instead she continued to talk about her childhood, never finding out whether or not Zena knew a stitch about living in Germany.