Why me?

I’m standing in a suit in the foyer, a folder clutched in my hands. I shift from foot to foot, checking the clock every minute or two. The Vice President comes. I’d met her at a few events previously; she is a popular keynote speaker at events sponsored by the Landtag. I follow her around, make a bit of small talk, check the clock, check the doors. The first few trickle in: two gentlemen of middle age, conversing in Hebrew. A few more arrive: some women, a couple, another two gentlemen. They introduce themselves, I bid them welcome. Some of them reply to my ‘’Wilkommen im Landtag’’ with an apologetic ‘’I’m sorry, I don’t speak German,’’ whereby I switch to English. It’s confusing; more people are arriving. Some speak German, some English, and among themselves they speak either Arabic or Hebrew. There are two translators present but it takes me a bit to figure out who they are.

The Vice President, Mrs. Klamm, begins her speech. She reads from the page; instead of the usual polite boredom masked with faux attention usually granted such a speach the foyer is filled with murmuring, the simultaneous translation into Hebrew and Arabic for those who do not understand German. Mrs. Klamm doesn’t pause for translation.

We adjourn to the club room for lunch. I count the guests, twice, three times. I don’t want to screw up. I tell the waitress how many we are and that I don’t eat meat, and we begin with rolls and salad. I am sitting next to the program organizer, across from one of the translators and two of the guests.

This event takes place every two years. A small group of Israeli and Palistinian authors come to Germany, discuss, have presentations, visit schools, visit the Landtag. And because of an odd twist of fate I am the only department member available to supervise—my advisor is at her wedding, her superior is on vacation in Florida, our department head has an appointment in Essen, and everyone else is either sick or doesn’t work Fridays.

Thus, I was left with this group of authors and the VP. They had a pre-ordered 3-course menu organized by my advisor (what do you feed these people without insulting any traditions?). The two authors across from me wave away their plates of chicken breast; the one says she didn’t like chicken, the other doesn’t say anything. We order a vegetarian plate for the woman, the man orders Fish, and then the woman wants fish as well and I run back to the kitchen.

The two with the fish take a long time to eat. Plates are cleared, dessert is served, and afterwards espresso, those two always half a course behind. The two with the fish are debating something, something about Jerusalem. The woman (Palistine) says Jerusalem is a part of her, and that she isn’t happy living in Ramallah. The translator throws out a cynical ‘’too religious for me,’’ before turning to me and saying, ‘’it’s all the same thing—who did what to whom. Endless counting, keeping score. It’s true, it’s a harsh past, but what they talk about is not the future.’’ What should I say? Better not to say anything.

We rush through our espresso and head for the plenary room, where Mrs. Klamm gives a short presentation. [The flag on the wall is from 1930. The crest from Rheinland Pfalz represents Pfalz, Trier, and Mainz. RLP is the first state to institute a round-robin style plenary chamber. Etc.] And of course, during our final round of picture taking from the terrace overlooking the river we lock ourselves out and have to call security to come let us in again.

In the end, I don't screw up and everything more or less goes as planned. I can't, however, say it is relaxing.