Ali and his mother don’t speak much German—but then, neither do I. Nor does anyone at this table, with the exception of Peter, a Berliner who is here once a week, entirely voluntarily, to help people like us muddle our way through der, die, and das. Elsewhere, in the more advanced groups, the conversation is free-flowing, and a pleasing hubbub fills the echoey hall. Our beginners’ table, however, relies considerably on charades.
Still, it’s surprising how much you can learn from people without a common tongue. I have discovered that Ali’s dream is to train as a nurse, and that back home in Afghanistan, his mother—let’s call her Mrs. Ali—was a seamstress. I’ve learned that Afghanistan produces a lot of pistachios—an easy one, because the German is Pistazien—and that Mrs.…
