I place my cup of tea down on the coffee table, careful to put it on a coaster.
“Do you want sugar?” Nana shouts from the kitchen, a little louder than necessary, but she doesn’t notice. She told me to sit down, but I stand up, knowing she’ll forget the milk in the microwave. I walk to the kitchen.
“Sugar, Mina?” She repeats. She’s speaking German.
“Yes please,” I respond in German as she doesn’t speak English, but I’m rusty, having stopped learning it at about 10.
She shuffles back to the living room with a plate of biscotti, setting it down and sitting back in her armchair. At 90, she struggles to walk but remains determined to feed me.
I pull the milk from the microwave.
“The milk!” She shouts.
I emerge from the kitchen, milk and sugar in hand.
“Oh, Mina has the milk,” she sings. “You are so intelligent.”
I smile. It’s easy to earn a compliment here.
We settle into our seats and sip loudly on our hot cups of tea. For a while, we are silent. I’d say something if it didn’t take so much brain power to conjure up a sentence. I’ve been speaking German all day, and I’m tired.
The last time I was in Munich with my mother was more than a decade ago. Since then, I’ve returned three times – all without her. The first trip back was like retracing childhood steps. My memories of Munich had softened over time, and I was excited to revive them.
What stuck with me the most was the smells. I remember opening the small window from the shower in Nana’s bathroom and feeling the mid-winter cold burning my face, along with the scent of woodfire and fresh air. There was also the tang of laundry detergent wafting from the basement, clean, sharp and comforting.
On each visit back, the apartment feels smaller. It’s uncanny, standing in a room you haven’t been in since you were half the size, yet everything is in exactly the same spot. I’ve seen old photos of the house, and it seems just about unchanged since 1980.
This time, it’s Christmas, and the nostalgia is especially suffocating.
Sitting there in my mother’s childhood home, I can’t help but think about her.
Her face is plastered around the house, on the fridge, behind the kitchen door, and on just about every possible surface.
I think about her growing up here, as a teenager, then at my age, heading to Berlin to study – from there to London, then to Melbourne. I just wish I could’ve known her then, if only so that I could see a little inside her brain.
“When was the last time you spoke to your mum?” Nana asks, leaning forward in her armchair.
I want to sigh. She’s asked me this twice already and will be shocked by the answer again.
“I texted her on my graduation day, but before that, I haven’t called her since Easter of last year.”
“What?! How can it be that you haven’t called her?”
She sinks back into the chair, adjusting her glasses. I take a moment to think, frustrated. I can’t explain this in the way that I want to. I was certain she understood. I’ve told her before.
“Because…” I set my tea down, “it’s… not nice to talk to her.”
Nana nods.
It’s funny, my mother was always the one who used to translate for us.
I turn to my left, unsure what else to say. I’m looking at a photo; it’s Nana. She’s young and she’s beautiful with high cheekbones and a round nose. Her hair is short and twisted into a beehive. She’s smiling big, and I notice for the first time she has a gap between her two front teeth.
In her arms is a baby, with just about the same features and just about the same coloured hair.
I want to cry, because what is worse – losing a mother, or losing a daughter?
My uncle tells me how nice it is that I’m bonding with Nana and that it’s special to see how much we have in common. I feel the same. There’s always something to say, and if there isn’t, the silence is comforting.
We spend our days waking up late, walking arms-in-arm through Munich’s old town, and having cups of tea with biscuits in the afternoon.
Somehow, we’ve found the right balance. We talk just enough about her daughter to ease a little load off each other’s shoulders, but not so much that I end up crying.
On Christmas Eve, we go to mass at the local church: a tradition of my family’s that I tag along to. Bundled into the pews – scarf still tied around my neck – I sit quietly, waiting for people to settle and for mass to begin. Soon the soft hum of conversation is drowned out by the organ.
The music crashes through the church, flooding it like a tidal wave. I’m in awe: it’s one instrument, yet it is so loud, so clear and so beautiful.
My mother once played the organ for her local church.
For a moment there, I imagine it’s her sitting up in the organ console, pumping the pedals and playing the keys, brows furrowed in concentration. The image catches me off guard. I drop my head and silently cry.
Standing at the front is a choir of children dressed in white. Their voices rise to meet the organ, sweet and awkward. Soon the audience stands to join. Wiping urgently at my face, I get to my feet.
I sing along, catching my breath between verses, but finding joy in letting my voice join the church. I sing for a while, translating each line in my head. Soon the hymn comes to an end.
With the sound of shuffling jackets, I sit. Just before I settle, I turn to look back, searching the crowd for Nana.
My eyes land on her face, and I realise that in the absence of our missing link, I’ve found my way closer to her than I might ever have been.