“A person who has not studied German can form no idea of what a perplexing language it is.” Mark Twain, “The Awful German Language,” A Tramp Abroad.

Since you’re a romantic with a ravenous lust for travel memoirs, you’ve read Mark Twain’s A Tramp Abroad-400 deliciously impudent pages about German language and culture. This semester, I’m living what Twain found 130 years ago, in Heidelberg, Germany, fussing over Deutsch. And after a month in the Fatherland, I have a trump card that makes Twain’s anguish look like a raft ride on the Neckar: I survived grammar boot camp; mein F?hrer was Herr D?rr.

I will admit, straight up, that Herr D?rr is a master of his trade. On the surface, he seems to be the stern guardian of linguistics every student fears. He expects punctuality and perfection from the foreigners he prepares for Universit?t Heidelberg. At roughly 1.67 meters tall, with a shiny, freckled bald head and a well-groomed moustache, he doesn’t look dangerous. But underneath that chocolate-colored, zip-up pullover beats a complex heart; Herr D?rr may be a gentle grammarian, but he’s a master manipulator. I learned this the hard way.

On the second day of class, Herr D?rr asked for a “homework volunteer.” Before I knew what I was getting into, my inner Hermione Granger reared her big, arrogant head, and I sacrificed my thoughts to our self-proclaimed grammar god. It was a mistake. He called out every error in front of the whole group. I felt like an imbecile. But I also found his critique strangely refreshing. In fact, I let my guard down and decided I liked Herr D?rr, because I like a challenge.

But on the third day, D?rr crossed the line. He started to systematically humiliate members of the class. He could melt neural connections with a question, leaving us longing for the moment that his reaming, brown stare would shift to the next unfortunate. In no time, we were putty.

By the end of the week, I hated Herr D?rr. Not the man (who matches his argyle socks with his trousers and owns a pair of pink flip-flops) but the front he uses to get what he wants. I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

One day in class, I was correcting a sentence in Konjunktiv I and couldn’t remember where to put the verb or what to do with it. D?rr called me out.

Auf Deutsch, he said, “Can you count? Can you?”

“Yes,” I said, repressed sauciness rising.

“Count!” he ordered.

I counted. “Eins, zwei, drei, vier . ”

“Nein!” he shouted.

So I started again. “Eins, zwei, drei, vier . ”

“NEIN!” he cried, even louder this time. “Eins, verb, drei, vier! Eins, verb, drei, vier!”

I couldn’t believe it. It was a joke. In German, the verb always comes second. Herr D?rr was being funny.

So I tried the sentence again. I got it wrong. He threatened to throw a book at me. I told him to bring it. And there it was-I don’t know if you could call it mutual respect, but some sad little shrub of understanding blossomed between us. Instead of withering before his intimidation, I stood up for myself, dished a fraction back, and he respected it. His eye softened. He turned a page in our textbook and guided me through the rest of the sentence, and we got back to German.

Herr D?rr isn’t really a jerk. He’s just a guy who loves grammar, knows exactly how to push people’s buttons and secretly likes it. And he knows how to get the job done-almost everybody in his class passed the university language exam. I despise his methods, but he was a great study, and I can respect that. And now, I have an even greater appreciation for well-placed impudence.