Strangers

by Ursula Archer

  I should follow her. Get out of here too.

  The station hall is filled with distraught shouting, with groaning and, again and again, with ghastly cries of pain—even very close to me.

  About thirty feet away from me, a man is twisting on the ground. He’s holding his thigh; I can’t see the rest of his leg in the chaos. A stooping figure teeters past him, but doesn’t help him. Nobody’s helping him.

  There’s a towering pile of large fragments from the display board next to him. Behind it, a fire is blazing amid the rubble from a wall that’s collapsed. The platforms are all located there, somewhere. That’s where the explosion seems to have happened. I approach the screaming man, climb over a massive wooden beam, slip, and take a hard knock, of course to my injured arm.

  What the hell am I doing here anyway? There was an explosion directly up ahead; the people are all running away from there. Maybe there’s a gas leak and there is going to be a second blast any second? I should get out of the building as quickly as possible too.

  But … the man. He’s screaming his lungs out. His leg seems to be jammed somewhere; I have to at least try to help him. A few feet farther on I have to climb over stones and splintered wooden beams. My body convulses into a coughing fit, incapacitating me for several minutes.

  It’s only when I reach the man that I discover his lower leg.

  It’s on the floor about seven feet away from him, the foot sticking out of a brown shoe.

  I’ve never seen a severed limb before, but I can’t get squeamish now, no matter what. The man doesn’t even seem to be aware I’m there. His hands are clutching the tattered stump of his leg, the rubble underneath the hideous wound is glistening darkly. His life is leaking out of him; he’s going to bleed to death.

  His leg needs to be tied off; I’ve seen them doing that in the movies about a million times. I pull my belt out of the loops on my pants and kneel down beside the man, who’s only whimpering now. He seems to realize I want to help him. I raise the hand holding the belt, and don’t know where to apply it. This is no damn movie.

  I manage to get some words out. “I’ll help you. You have to let go of your leg so I can tie it off.” There’s no sign he’s understood me. His hands are still clenched around his thigh. Now what am I supposed to do? How should I …

  A hand comes down on my shoulder and squeezes. “Are you a doctor?”

  “No,” I answer, even before I see who’s standing behind me. I turn around and, to my relief, see the orange and silver jacket of a paramedic.

  “Then please step aside, I’ll take over here.” The man is still young, I can see the horror in his face and hear it in his voice. He’s making an effort to look experienced. “Are you injured yourself?”

  Am I? “No, nothing serious, I—”

  “Then please leave the building. My colleagues will be arriving outside soon, they’ll take care of you. Please go, now.”

  “What happened here?” I ask, not really expecting him to know.

  “No idea. An explosion, that’s all I know. Go, please.”

  I try to get up, but don’t manage right away. The young paramedic clutches my arm tightly, right where the wound is. I utter a cry, and he withdraws his hand.

  “So you are injured?”

  “No … Yes, but not from this.”

  As I’m getting back up, the paramedic is already down on his knees beside the man. He takes a quick look at the bloody stump, then starts getting things out of his bag.

  I look over at the train tracks. The dust has settled a bit; visibility is improving. A shattered food stand, several unmoving bodies on the floor next to it, some of them in grotesquely contorted postures.

  Farther back still is where the train platforms start. Or what’s left of them, anyway. I can only see them in parts, but what I can see is horrific. A dented express train engine car, blackened with soot, is lying at an angle over one of the platforms, flames lashing out of the conductor’s cab.

  An enormous steel girder has fallen onto the engine, crushing it like a tin can. The casing has been torn open in a few places, and insulating materials and cables hang out like organs and veins. Pieces of luggage and objects I can’t place are scattered all around the scene. Human bodies as well. Some of them, a few, are moving, while most of them are lying there motionless. Like corpses. I want to turn away and leave the building like the paramedic told me to do, but I can’t bring myself to move. Only when somebody appears at my side, hastily shouting at me that I should get outside, quickly, do I tear my eyes away from the horrible scene. The man who addressed me, wearing a transport police uniform, has run past me in the meantime.

  As I look around one final time, I see the young paramedic hastily throwing his things into his emergency case. The man on the floor next to him isn’t moving anymore. His eyes are closed.

  I don’t have to ask. I know he’s dead.

  As I realize that, the scene of destruction around me starts to sway. The figure of the paramedic is also losing its sharp contours; all sounds become muffled. Then, only darkness.

  * * *

  “Hello, can you hear me?”

  Yes, I want to say, but I have a feeling I’m only thinking it. I open my eyes. The image that presents itself is a blur. It becomes clearer after I blink a few times, but also more confusing. The face right in front of mine seems too big. The perspective is strange. The eyes looking at me worriedly belong to the paramedic; his head is hovering over me.

  As I try to straighten my upper body, my surroundings immediately start swaying again. I quickly close my eyes, wait a moment, then open them again. Better.

  “You fainted,” the man explains, a little unnecessarily. “Everything OK now?”

  He helps me get to my feet. I look for the injured man. The dead man. He’s lying ten feet away. The paramedic follows my gaze. “There was nothing I could do,” he explains and draws himself up. “He’d lost too much blood. I … I have to keep moving here.”

  “Yes,” is all I say. He shoulders his bag and heads in the direction of the train platforms.

  More and more paramedics, firefighters, and police come running into the station hall. The world is no longer in slow motion like it was right after the explosion, having given way to the organized, busy activity of the emergency crews and rescue teams.

  Around me, many other people are also heading toward the exit. Grimy, blood-smeared, horrified faces. A teenager runs past, crying; a firefighter with feverish red spots on his face hurries to my side and tells me to go faster.

  I have to wait for a brief moment at the entrance, as several uniformed helpers are carrying a large case inside. Then, I’ve made it. I suck in a deep breath of air, and although my lungs burn, I’m sure I’ve never tasted anything more precious. Someone puts a blanket over my shoulders and pulls me along, talking to me all the while. I don’t understand what he’s saying; my mind isn’t able to process his words. Then I’m gently pushed down, to sit on a small wall. A hand extends out toward me. Holding out a plastic cup.

  I take it and lift my head up; a woman is standing in front of me.

  “How are you feeling? Any pain? Are you injured?”

  She’s pretty. And with her clean, white clothes, she’s in complete contrast to the interior of the train station, almost to the point of absurdity. An angel in hell.

  “Yes. I’m fine. Do you know what happened in there?”

  “No one knows for sure right now. Can I leave you on your own for a moment? There’s still too few of us.”

  “Yes, thank you. I’ll manage.”

  She nods at me and turns away.

  I try to comprehend what happened. I keep thinking of that man. I see him before me, screaming from all the pain, hands clenched around the stump of his leg. I never would have thought a human being could scream like that.

  Suddenly, Gabor appears in my head. And the reason why I’m here, the two Arab men. What happened to them? I was a few minutes late …

  I wa
s a few minutes late.

  Had I been on time, I would have been standing right where the explosion took place. If I’d been on time, as Gabor kept telling me I had to be, again and again.

  I start to feel nauseous. The reason for this sudden nausea is something I feel, rather than something I can put into words just now.

  I’ve just escaped certain death by a hairbreadth, because I wasn’t in the place where, had it been up to Gabor, I was meant to be when the explosion happened.

  I stand up, feel the blanket sliding off my shoulders. I don’t care. Something’s dulling my thoughts. Something that’s making them slower.

  I obey a voice inside me telling me I should leave this place at once. And that I should leave the car Gabor got for me. It seems alien, this voice, but it’s crystal clear and commanding. I leave the parking lot behind me; there’s now a steady stream of new emergency vehicles and people arriving.

  No one takes notice of me. Someone who can walk unaided doesn’t need attention right now.

  The voice in my head is telling me about a defective boiler and an attempt to run me off the road.

  And then it repeats the content of an email I saw on Gabor’s laptop by accident.

  Munich central station, October 18th. 1:10 p.m. More details to follow.

  Not a word about any chief negotiators arriving. Just a date and a time. Exactly the time at which the explosion happened.

  29

  It’s Munich. The train station.

  I’m kneeling in front of the television as though it were an altar, staring at the images, unable to comprehend what’s happening.

  The camera captures stumbling, dust-covered people, running emergency service workers, and a half-collapsed building. All of it in a flickering blue light. The journalist, standing in front of the station, is shouting to make himself heard over the blaring sirens in the background.

  “We still don’t know the details, just that there were at least two explosions which rocked the central train station in Munich and partially destroyed it. There are a number of people injured, and from what we can make out there have also been casualties.”

  The man steps out of the path of two ambulance workers running past with a stretcher. It’s evident that it takes all of his strength and professionalism to keep his eyes fixed on the camera.

  Casualties. I’m struggling to breathe. Erik was on his way to Munich station, he was in such a hurry …

  My phone is still on the floor. I reach down to pick it up, fumbling because my hands are shaking so much. Only on the second attempt do I manage to bring up the recent calls. I dial Erik’s number.

  Please.

  Please.

  Please pick up.

  It takes a while before I’m connected. Except that it doesn’t put me through to him.

  The number you have dialed is not available.

  It can’t be, it can’t. But maybe the network is just overloaded because everyone is trying to reach their family and friends. To let them know they’re all fine. And at the same time, everyone else is trying to contact their loved ones who they think are at the station. Just like I am.

  Try again. Wait. Don’t let your thoughts get carried away, don’t let the images push their way into your mind.…

  The number you have dialed is not available …

  If it’s not the network, then it must be the phone itself. Lying in pieces under the rubble, along with its owner.

  No. I can’t let myself think that. Because it’s not like that. It can’t be.

  Another attempt. The same result.

  As I dial Erik’s number again and again and again, the live report continues, the red news ticker announcing: Special report: Explosion at Munich central station +++ Number of victims not yet known +++ Terrorist attack not ruled out.

  After the tenth or fifteenth attempt, I give up. I crawl even closer to the television, try to spot Erik among the people running and limping on the screen. Many are propping each other up, almost all of them are crying, but they’re all too far away to make out any faces. Somewhere in the background, heartbreaking screams. “Mama! I want my mama!”

  Then the reporter again, his pale face staring into the camera.

  “We’ve just received more information. It seems that the detonation took part right on the platform, directly next to the express 701009 train which had just arrived from Hamburg. According to eyewitness reports, the explosion must have been very powerful, destroying not just the train but also a large part of the station building.”

  In the background, a man passes by who is built like Erik, but his face is unrecognizable because it’s white and gray with dust, with just a sharp, blood-red line across his forehead.

  No. Now that the man’s closer to the camera, I can see that it’s not Erik.

  “We have an eyewitness who was in the station when the explosion took place,” the reporter is saying. An older man comes into the picture, visibly struggling to breathe.

  “Could you describe for us what you experienced?”

  The man coughs. “It’s indescribable,” he croaks. “I was just inside the main entrance and suddenly there was a bang, an unbelievably loud bang—and then fire, and smoke. I turned around, but before I did I saw part of the ceiling collapsing inward. On top of … people.” He turns aside, wiping his hand over his face. “If it had been three minutes later, I would have been standing right there. My God. Those poor people.”

  “Thank you,” the reporter says, and the camera sweeps to the side, to a medic who is just getting into an ambulance. Then back to the building. A mixture of smoke and dust is still billowing out from it.

  I know they aren’t allowed to film inside. Or at least, not to broadcast what they’re filming. Luckily.

  They switch back to the studio, where the presenter gives an emergency hotline number for those worried about loved ones. As I note it down, my hand shakes so much that I can barely read it.

  But first I try to reach Erik’s phone again directly, wishing nothing more than to hear his voice, so that I don’t have to keep imagining his dead body underneath the rubble.

  Nothing. Just the network message again. The number you have dialed is not available.

  The hotline, then. The first time I call it’s busy, and on the second try I’m placed on hold.

  Waiting, in this situation. Doomed to uncertainty and helplessness. I know I won’t be able to stand this for much longer, and at the same time I’m surprised, wondering where this strong reaction is coming from.

  The man I’m worrying about is … No, not a stranger anymore, but neither do I know him well enough to feel this much fear at the prospect that something could have happened to him.

  Would I be this upset if it were Darja? Or Ela? I’ve known both of them longer than Erik, have a kind of friendship with both of them. But all the same—my panic wouldn’t be as great as it is right now. I would be terribly worried, sure, and I would try to find out if they were OK, but not with desperate urgency like this.

  Ela. Thinking of her raises my spirits a little. If I can get hold of her, that’s better than any hotline. She can make inquiries with her friends in the hospitals—I know she would. She cares about Erik a great deal, she would do anything to find out if he’s OK.

  But she doesn’t pick up either. I should have guessed; all of the hospitals far and wide must have put their emergency procedures into action, and with all likelihood there’s chaos at the lab as well.

  But at least Ela’s voice mail activates after the fourth ring.

  “Erik,” I stammer into the telephone. “He was at the Munich station, and I can’t get hold of him. Did he get in touch with you?” Even that’s a shimmer of hope. With the way things stand, his first call would probably be to Ela, not me. “Please try to find out. And then call me as quickly as you can, OK? Please.”

  Half an hour passes by, an hour. The special report on TV keeps showing the same images over and over, with summaries for anyone just tuning in
, as well as experts being interviewed in the studio. Explosion experts. Terrorism experts. They all remain guarded, saying it’s best for everyone to wait until the responsible group steps forward.

  Because by now, everyone is in agreement that it’s a terrorist attack.

  Ela doesn’t call.

  My phone shows that I’ve tried to call Erik forty-seven times. Each time with the same result.

  He would pick up if he could, I know that. Despite my knife attack. Despite everything. He wouldn’t do that to me.

  By now, there is talk of there being at least thirty-two fatalities. The emphasis being on at least, meaning that this was the number of bodies which had been discovered so far.

  I follow the reports in a daze. Some protection mechanism in my head has taken the edge off the panic, stopping me from breaking down completely. I still have no answer to the question of where this intense connection to Erik has suddenly come from, I just know it’s there. Without a single doubt.

  When my phone rings later that afternoon, I almost burst into tears. Ela’s name is on the display.

  For the duration of a heartbeat, I contemplate not picking up. What if she found out that Erik is dead? What if the uncertainty gives way to a truth I’m not able to cope with?

  I pick up anyway, feeling the tears welling up in my eyes before Ela has even said a word.

  She doesn’t know anything, I find out after the first few seconds of talking with her. She’s only just listened to her messages.

  “Why was Erik at the station?” Her voice is shrill over the phone. “Did he get in touch? Do you know anything?”

  “No.” The word is no more than a breath, my voice is as powerless as I am. “I’ve been trying to reach him for hours, but—”

  “Oh shit. Shit.” I can hear that Ela is close to tears. “I’ll start calling around right away. I’ll find him. I’ll be in touch.” She hangs up before I have a chance to respond.

  I cower back down on the floor in front of the TV, my arms wrapped around my knees, my head resting on top. I only look at the screen every now and then; I’ve already seen all the images being shown, they repeat them at half-hour intervals, and only rarely is there ever any new information. Blue flashing lights in the approaching dusk. Interviews with eyewitnesses who saw everything from the parking lot, from one of the houses opposite, from a car.