The Enlightenment of Bees

by Rachel Linden

  Yousef smiles, a brief, sad smile. “Then we will wait for this miracle. Even when we do not see the way. We will wait and hope.”

  Chapter 42

  The next few days pass in a blur of exhaustion and activity. No buses leave the camp, and the police are tasked with making sure everyone stays put while the government works out a way to register and process the new arrivals.

  Every morning the volunteers gather in the food tent while Laszlo briefs us on the latest developments. He has a friend who works in the Hungarian parliament and keeps him abreast of any new developments.

  “Austria and Germany are threatening to shut their borders,” he tells us grimly. “The Hungarian government is scared they will get stuck with all these refugees.” He gestures to the sprawling camp that has grown larger even just overnight. “So Hungary is threatening to close the borders too. Effective today, only Syrians can come through the Hungarian border and register, and only a few at a time.”

  “What happens to anyone who isn’t from Syria?” Kai asks from behind me. There are many Syrians in the camp, but also Iraqis, Afghanis, Kosovars, Albanians, even a few men from Bangladesh and countries in Africa. Most can’t go back to their home countries. What is the alternative if they are not allowed to continue their journey, if Hungary kicks them out? Where in the world will they go?

  Laszlo shrugs. “No one knows. But for now, we must concentrate on helping where we can. Only a few Syrians can leave this camp, but more refugees arrive every hour. We need to be ready for many more to come.”

  His words are prescient. Morning and night, people arrive, filling the camp still further and stretching our already meager resources. The camp swells gradually, the boundaries sprawling out into a neighboring field and the surrounding woods to accommodate the growing numbers.

  Some of the refugees do not wait for the government to figure out what to do with them. They take matters into their own hands and go through illegal channels to reach their destinations.

  “See those men?” Delphine points them out to me as we pay a call to a mother and newborn in one of the far tents. The small group of men is standing just outside the bounds of the camp, half hidden by trees.

  “Who are they?”

  “Smugglers. Pay them a few thousand euros and they promise to get you to Germany.” She swears elegantly in French, her expression disgusted. “We must warn people not to go with them. They are dangerous men who care nothing for these lives. Sometimes they put the people in refrigerated trucks, packed in like little fish. It is very dangerous. It could be their death.”

  I glance at the men, at their wary faces and hard eyes.

  I’ve seen more than one group of people disappear into the woods when the police are not looking and not return. I think of the refugees’ desperation, their hunger to reach a safe haven, and I understand why they would take the risk.

  The atmosphere in the camp has changed since the buses returned. People are confused, scared. Rumors fly thick and fast. Tensions mount with each passing hour.

  The police, too, are wary now, hands always on the guns at their hips, eyes alert. More and more police arrive at the camp, dressed in black riot gear with helmets and protective shields. The news vans multiply, and reporters mark time at the periphery of the camp, interviewing people as they pass, looking for an angle, for a story. Everyone is on edge, waiting for something no one can quite define.

  “I do not like this,” Delphine mutters darkly as we leave the tent after checking on the new mother and baby. “I’ve seen this before. Fear breeds violence. We need to be ready.” She begins to stockpile medicine, bandages, bottled water.

  The next morning Szilvia announces at our volunteer briefing, “We have to start limiting food now. Last night we ran out of bread, cheese, and milk. Some people went away empty-handed.”

  Kai and Milo made a late-night Tesco run and restocked the food tent, using Lars’ generosity and credit card to buy the most essential items, but by lunchtime today we will be in the same situation again. Szilvia continues to make a daily plea on social media, and donated supplies are still arriving from around Hungary and beyond, but the amount of time, energy, and material goods needed to keep the camp going with the swelling population is daunting.

  “This camp is not equipped to handle even a quarter of this population,” Delphine observes a day or two later, glancing out the door of the tent at the sprawling mess. “This is a human rights violation. The EU should be ashamed.” She continues her diatribe against governmental policy, rattling off lengthy phrases in French, only a smattering of which I understand.

  I study the camp for a moment, feeling unease ripple in the pit of my stomach. It is just a field with a few tents. There are no showers, no running water, no facilities to make people comfortable. Trash piles up thick on the ground. Sick babies wail day and night. The lines for the medical tent stretch all the way across the dirt lane from morning till evening. We are struggling to keep the peace, keep people comfortable, meet the most basic needs, but it is not enough.

  The atmosphere is growing increasingly tense and ugly. The air crackles with discontent and mounting unrest day by day. Volunteers and supplies are stretched thinner and thinner. There is no relief. I go about my duties at a frantic pace, a little knot of panic lodged in my throat, sharp as a peach pit. We sleep little and work late, dropping into our beds leaden from fatigue. I dream of agitated bees, of storm clouds rolling across the wide bowl of the sky, of lightning spiking down into fallow fields, of rain that smells like home, salty and cold like the sea.

  * * *

  “Kai, we need more bread.” It’s lunchtime and I’m manning the sandwich station with Rosie. Delphine has started lending me to the food tent during meals because it’s usually a slow time at the medical tent and there are a huge number of people who have to be fed now.

  I reach into the bread bin and hand a swarthy young man in a hoodie the last roll. There are still dozens of people waiting to be served. “Kai?”

  Kai comes up behind me. “No more bread,” he says, pitching his voice low so only I can hear. “We’re out.”

  “I’m sorry,” I tell a haggard-looking father and son next in line. “No more bread.”

  The dozens of hungry, frustrated people still waiting react badly to the shortage. “They can’t keep us here like animals,” a young man in a red windbreaker protests from halfway back in the line. “We want to go to Germany.”

  Others echo his sentiment, the entire group stirring, muttering. A few more young men call out, “Germany, let us go to Germany.”

  “Here, give them granola bars.” Kai grabs a box and sets it down on the table in front of me. Beside me Rosie is prepping portions of fruit and cheese as fast as she can, as though an apple and a triangle of processed cheese will stem the tide of discontent. Nervously I grab a handful of granola bars, my hands shaking as I sense the crowd’s frustration. It is not our fault. We are only trying to help.

  “Give us bread,” someone calls from the back of the line, and the crowd takes up the chant. “Bread, bread, bread.”

  “We’re out,” Winnie yells back, angrily, brandishing a cucumber at the protesters. “Stop whining and shut up.”

  Kai moves to stand between Rosie and me, his presence solid and steadying. “If this escalates, go find Laszlo and get in the van,” he murmurs to us, his mouth set in a flat line as he surveys the disgruntled lunch line. I think of the bull shark in Florida. Once again Kai is putting himself between me and danger, although this time we’re not even really speaking to one another. I’m grateful for him beside me, comforted by the sense of wary calm he projects.

  “Stop! Stand back.” A few police officers come running, hands on their guns, their faces stern. Quickly the fervor dies down to a discontented murmur. Within minutes, under the policemen’s watchful eyes, the lunch line resumes its slow shuffle forward.

  “Are you okay?” Kai asks, touching my shoulder, his forehead creased with concern.
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  I take a deep breath and nod. “Yeah, thanks. That was scary.” I hand a large family from Afghanistan a fistful of granola bars.

  He nods. “It happened fast.”

  Winnie hmphs and scowls at each person as they pass. “Ingrates,” she mutters.

  Crisis averted, Kai retreats to his supply station behind us. I dole out granola bars, buzzing with adrenaline, relieved and ashamed of feeling relieved. Since when did we become the enemy to these people? Without us there would be nothing for them in this camp but mud.

  “Oh my goodness, that was intense,” Rosie whispers. “Do you think we’re in danger?”

  “I don’t know.” I feel on edge now, seeing how quickly things can turn ugly. “We just need to keep our eyes open, I guess.” I swallow hard, trying to tamp down my rising sense of unease, and keep handing out granola bars until the last person in line has been served.

  Although the unrest at the lunch line is quelled quickly, it reveals the true state of the camp. The air is thick with fear and frustration, a potent mixture that seems to pulse stronger with every passing hour. Every day a handful of Syrians are taken to a processing station by bus. They do not return, presumably allowed to travel on to their intended destinations. As for the rest of the camp, they are going nowhere.

  Delphine presses her lips together and shakes her sleek dark head when I tell her what happened at lunch. “The pressure is building,” she says warningly. “This will not hold.”

  Chapter 43

  Delphine’s words prove prophetic. The next morning the camp reaches the breaking point. It begins peaceably enough.

  “We are going to walk to Budapest,” a young man tells us, eyes alight as Delphine examines his sore throat. “From there you can get a train to Austria. They can’t stop us, not if we all go.”

  Delphine shoots me a concerned look. “And so it begins,” she murmurs under her breath.

  By lunchtime the entire camp is buzzing.

  Szilvia tries to persuade the refugees not to carry out their plan. She and Laszlo go tent to tent with carafes of hot tea to speak with the eldest men, urging patience, forbearance. But people have been patient long enough. More than a week has passed since the buses returned from Austria. In eight days the camp has tripled in occupancy. People are tired, hungry, sick of waiting, sick of traveling, sick of politicians in faraway European Union capitals making policies that define their dreams and freedom.

  At two o’clock on a Wednesday afternoon, right after we run out of bread for the second time in twenty-four hours, the refugees begin to gather along the dirt lane. I stand by the food tent to watch them, craning my neck at the back of the crowd. Men and women. Children carried on their fathers’ shoulders. A hunched old man with white hair and a cane. I catch a glimpse of Yousef and Maryam near the edge of the crowd toward the front, and I wave, trying to catch their attention, but they do not see me. There is a hum of energy emanating from the crowd. It rises in pitch, gathering momentum.

  All around the camp the police suddenly snap to attention. They come running, massing in front of the crowd. Their commander barks an order in Hungarian, and they form a barrier across the road, holding up their clear plastic riot shields, cutting off the exit. The reporters, who have been cooling their heels for days, spring into action. I spy Delphine on the other side of the lane, standing at the mouth of the medical tent, watching grimly, her arms crossed.

  “To Budapest,” someone in the front yells, a rallying cry.

  “To Budapest,” a few hundred voices cry out. The crowd surges forward as one. Cameras roll as the refugees begin to advance on the barricade.

  Someone jostles me and I stumble. A strong hand grabs my arm and pulls me back to the edge of the tent. “Stay here,” Kai warns, his tone serious. “I have a bad feeling about this.”

  I stand close to him, and we watch the altercation unfold with mounting trepidation.

  The group of refugees is slow and ponderous and purposeful, the entire roiling mass of them moving step-by-step along the lane. I’d estimate there are almost four hundred people in the crowd. Old men, young mothers with nursing babies, everyone. When they are almost nose to nose with the policemen, they stop and wait.

  “Move! Let us go to Budapest,” a young man yells from the front. Others echo the sentiment. The police stand unmoving behind their shields, staring straight ahead unflinchingly.

  “Budapest, Budapest,” the crowd chants, raising fists in defiance. At a sharp command, the police draw their batons.

  “Get back,” a police commander yells in English. “Stop. You have been warned.”

  Someone throws a rock. It hits an officer on his helmet. A moment of stunned silence and then all hell breaks loose.

  The crowd surges forward. Flying rocks, screams, harsh commands in Hungarian to fall back, to come no farther. Young men at the front of the crowd throw full water bottles, stones, brandish tree branches they’ve torn from the trees along the edge of the camp. The police part down the middle. They have a water cannon and train it on the crowd, pushing them back a little. The old man with the white hair falls, his cane spinning away from him in the force of the water. I gasp, horrified and transfixed. Kai grabs my hand, lacing his fingers through mine, holding on tightly.

  Two young men grab a police officer and try to wrestle his shield away. Other officers come to his aid, striking the young men hard with their batons. They fall. The police fire tear gas into the crowd, then use the water cannon again. The air is filled with screams and the spray of water and a choking cloud of tear gas, the odor like gunpowder and something vaguely sweet. A woman in a hijab curls on the ground in a fetal position a dozen yards away from us, clutching her throat. A father comes running from the crowd holding a little boy no more than four. The child is gagging and choking, mucus streaming from his nose.

  “Help him,” the father begs, holding out the boy. “Please, help him!”

  I freeze, my mind a complete blank. I have no idea what to do.

  “Get him to Delphine.” Kai springs into action. He races across the lane to the medical tent, the father carrying the child at his heels. I follow, choking a little from the tear gas in the air. It makes my eyes water worse than freshly cut onions, and we are a hundred yards away from the source of the gas. I can’t imagine what it feels like up close.

  Delphine and Stefan are in front of the medical tent, hurriedly prepping the area for emergency care. There are bandages laid out, big bottles of water lined up outside the tent, sheets spread on the ground for the wounded.

  “Bring him here.” Stefan motions for the father to set the child down outside the tent. The boy is the first patient.

  From the front of the camp, we can hear screams and yells but cannot see much more than a seething crowd of people.

  “Mia, come with me,” Delphine orders, her mouth set in a tense line. “Kai, go gather the other volunteers and bring them here. There will be many more patients.”

  Kai sprints away, quickly returning with Rosie, Miles, Winnie, and Abel at his heels, along with a Danish volunteer, Frederik. People begin to stagger from the crowd, clutching their eyes. Two young men carry a third, unconscious and bleeding from a gash in his head.

  Delphine barks orders. Fresh clothing for those who have been tear-gassed. Bottled water for flushing out eyes. The wounded go in one area, tear gas victims in another. I hurry to comply. I am shaking so hard I can hardly hold the water bottles.

  And then I see Maryam. She is struggling toward the medical tent, holding up Yousef. He is gagging, his face slick with tears and mucus. Maryam is sobbing, but I can’t tell if she’s been gassed as well.

  Delphine ushers them quickly past me. “Water, now,” she snaps, and I tear into the packs of bottled water, unscrewing bottle after bottle as she flushes Yousef’s eyes and nose and mouth. Maryam is making horrible choking sounds, crying uncontrollably.

  Beside me Kai and Rosie are doing the same for other victims. I act as the water runner, keepin
g the others supplied with open bottles of water within their reach. Old, young, men, women, children—so many affected.

  We work ceaselessly, feverishly. Delphine is a wonder of efficiency and purpose, treating the tear gas victims one after another. Milo and Frederik hand out fresh clothes, while on the other side of the tent Winnie assists Stefan, triaging anyone who is wounded. Winnie is amazingly calm, I notice, glancing over at her for an instant. She doesn’t look shaken or panicked as she hands out bandages to staunch the bleeding and bottles of water to cleanse wounds. Jake loiters nearby, filming, as do many of the news crews, like vultures looking for carrion.

  The noise seems to be dying down a little now. I glance up. The crowd is starting to disperse. The water cannon and tear gas seem to have been effective, deflating the fervor of the mob. People begin to retreat, falling back to tend their wounded. The resistance is broken in less than twenty minutes. No one will go to Budapest today.

  Some of the refugees sit down on the ground, heads in their hands, crying. Others stare off into the distance, seemingly in shock. At the triage station Yousef is recovering. He stumbles to his feet with Maryam’s help, and they head back toward their makeshift camp under the oak tree. Maryam carries their backpack, soaked from the water cannon. She turns once and meets my eyes, lifting her hand in what looks like a farewell. She is still crying.

  “Mia, more water,” Delphine commands sharply, and I focus once more on my task.

  An ambulance arrives, its siren piercing the air, and the police wave it through the barricade. It trundles slowly up the dirt lane through the dwindling crowd. One man has a broken arm, and two people have concussions. Stefan is sewing up a gash over a young man’s eye with Winnie’s assistance. Two Hungarian paramedics load the man with a broken arm onto a stretcher. The concussed man and woman follow the paramedics, looking dejected.

  I go through the motions, handing out water, assisting Delphine, but internally I feel paralyzed. What just happened? I can’t quite wrap my mind around it. When my legs start shaking like Jell-O, I have to sit down. Delphine sees me and hands me a bottle of water.