by Timur Vermes
Nadeche saw the footage on her smartphone. Everyone saw the footage on their smartphones. The pictures weren’t from MyTV, but from n-tv and A.R.D.: people goose-stepping along the road. People overtaking others, which has never happened before on this trek. Causing those being overtaken to panic. Parents lifting up their children. Hurrying past the lorries, scooping up food and water so they can keep going, like marathon runners. Baleful figures who’ve been walking without a break for eight hours, twelve hours, twenty-four hours, driven on by a fear that nobody had anticipated. Parents screaming at their exhausted children, beating them onwards. And the horror in their eyes the further back they are.
People suddenly running for their lives.
“If he’d known, he would have . . . he would have done everything differently,” Nadeche whispers to Saba, even though she doesn’t know whether this is true. Lionel told her that the Turks had called him. The telephone number that had vanished all of a sudden popped up again, and someone shouted into his ear, “Are your people ever going to stop, or what? We’re done for today!”
Lionel called his contacts and realised he was no longer in control of the situation. Even if they’d promised everyone there would be enough buses – that they could rest for at least two hours without worry – nobody would have believed them. Nobody believes reassuring news when thousands of those dreadful, sleepless, horrified spectres wander past and just want to keep going. The fear in their faces was visible, the fear that if they didn’t keep going now, everything would have been in vain.
The Turks were quick enough to realise that if they’d tried to stop people boarding at that point, it would have led to a disaster. They had their hands full trying to get enough buses onto the full roads. They must have created a new track especially. There is drone footage of the small car park. It looked like an enormous mincer in which people and buses were being combined. For when people begin to walk more quickly, they no longer arrive in a steady flow. But a catastrophe at the border was averted. In part because it had already happened, earlier on the road.
She remembers the footage of Pakka standing beside his medical supply vehicle, shattered, resigned, howling, somewhere by the side of the road. People are lying on the ground, all the way to the border crossing. The column left thousands behind. People who collapsed and could go no further. Some just have cramp, some are unconscious. Some are injured. Broken ankles from walking carelessly, the rush, and even from being kicked by other people.
Some are dead.
Saba’s mother sent a photo via her mobile.
She tried to leave Saba’s father behind in a dignified fashion. She couldn’t bury him, given the hurry – the fact is, she didn’t know that theoretically she would have had enough time. But then if she’d known that, he wouldn’t have rushed to his death in the first place. Dignity is relative, of course. In this case it meant dragging him out of the middle of the road. She sat him up against a bush. It did indeed look a touch more dignified, or at least a little less passive than if he were simply lying there. Did she turn him to face the wide expanses of Iraq, or the panicky sprint to the border – it’s not clear from the photograph. In his arms Saba’s mother put one toy from each of the three children.
Then she ran for the bus.
Nadeche can feel the dampness running into her bra. But the sobbing has stopped. From the corner of her eye she strains to look at the small, grubby head. Saba has fallen asleep.
That’s something, at least.
51
“I’ve got good news and bad news,” the president of the E.U. Commission says down the line.
“That’s better than nothing, I suppose,” the minister of the interior says. He’s put it on speakerphone because he can barely sit down anymore. His shoulder is made out of wire, his neck is a vice, his back is cricked and he can only keep still if he’s standing. “Let’s have the bad news first.”
“O.K. We haven’t reached an agreement.”
No surprise there. The minister doesn’t respond immediately, like someone taking stock of unpleasant news they’ve been expecting. “What did they say?”
“Not much. But now the French are prepared to take five thousand.”
“Instead of three thousand?”
“I know, it hasn’t got us very far. Still, two thousand more is two thousand more.”
“What else?”
“Nothing else. I reckon the French might move a little more if others gave an indication that they’d help out. But they’re not. The Italians, Spaniards, Portuguese and Greeks are all saying they’ve done enough already. And our friends in the east are saying—”
“I know. I can only emphasise once again that we’re the ones who’d be helping them out.”
“They see things differently.”
“The Bulgarians? Do me a favour!”
“Especially the Bulgarians.”
This is nothing more than a game. It’s Old Maid. It’s a child’s birthday party. A rich boy’s been invited, and nobody likes him. All the other children are laughing and saying how funny it would be if the stupid rich boy got stuck with the Old Maid. They give each other hints as to who’s got the Old Maid, and who has to pass on which card so that it ends up with the stupid rich boy. The hints become increasingly obvious. When they get bored with the game they simply slip the Old Maid between the other cards in the stupid rich boy’s hand, facing outwards, without making any secret of the fact. “Go on, cry if you like!” they say. And if he does cry they’re even more delighted.
“I hate to say it,” he insists, “but the Bulgarians are going to have to deal with the refugees on their own.” Germany may be stupid and rich, but it’s not defenceless.
“That’s what I already told them,” the president says. “But be honest now. Do you really believe that?”
“I’m just saying it while there’s still time. Any country that opens its borders has to bear the consequences. If the Bulgarians think the Serbs are going to take the problem off their hands; if the Serbs think the Hungarians are going to do it; if the Hungarians are placing their hopes in the Austrians – that’s their business. But we aren’t going to do it. Last time we went as far as we could. Germany has reached its limit.”
“But you’re still offering to allocate them to the various countries.”
“I don’t think you’ve quite understood me. We’re not offering anything. We can’t offer anything. But if someone is in a desperate situation and asks for our support, we’re always ready to help.”
“Five thousand refugees?”
“We have a limit prescribed by law. And the job of defending our country. The principle of proportionality still stands. With a smaller number we could opt for a softer approach. But with four hundred thousand people that’s out of the question. You know that as well as I do.”
“Yes, you know that, I know that, everyone knows it. But the countries along the Balkan route may well be prepared to let it come to that.”
“Didn’t you say something about some good news?”
“I think we need more time. It’s no good if every decision is taken in this highly charged atmosphere.”
“We’re not the ones with a foot on the accelerator, it’s the refugees. And – I can’t prove this, but it appears to be the case – the transit countries.”
“Alright, now listen. The calculation is simple. If the borders stop working, Germany risks ceasing to be a functioning E.U. Member State. And if Germany buckles, the entire E.U. buckles too. Are you with me so far?”
“But we’ve already passed that point, surely. The other countries’ borders are no longer functioning.”
“But we can do a repair job.”
“How?”
“We’ll make the borders look as if they’re functioning. If Germany voluntarily accepts the refugees, we can, for a certain period of time, continue to claim that the border is functioning. The E.U. will unanimously declare its gratitude to Germany for making a one-off exception once
again.”
“Unanimously . . .” the minister says sarcastically.
“Unanimously. I’ll sort that out. By now you might be thinking we’re incapable of sorting out anything, but I’ll do it, I give you my word.”
“What use to us is this ‘certain period of time’?”
“It’ll give the E.U. the chance to agree a refugee policy that is properly consistent.”
“And you believe that?” the minister says.
“There’s one thing I’m certain of: if, in the eyes of the world, the E.U.’s external border is breached, then nobody will see the need for an agreement anymore.”
“The same is true of the German border. No, the only way it will work is like this: once the Bulgarians have reeled in the first quarter of a million refugees, they’ll ponder whether they want the same again.”
“Are you really going to put up those high-voltage fences?”
“No comment.”
The story had already appeared in several newspapers and Bild was referring to him as “Mr 100,000 Volts”. He had leaked the information himself, to ensure his plan became public knowledge as rapidly as possible. He doesn’t have any political backing. Officially the chancellor’s office knows nothing, and first needs to commission a review. They’ve made it clear that he’ll have to carry the can if the plan goes wrong, if it’s criticised, if there’s a scandal – in every eventuality, in fact. Some experts regard the plan as completely unviable, others say it’s definitely possible. At any rate, electricity is quicker to deploy than soldiers. What helps his cause is the widely held view that the Germans aren’t famous for bluffing.
“In that case,” the president says dejectedly, “I’m afraid I won’t be able to help you. You know I’ll keep trying, but there’s no point in me going back to them with the figure of five thousand refugees.”
“And you know that I can’t bargain. I can say seven thousand, I can say eight thousand, but I’ll never get anywhere near the numbers that would be of any use to you. I can’t go back to the German people with even half the number of refugees.”
For a moment there is silence on the line.
“I can’t think of anything else,” the president says. Suddenly she sounds incredibly tired and shockingly old. “I don’t know where to begin. Clearly we’re going to have to chance it.”
The minister says goodbye. Standing in his office, he has to concede that he doesn’t know where to begin either. Which means he might as well go and have a good sleep.
52
The bus has gone quiet. Not just quieter than in Serbia or Hungary, where the atmosphere was still quite jolly, as if they were on their way to a gigantic country wedding. Now everyone’s fallen silent, even the small children, who usually squabble or shriek at every opportunity. It’s hard to say when this began. Maybe when the mountains started looming. Maybe when they saw fewer and fewer cars coming the other way, even though it’s broad daylight. Now there’s nothing on the other side of the road.
The Germans have closed their side of the border and now, at the sight of the empty carriageway, the refugees feel strangely alone. Like in a Western when there’s going to be a shootout and everyone vacates the saloon as fast as possible.
Lionel gazes through the windows at Austria, this astonishingly wet country. The clouds are hanging low. All the rain has made the land fertile, at least where there are no houses or roads. It’s so cluttered. Everywhere you look there’s something; nowhere is there nothing. He noted at once that he was right, there are no goats. It’s obvious, because lush grass is growing all over the place here. Strange how these Europeans fail to come up with the simplest ideas. They’re so modern and rich that they’ve lost sight of all the advantages goats bring. That’s doubly good, because he won’t have any competition. They’re worried about work being taken away from them, but nobody here works with goats. Eighty million Germans and hardly any goats – if only ten Germans share one goat, it’s still a huge market he can take by storm.
“Slow down,” he tells Mahmoud. “Stay just in front of the guys behind.”
He sees the Austrian military vehicle in front of them pull away, before it too slows down after a few hundred metres.
“More to the middle,” he instructs Mahmoud. “Don’t let them overtake.”
“More to the middle,” Mahmoud repeats like a boatswain. Lionel passes the message to those sitting at the back to signal the change in speed to the bus behind. Now they’re driving across a small, astonishingly straight river. At first he thought it must be a canal, but Google Maps calls it the “Salzach”.
“Should I stop?”
Lionel points at the parking signs for the next exit. “Wait till there.”
He holds out his smartphone: Google Maps shows a small stopping place.
“Turn off, drive through the car park, then back onto the motorway and park sideways. I mean right across the motorway. We’ll go on foot again from here.”
“It’s getting serious now, is it?”
Mahmoud pulls into the car park. They could have driven on a bit more, all the way to the border, but Lionel doesn’t want to spoil the image.
“When we stop, and those behind us do too, then grab a few drivers and really block the lanes. I don’t want any clever Dicks sneaking past.”
He’s talked to a few of Malaika’s television people. They say the pictures that work best on television show helpless people holding children by the hand, and they have to be walking. These same people don’t look so helpless if they’re travelling on a bus.
At this point the motorway takes a broad curve to the left. The cameras at the border will be able to see the people with children coming towards them from a long way off. All day long they’ve been swapping places to be at the front. In the fiasco at the Turkish border the young men were clearly the strongest. This upset the order, which is why they’ve rearranged it. Everyone knows there are plenty of young men among the refugees, but it’s not something they need to emphasise. A bride makes herself pretty for her wedding.
Mahmoud steers the bus through the stopping place. He brakes on the slip road leading back onto the motorway and slowly drives it perpendicular to the carriageway. Then he opens the doors and switches off the engine, for the first time in more than a week.
The silence and lack of vibrations from the diesel engine lend a finality to the moment.
Somebody whoops, then cheering erupts, as if they’d already arrived at their destination. Lionel steps off the bus. Bushes line the stopping area. Through the bushes he can see blue lights; the Austrian police are blocking off all other routes, so that nobody gets any last-minute ideas of staying here. Aid organisations have set up taps for water and distribution points for food. The army has also secured the exits from the car park, unnecessarily as it turns out, because these are jammed with vehicles bearing the logos of aid organisations. The car park can only supply a fraction of the refugees. People who’ve been sitting waiting beside their cars stand up. They throw away their cigarettes, drink up from their cardboard cups and return to their vehicles to supply those sections to the rear of the convoy.
Onlookers watch from the wire fences that seal off the car park. Many are holding shapeless objects which, on closer inspection, turn out to be cuddly toys. He heard somewhere that refugees attract cuddly toy tourists like dead fish do cats. Europeans must assume that refugees need cuddly toys more urgently than anything else. Apart from in Hungary where a crowd pelted them with stones. In truth, he surmises after peering inside the bus, most people here would like nothing better than a bar of soap.
On his mobile Lionel checks the G.P.S. signal of the infant transporters. They’re still fifteen to twenty kilometres away, rapidly getting closer. Malaika is on a bus five kilometres behind that. A pink zebra car squeezes past the buses and comes to a halt, and a camera team gets out and hurries over to him. He gives them a reassuring wave. “We’ve still got bags of time,” his hands say. There’s nothing to do now but w
ait. For the other buses. Not all of them; that would be as pointless as setting off with only one hundred people.
The cogs in his brain are still whirring away, but there really is nothing more he can do because everything has been done. His head is churning out its usual nonsense. Was this really the right place to cross the border? All of a sudden he’s assailed by the thought that he’s made the wrong decision. That the bridge over the Inn would have been the better bet.
But he’s dismissed this idea so many times that it’s easy enough to do it again now. Yes, it would have made the best possible impression in the smallest space. It’s only thirty to forty metres wide, the Germans could have made every effort to seal it off, and likewise they would have made every effort to storm it. Undaunted by death and with no possibility to avoid it, with the water flowing on either side. The Germans would have had to take a decision. A nice showdown. But who would have seen it?
Where would the cameras go? The Germans weren’t going to provide them with prime locations. They’d have to put the crew on boats or pontoons. And from there, below the bridge, you’d be hard put to capture faces, you’d end up with poor-quality, shaky footage. Besides, you couldn’t be sure some refugees wouldn’t leap into the river if things got dangerous. Then everyone would say it’s their own fault they drowned. That won’t happen at the Salzburg border crossing.
On the other hand, there’s far more room to slip off to the side here. He can’t tell how great the desire is to go to Germany and Germany alone. What if half of them were to say that in fact Austria is nice enough, thank you?
And what if the other half reckons they can manage on their own from here?
What if he sets off for the border tomorrow or the day after, and finds himself on his own when he gets there? And at the end of the day everyone has made it to Germany via detours and secret paths. Everyone but him.
Lionel massages his brow with the balls of his hands. This isn’t the first time he’s been tormented by all this nonsense. And on each occasion he comes to the same conclusion: how could they abandon the man walking alongside Malaika and the cameras? They’ll follow him because it’s their best chance of a good future.
