The Hungry and the Fat

by Timur Vermes

  The Germans won’t shoot because they’re good people. They won’t switch the electricity on either. They tell these stories because refugees are tiresome – that’s understandable – and they’d be glad if fewer refugees came to their country – that’s O.K. too. That’s why they’re pretending to be angry. That’s politics. But when it comes down to it, the Germans are decent.

  The rain has stopped. The cloud cover has broken and the sun is making the car park quite pleasant. One of the television crew hands him a small bottle of water and something to eat. Why not? Lionel thinks.

  He sits on the ground, his back against a bus tyre warmed by the sun, and gazes at the mountains. Malaika has told him about them. It’s where milk and chocolate grow, she said. He told her she might be mistaken, because cacao comes from Africa. That’s perfectly possible, she replied, but in Germany the chocolate normally comes from the mountains. Although in winter it comes from an old man with a beard in a red outfit.

  Lionel takes a sip of water and bites into a thick slice of bread, on top of which is a bright-yellow slice that has a slight hint of mould. He chews bravely. Let everyone see how well he fits into Germany. That’s all he can do till Sunday.

  53

  The minister of the interior feels as if he’s in an old newsreel. Rommel inspecting the Siegfried Line. Maybe it wasn’t the best idea to go for the federal police uniform. The minister is wearing a bulletproof vest, and this time he looks astonishingly good in it, determined even, as he greets the journalists. N.D.R., W.D.R., B.R., Z.D.F., R.T.L., MyTV, N24 – they’re all here. They have almost unlimited access; the minister is keen to show how impassable the wall is they’ve constructed. Gödeke is taking him to the ramparts. He’s in uniform too, but with boots and a pistol. The minister has made it clear that he wants to see people with firearms.

  “Pistol, sub-machine gun, ideally both. I don’t want camera shots on any of the news bulletins where there aren’t at least three firearms visible. We mean this seriously! Snipers too!”

  He’s talked through this press conference with Gödeke several times. No affability, no friendly remarks – the message must be unequivocal. They’ve assembled the press in a room where they’ll be easily heard, and rather than have Gödeke turn to the journalists and say, “Shall we start?”, the minister introduces him, then Gödeke says, “Ladies and gentlemen, we don’t have much time so please follow me.”

  It’s all about demonstrating their resolve. He wanted the elite police unit here too – assault rifles and pump shotguns on display. He’s commandeered all available special vehicles with mounted snowploughs, as if these could push the refugees away. They’re chiefly for show too. More serious are the Mowags he’s had unofficially retrofitted. Those who know their Mowags would be surprised. Never before have these vehicles had machine guns, let alone heavy machine guns. And anyone registering surprise might also question the legal basis for these. But the minister isn’t particularly worried. In his experience journalists who are keen on weaponry are less interested in questions of legality. And journalists who are interested in questions of legality generally don’t know the difference between a machine gun and a sub-machine gun. They’ll assume the police must have the whole lot stored away somewhere.

  They accompany the journalists to the transporters. They will have to take a detour to be able to view the border installations from outside, from the Austrian side; it hasn’t been possible to drive straight for some days now. You have to go via Switzerland or Italy or, as the transporters are about to do, take one of the secret government tracks. To ensure that these remain secret, the vehicles have no windows. Mobiles must be surrendered so that no smart Alecs can follow the route via G.P.S.

  He and Gödeke arrive first because for security reasons, the press have to take a few extra twists and turns. The minister gets out and looks around. The border zone, which until a week ago was permanently full of parked lorries, has been evacuated and now looks like a field ready for battle. The service stations and petrol pumps are sealed off with fences that are unlikely to hold. Some of the windows on the second floor of Walserberg service station have been boarded up. On the ground floor they’re just bricked up. The large building sits tranquilly in the sunshine like a stranded ship.

  As there was every likelihood of plundering, the fuel pumps were emptied to the last drop. The minister heard that the leaseholder has already sued Austria for loss of earnings. But that hasn’t changed anything; even the Austrians would rather solve the problem first and then untangle the legal issues afterwards. At any rate the Austrian police and army are both here. The army can be deployed for the protection of internal security. They’re allowed to use real tanks. Not that these would be particularly useful in close combat, but they give the impression of greater resolve. Or they could. In truth, the minister thinks, Austria just looks like Sound of Music country.

  The transporters carrying the press arrive. The minister waits for the reporters to get out and lets them take in the bizarre set-up. “It’s like during the oil crisis,” says one cameraman who can only know the oil crisis from television. Gödeke and the minister lead the way. Together with the reporters they climb a press platform that has been constructed especially for the occasion, and which affords a good overview. They look out over the newly erected installations towards Germany.

  “It’s like the Berlin Wall,” Mr Oil Crisis says.

  “What you can see here,” Gödeke begins, “are high-security fences built to the highest standard. Underpinned several times, impossible to push over. Few horizontal struts make them very difficult to climb. Protected at the top by razor wire. Each pillar is set in concrete at least one metre below the ground. The fence rises to six metres above ground level with an overhang at the top.”

  “Degree of difficulty?” a young woman asks cheekily.

  The minister looks at Gödeke.

  “We got the Alpine Association to give us their assessment. They say between eight plus and nine minus.”

  The cheeky woman whistles through her teeth.

  “Which means you’d have to train for a few years first. Nobody’s going to just climb over it. But in any case our objective is that they don’t even begin climbing.”

  “It could look a lot more daunting,” a young reporter says. “The exclaves in north Africa are better secured.”

  With his silence, the minister implicitly agrees.

  “The appearance of the fence is chiefly down to the need for a swift response from the authorities,” Gödeke explains. “It’s pointless if you build a super wall right by the motorway here, but it’s only two hundred metres wide and you’ve got a garden fence beside it. Everyone would just go to where it’s easiest to get across. So rather than plumping for the most secure option, we had to go for the most secure option that we could erect across the greatest distance.”

  “How long is your fence, then?”

  “That is confidential. But we do have the advantage that such a large procession of people cannot simply wander two hundred kilometres unnoticed. If they change their location, so can we, and more quickly.”

  “Where are we here?” a reporter says. “In Germany already?”

  “We’re still in Austria,” Gödeke says. “Officially we’ve just driven into Austria by the terms of the Schengen Agreement. To prevent the refugees from exploiting the opportunity that being on German soil would offer, the fence has been built right on the border.”

  “This is the difference from installations like those in Palestine or Mexico,” the minister explains. “There people want to slip into the country unnoticed. Under Israeli or U.S. law they can’t invoke their rights in the same way. So you can relocate your fence fifty metres into your country. We, however, are working on the assumption that these refugees are intending to apply for asylum en masse, for which in theory they merely need to be on German soil. This is what we’re trying to prevent.”

  “There’s never been a border installation like this.�
��

  “Sure there has!” the oil-crisis Berliner says.

  “Certainly not,” Gödeke says. “There are installations designed to prevent the covert intrusion of individuals and groups – for example in Israel and the U.S.A. There have been and still are installations designed to prevent the covert escape of individuals and groups – like the wall you’ve referred to. And there are installations designed to defend against armed attack – which include every castle fortification and the Great Wall of China. But to date there hasn’t been a single border installation designed to withstand storming by unarmed intruders who in addition plan to claim asylum.”

  “Are you saying that this fence follows the exact course of the border?” the climbing woman says.

  “That’s correct. The electrical construction even hangs slightly over it.”

  “So you actually did that?” an older reporter asks.

  “The state mustn’t allow itself to be blackmailed,” the minister says, giving his routine answer. “These people are also perfectly safe in Austria. They don’t have to come to us.”

  “How secure is the construction?” the older reporter asks. “What we see now . . . is that everything, or is there more to come? What is the strength of the current, for how many people is it life-threatening?”

  “The specifications are confidential,” Gödeke says. “But I can state that we weren’t able to use normal industrial protective fences because of their inadequate current. And here I’m talking about fences built to protect power plants.”

  “Let me assure you that any refugee who tries to tamper with this fence will face the most unpleasant consequences German manufacturing can offer,” the minister weighs in.

  “Lethal? Or not?” the older reporter mutters. “That’s the key.”

  “It’s a one-off experience that the person concerned will never repeat,” the minister replies.

  “Because they won’t want to, or won’t be able to?”

  “Able to. In all likelihood.”

  “Lethal, then,” the reporter notes, as satisfied as if he’d found a perfect mushroom in the woods.

  “At this point I ought to clarify something. Most people think a fence should be so secure that nobody can climb over it. But that’s impossible. There is no fence in existence that’s impossible to surmount.”

  “So why bother build one in the first place?” the climbing woman says.

  “A fence,” the minister pontificates, “is a statement. It says that where the fence is, the path stops.”

  “You could do the same with red string,” the mushroom collector says.

  “True. The key thing about this fence is not what it’s made of, but what you’re going to do when somebody decides to disregard it. Whether you can defend your fence, or your string. Let me assure you that the Federal Republic of Germany has all the means and units necessary to defend her borders, and we intend to make use of these. The federal police have been in intensive training for weeks. We are prepared for any crisis situation.”

  “If you are so resolute,” the oil-crisis Berliner says, “how many deaths are you braced for?”

  “I can’t give you any figures.” The minister puffs out his chest. “But I was there when the refugees crossed the Turkish border. And in a similar situation the German police will not stand by and watch. If unauthorised persons try to cross the border, we will stop them.”

  “And if they keep trying?”

  “We will keep stopping them,” the minister says, and then pauses deliberately. “Until nobody tries anymore.”

  “You won’t follow through with that,” the climbing woman says, giving the minister a stern look. “When it comes to the crunch you’ll have to give in. You’ll have to open the border.”

  “And where would we do that?”

  The climbing woman turns to look at the fence. And only now does it dawn on her.

  “We’re not playing games here, we’re serious,” the minister says determinedly. “We’re haven’t got secret accommodation ready. And we’re not going to open the border at any point. Because, as you can see, there aren’t any openings here.”

  54

  Nine o’clock in the morning. They thought about arriving at the crack of dawn, but that’s too much like an invasion. The only people outside your house at 4.00 a.m. are burglars, enemy soldiers or the secret police. Lionel doesn’t want to catch anyone off-guard. He wants to arrive on a Sunday, because that’s when the Germans have their day off. Malaika’s broadcaster was even able to write in the T.V. magazines: Decision Day. They will broadcast footage all day long. The drones have been in the sky ever since they set off. He’s walking alongside Malaika and Saba, like a little family. Yesterday evening he went three hundred buses back with Malaika, and that’s where they spent the night.

  “Our last night,” she said.

  “The last night in this car.”

  Astrid was there too, and they stared lovingly at the night sky for the photographer. Not actually at the sky, but at the security lamps of a fenced industrial building. “Well, I’ll leave you alone, then,” Astrid said with an expression that suggested they were about to enjoy a wonderful night of passion.

  For the last time they pondered whether Malaika should stay behind. But that would be idiotic. Malaika is the only one they can be sure the Germans won’t let anything to happen to. And although he wants to protect her, Lionel isn’t macho enough to disregard the fact that it’s much more a case of Malaika, with her fame and all the cameras, protecting him.

  The plan is to have women and children first, throughout the day, then a running jump into primetime. But to start very slowly.

  Each holding one of Saba’s hands, Malaika and he set off at around eight o’clock. They took people with them from each bus they passed. They weren’t in any hurry; this isn’t an assault. “Germany is a country where everything works brilliantly,” he told the television cameras, “and we are good people who work hard. But hard work is useless if your house is burning down. All we want is to work in a house that isn’t burning down.”

  It’s very calm apart from the odd Austrian. “Time to go!” they call out. Or: “Piss off!” Or: “Bye bye!” The people from the aid organisations shake their heads, paper cups of coffee in their hands. They took a small detour to a Red Cross post, where the people were very friendly and handed him a coffee. He asked whether he could have milk with his coffee: “I always drink my coffee with milk.” This was a little white lie; he doesn’t like coffee. But the Germans like coffee even more than they like beer, and he wants to be a good German. Let the cameras see this.

  “Your German is so good!” a chubby woman says.

  “Yours too,” he says, principally for the television. She laughs and brings out a carton from under the table, from which she pours milk into his cup. Lionel says goodbye to her and holds the cup up to the camera: “Cheers!”

  In truth this walking is a bit unnecessary. At most they’re just checking that all the women and children really are at the front, but they’ve known what they have to do ever since Turkey. They made similar preparations for the other borders too, even though it wasn’t necessary. But Astrid said it would look silly spending the night by the fence and then just getting into position in the morning. For the camera, they have to walk up to it.

  They come to the first row of military vehicles. A few hundred metres further on are barriers, which only “authorised” people are allowed through. These are reporters, police, paramedics and the like, Malaika told him, “people with authorisation. A piece of paper.” Which confuses him because he’s pretty sure that not one of the four hundred thousand people behind him has any authorisation or a piece of paper. Some police officers look equally unsure: how can they check the refugees’ lack of paper?

  Lionel is also pretty sure that some people walking alongside them would have papers. People with very light skin taking videos on their phones. But who can tell? After all, most people are taking videos on thei
r phones – today is the day for it.

  Malaika tugs at his shoulder. Oh yes, selfie time. She hugs him, Saba between them, then she taps and swipes and puts the picture online. Now they’re passing the infant transporters. One of the nurses looks out of the open car, beside her a colleague puts a baby into a mother’s arms. All four are crying. The nurses because it’s a wrench to let the baby go, the baby out of habit and the mother just to be sociable, perhaps.

  Here comes the last barrier. They can already see the fence up ahead. They’ve studied the area thoroughly – Astrid’s camerawoman helped out a bit with her drone – and it is in fact the same fence here as it is twenty kilometres to either side. So they chose the place with the best view for the cameras. Right by the border crossing. The broadcasters haven’t left anything to chance; they’ve installed all manner of floodlights for when it gets dark It looks as if they’re entering a huge arena.

  Lionel suddenly feels sick. It’s nothing, he tells himself. You’re on dry land. You’re steering yourself. This is so much better than any rubber dinghy. It’s been worth it at any rate. But it doesn’t feel that great. He tries to find more positives. Like the fence.

  It doesn’t look so bad. Four or five smart, fit young men working as a team – in a quiet moment that could work rather well. But there’s scant chance of a quiet moment with four hundred thousand people coming up behind. Especially as the Austrian soldiers and police officers have been most thorough in seeing to it that nobody disappears into the bushes. Not many have tried either. Those apprehended singly are soon shunted off somewhere. It’s like with sardines: only the shoal offers security.

  There are yellow warning signs all over the fence.

  Will they switch on the electricity?

  Lionel stops ten metres before the fence. Beyond it he sees a crowd of masked, armoured police officers. Armoured vehicles, machines that look a bit like ploughs. He gives them a friendly wave. They don’t react. He sees a large number of firearms of every calibre, including machine guns. Glancing to his right he sees Malaika standing there. Cameras film both of them from below. Malaika looks like an angel with a flaming sword sent by God, just without the flaming sword. He sees Saba clutch her hand first, then his. He turns to the people advancing behind them. Young people, women holding the hands of children, or with children in their arms.