I sat down. The bed was reasonably comfortable, but I wasn’t sure how I would ever sleep. I had never seen people of so many different nationalities before, and they were all very strange to me. They appeared angry and unfriendly.
A few minutes later, a bell rang, and the refugees all headed toward what I would soon learn was a cafeteria. As usual, I had no idea where I was headed but figured it made sense to follow the crowd.
The warm smell of cooking food immediately lifted my spirits. I was famished, and for a moment it hardly mattered that my arrival in Germany had been less than ideal. I lined up to get my food. The meal was pre-set and served on a tray. No plates.
There were tables with benches that lined the room. Groups of men sat together with their own kind and wolfed down their food. I got my food and sat on a bench. It reminded me of the boarding school dining room in Jaffna.
My first meal in my new home was completely foreign to me: roasted meat with peas, mashed potatoes, and gravy. The meat, I learned, was duck. I had never had duck before. It tasted like chicken! I managed to get off on the wrong foot during this first meal. In my family, we ate with our hands, so that is what I did. The meat was manageable, but the mashed potatoes and gravy proved a formidable challenge.
An older man across from me was watching me with a mixture of amusement and disappointment. He reached over and slapped down an unfamiliar utensil. I had noticed other men using this strange implement: a long, polished stem that spread into four sharp points. I picked it up.
“Die Gabel!” he barked gruffly around a mouthful of mashed potato.
“Gabel? ” I repeated. The old man nodded.
Gabel, I thought. I did my best to imitate what I saw him doing. It was awkward at first — food kept falling off the fork — but after a while I caught the hang of it.
A fork, I thought. What next?
* * *
I was already familiar with living in a dorm from my school days in Jaffna. All I had to do was follow the rules and hope to get along with everyone.
I kept to myself as much as I could. I avoided people in general, and that included my fellow detainees. In the hall where I was staying, I met another Tamil. Once in a while I talked to him. He had arrived at the camp before me. He told me that people would stab each other with knives and forks stolen from the cafeteria. One night an argument broke out between two men — I think one was Iraqi and the other Iranian — and one of the men lost control and smashed the other in the face with his tray. In 1980, Iraqi forces had invaded Iran and there was a lot of hatred between Sunni and Shiite Muslims. It struck me that they had a lot in common with Tamils and Sinhalese. The guards rushed over and dragged the two men away. I never saw them again.
There was not much to do at night. Mostly we were ordered back to our sleeping areas, where we would sit for hours until lights out at 9:00 p.m. It was dull, but actually it was fine with me. I had no interest in fraternizing with the other men anyway.
Occasionally, I would hear loud screams, especially at night. Then, from my bed, I would see the flashing lights of ambulances and police cars shining through the windows. The vehicles would surround the camp, and there would be blood on the floor in the hallway the next day.
At regular intervals throughout the night, guards with flashlights checked each bed. I am not sure what they were looking for. Where did they think we could go? Maybe they were afraid of a detainee killing himself. At night, I was afraid to go to the bathroom; if I had to pee, I just held it in until morning, when the lights were turned back on.
Life in the camp was brutal and violent. Most of the fights were between Muslims, often between rival leftist and rightist factions of Iranians. Almost a quarter of the refugee camp was filled with Iranians. I wasn’t sure what was going on outside the camp because we had no access to newspapers or radio or TV. In fact, I had no contact with anyone other than the Tamil man. It wasn’t a place to make friends.
There was a lot of crime at the camp, too. Detainees would steal anything they could get their fingers on, and fights seemed to be a regular feature of camp life. I guess it was a way to relieve anger and frustration.
A short time after I was processed, I was told that the paperwork associated with asylum seekers took a month. I was so frightened and disoriented at the time that I really hadn’t understood what that meant. Did that mean I would be granted asylum?
Every day I watched and waited. I never asked anyone else about it because I didn’t want to cause trouble. I always smiled whenever I saw a guard, and I did as I was told.
I was at the camp for about three weeks. It is strange thinking back on it now. Were it not for the lights going on and off at regular intervals, I would have had no idea how much time was passing. As it was, it didn’t seem to matter. It was like being trapped in a mindlessly dull time warp. I stared at the cement walls and tuned out.
Still, the bunk beds gave me a much better sense of security and comfort than the beach in Colombo. There was enough food to eat and a place to shower. I had no real complaints.
One morning a guard arrived at my sleeping area and told me to collect my things quickly. He led me to an office on the main floor. “What is happening?” I pleaded with my eyes. Over the last few weeks at the camp, I had not picked up even a smattering of German. The guards never talked to us, and everyone else at the camp was like me. When I arrived at the office, there was an officer standing behind the counter flipping though some documents. He finally looked at me.
“Loogaa … Thaarrm …” He was trying to pronounce my name but was unsuccessful.
I immediately nodded and acknowledged him.
He said something that sounded like “Nuremberg” and then presented my passport to another officer, who motioned me to follow him. He led me to the bus. There were about twenty people on the bus, a few of them women. I did not recognize anyone from the camp, so I assumed they must be from other camps. The bus left, and after a time we approached a checkpoint heavily guarded by soldiers. This, it turned out, was the border between West Berlin and East Germany.
The bus driver returned our passports to us and asked us to remain seated on the bus.
“Halt Sie Ihre Pässe fest.” Hold on to your passports.
Two border guards climbed onto the bus with a dog. One guard went to the back of the bus while the other checked in the front. They asked us for our passports and held each one up to each refugee’s face, scrutinizing the features. All of a sudden, one guard ordered a refugee to get off the bus. His wife grabbed his hand and protested vehemently. The guards tugged at him, but she would not release her grip. Finally, one of the guards pushed her away and the man was dragged roughly off the bus. The woman was shouting and shrieking. It scared the hell out of me. I watched from the window as they dragged the man into an office. His wife was weeping and shouting in Tamil something about him having shaved his moustache. I assumed she meant that was the reason he didn’t look exactly like his passport picture. After he was led off, she had to stay on the bus with us. She sat down very slowly and went very quiet. It was like she was too scared to cry. I have no idea what happened to him.
There were a lot of soldiers with submachine guns. The situation reminded me of Sri Lanka, and there were certainly moments when I wondered if my decision to emigrate had been a foolish one.
The bus parked on top of a bridge that overlooked a nearly twelve-foot-tall concrete wall that stretched into the distance in both directions for as far as the eye could see. Later, of course, I would learn that this was the infamous Berlin Wall. Along the wall, I saw soldiers, holding submachine guns, stationed like dominoes, one after another, every twenty feet or so.
A guard stamped my passport “Drewitz,” dated February 14, 1985, and returned it to me. Drewitz was known as Checkpoint Bravo on the German Democratic Republic side. It was the main checkpoint in and out of isolated Berlin before the wall came down. The guards decamped from the bus, the driver demanded our passports back, and we drove
on into West Germany.
Later I learned that the border guards were allowed to carry guns and shoot illegal migrants. They were rewarded with medals and promotions for killing escapees. If the guards failed to shoot, or if there was suspicion that they had deliberately missed their targets, they were punished.
CHAPTER 17
After a long ride — about five hours — the bus finally reached a refugee compound in the city of Nuremberg. An officer at the refugee centre ordered us off the bus and instructed us to form a line for processing. Since there were only about twenty of us, processing took less than an hour. One by one we were ordered to step forward. When it was my turn, I walked inside the office, which was guarded by two or three men.
I was greeted in Tamil: “Vanakkam.” The interpreter put his palms together in the traditional Tamil greeting.
“Vanakkam,” I replied.
“What is your name and place of birth?” he asked.
“My name is Logathasan Tharmathurai. I was born in Jaffna, Sri Lanka.”
He nodded and handed me a document. “Keep this with you at all times. Very important! Also, you must not leave Nuremberg. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“You have an appointment scheduled that you must attend. Do you understand? Do not miss it. If you do, you will be in violation of the law and deported immediately.”
I said I understood.
I was given a bus pass and about the equivalent of about ten U.S. dollars in Deutsch marks for pocket money.
An officer gave me a package wrapped in clear plastic. It contained a small pillow, a bed cover, and a thick wool blanket. He then led me to my room, which was located on the third floor. The room was freshly painted and immaculate. There was a wooden table with two chairs by the window and two beds opposite each other against the walls. One bed had clothes scattered over it. I put my bag and the package on the table and hopped onto the empty bed. I didn’t even bother to make up my bed. It had been a long day. I closed my eyes.
For the first time in weeks, I was alone.
“Dinnertime! Let’s go to the cafeteria.”
The voice was yelling in Tamil, and when I opened my eyes, there was man in his late twenties standing over me: my roommate. At first, I was annoyed at being woken up, but then I realized I hadn’t eaten anything for an entire day and was starving. I quickly got up and followed him out of the room.
“My name is Selvan,” he told me. “I have been living here at the camp for almost two years.”
“Really? You have been here for that long?” I was shocked. “My name is Logathasan, from Jaffna. I arrived today.”
The cafeteria was big enough to seat about two hundred people. We waited in line and got our food: two slices of meat with gravy, a few pieces of boiled potatoes, and steamed vegetables, all neatly placed on a tray.
“This is horse meat,” Selvan said.
I didn’t care. I was hungry.
After dinner, I went back to my room and lay on my bed. My eyelids felt heavy and I couldn’t keep my eyes open. I dozed off.
A loud noise woke me up. The sun’s rays were penetrating the window. I must have slept for a long time. I had to pee badly, but there was no toilet in our room.
“The toilet is in the bathroom down the hallway,” Selvan yelled in Tamil.
The bathrooms were communal, shared with other rooms. They were huge and accessible, with shower, bathtub, sink, and toilet. Everything was spotless and as modern as in a four- star hotel.
When I returned to our room, Selvan offered to show me the rest of the camp.
“This kitchen is shared by four rooms in our section. Keep it clean. On Mondays and Thursdays you can get food items from the main lobby, like whole chicken, rice, bread, and milk, to prepare your own meals.”
I nodded.
“Write your name on anything you place in the fridge. Nobody will steal the food because it is already free. If the fridge is full, you can hang the chicken outside the window in our room. It is winter anyway.” I assumed he was joking, but then I peeked through the window in the kitchen and saw a line of dead chickens hanging from ropes. “We are on the third floor,” he said. “No animal can get them.”
We headed back to our room.
“Nanri,” I said. Thank you. At last, I felt genuine relief. My spirits lifted. Perhaps everything would work out after all!
Selvan gave me the address of the camp, and I sat down to write my first letter since I had left home two months earlier.
Dear Amma, Aiya, Kanna, Deicy, Jance, Vani, Kala, Sumathi and Sharmilee,
How are you? I am doing fine. I am staying in a camp in Germany. I have a nice room to sleep [in] and they give me food to eat. I am safe now and don’t have to worry about being captured and tortured by the Sri Lankan army anymore.
I included fifty Deutsch marks [seventeen dollars U.S.] inside the carbon paper so that post office staff won’t steal the money. That’s all I have for now. Please spend it wisely. I will send you more money once I get a job.
Was Aiya able to open the Jewelry shop again? Is Kanna safe there? Tell Kanna don’t go outside during curfews. You can write letters to this address:
Logathasan Tharmathurai
BAMF, 3rd Floor
Frankenstraße 210
90461 Nürnberg
West Germany
With love,
Rajan
As I was writing the letter, my heart sank to the ground. I felt immensely guilty for leaving my family in Sri Lanka. I had been able to escape the horrors of home, and I now had a place to sleep peacefully and eat three meals a day. But what about them?
Had the soldiers raided our village again? What was happening to my homeland? Why was there so much hatred among us? Why was war the solution?
I spent most of the time in my room doing nothing but sleeping. When I was younger, my mother would always say, “Rajan, you grow bigger during sleep. It is good for your brain,” so I never felt bad if I overslept.
“Aiyoo … Amma …” I was moaning in my sleep as I dreamed about being chased by a military helicopter.
“Wake up, buddy, it is ten o’clock.” Selvan was standing in front of my bed. I had slept for more than twelve hours. “Let’s go outside and tour the city,” he insisted.
I took a shower in the four-star washroom and then headed to the cafeteria for toast with jam and chocolate spread and a cup of tea.
After breakfast, Selvan and I left the camp on foot.
CHAPTER 18
In 1934, the city of Nuremberg hosted the infamous Nazi party rallies that were chronicled with incredible propagandist appeal by writer and director Leni Riefenstahl in Triumph of the Will. I came to know about the Nazis and Hitler while living at the Nuremberg camp. According to Selvan, the building we lived in had been used as a military hospital during the Second World War; after the war, the German government converted the hospital into a refugee camp. The history I learned was horrifying but familiar, too. The Nazis had murdered six million Jews. I wondered what the world thought about the genocide that was being perpetrated against the Tamils.
Selvan and I spent the whole day touring the city. Unlike my home village in Sri Lanka, Nuremberg was modern and clean. The roads seemed freshly paved and there were shiny new cars everywhere. Even the taxis were luxurious. Mercedes-Benzes! I was mesmerized by the traffic lights and by how polite and obedient people were while waiting to cross the street. When the lights turned green, they all started across; when the lights turned red, they all stopped!
It was still winter and snow covered the ground. I thought it looked so beautiful. Some older ladies wearing fur coats were walking their dogs on leashes along the sidewalk. Other ladies carried their dogs inside handbags. In Sri Lanka, the dogs roamed around the streets without any leash. Our beloved dog, Tony, was kept in our enclosed yard and never allowed to go out to the streets or come inside our home. In Germany, the dogs were very well taken care of and to me looked like rich, grumpy old
men.
We went to a church nearby called Frauenkirche (Church of Our Lady). It took us less than an hour to get there on foot. The church and its adjacent buildings had been destroyed by the British during the war, but most of them had been restored back to their former glory. Inside the church, I was awed by the high ceilings and arches, the sculptures, and the stained-glass windows. Later I learned that this Gothic-style building was built between 1352 and 1362, under the orders of the Holy Roman Emperor Charles IV.
Every night, we were required to return to the refugee centre for meals and to sleep, but we were free to explore the city during the day. I started to go out by myself. I was particularly fascinated by the supermarkets. I had never seen so much stuff in my life. It was incredible.
One day when I was at the supermarket, a German lady flagged me down. She was holding a large paper bag that she indicated she wanted me to have. She smiled at me and said, “Es ist ein Geschenk. Es ist kalt draußen.”
When I opened the bag, I saw it was full of clothes. I smiled. There was a thick wool sweater and a heavy jacket. I thanked her as best I could for the generous gift and put on the sweater and jacket.
Most days I would hop on the bus and go for a short ride. All I had to do to ride the bus was show my pass. Of course, I was very careful to make sure I never travelled beyond the city limits. I had not forgotten the cavity search in East Berlin and had no reason to believe it would be any different in West Germany.
A month after my arrival, I appeared in the office at the detention centre for my appointment. The officer in charge greeted me with a smile and introduced me to a Tamil interpreter, who, I was told, would help explain the process I would go through in greater detail.
The Sadness of Geography Page 11
