Hidden Colours Page 6

  Ellie leaned forward, forgetting the goats. “Why do you say that? Hasn’t the government made you feel welcome? Haven’t the people been considerate?”

  “In my country, we bring food to new arrivals. We welcome them into the community. We don’t take no for an answer. If they are quiet, we talk until they begin to talk themselves. It is love.”

  “And what have you found here?”

  He shrugged. “At first, I couldn’t speak the language.” He’d not yet mastered the rhythms, the hard consonants, and he chose each word with care. “I can communicate adequately now but my native accent sticks. We do not share the same linguistic roots, or even alphabet. Speaking to Germans can be daunting. I worry they will be impatient with me.”

  “I think mostly they would appreciate how hard you’ve worked to learn the language.”

  “Perhaps. I think my appearance makes it harder.” He gestured to his large frame. “I’m a big man. It’s hard to forget my presence, even when some people would rather not see me. It would be better to blend in. It would be easier.”

  Ellie resisted the urge to negate his experiences because they made her uncomfortable. She wanted to convince him this city could be a utopia, somewhere for him to realise the dreams that had been stolen from him in the land of his birth. But how could you start anew after losing your wife and children? So instead, all she said was, “I see.”

  “Do you? I look at you, and I see a chance my children never had, just because they happened to be born elsewhere. I wonder what they could have been. I’d give anything to hold them once more.” He sank his head into his arms.

  He hadn’t even had a chance to say goodbye to his boys. She remembered being nineteen, with life stretching out in front of her. She had felt bullet-proof. How unfair for his sons to have faced their mortality so soon.

  Osman wept, loudly, unapologetically, and the goats flocked to him.

  What comfort could Ellie offer him? As she left, she laid a hand on his shoulder, and two stories took shape in the folds of her mind: one a story of misfits, grief and happenstance; the second a story of the other, of crime and recriminations.

  Chapter 8

  In the weeks that Yusuf considered leaving Syria, he escaped his family home, where pictures of his brother adorned the walls. The war had worsened. He slumped at the roadside, searching for a map to his future, the dust from mortar and shells clawing at his lungs. Smugglers crawled out from every crack, searching for ways in which to line their coffers, mining tragedy and dreams as currency. He had stashed away most of the required money to pay the smugglers. The remainder could be borrowed. But how could he abandon his family, and if he did, where would he go?

  He wouldn’t be the first to flee.

  Friends had made the journey across borders and continents before him. Yusuf couldn’t be sure how their stories had ended, but he’d listened to their deliberations about where to seek asylum from the horrors of war. Only the foolish and naive set their sights on Turkey as an end destination. There, civil society deteriorated, and refugees could be certain of an inhospitable government, squalid conditions and empty bellies.

  His childhood friend Hamid had said as much. “$1,500 to cross the border to Turkey, and for what? I’d rather die in the sea trying to reach other shores than die in Turkey, starving and without a chance. I’ll go to Denmark, and when I have the right to remain, I can call my parents to join me.” Hamid’s brown eyes sparked with fierce determination, but when he left to meet the smugglers, he quivered like a boy half his age, and Yusuf knew his decision had been far from easy.

  Western Europe shone like a mirage for those willing to inch further across the globe. Austria, Holland, Sweden, Norway, and Denmark had all been possibilities, but for Yusuf, Germany topped the list. There, refugees waited only three months for a permit to work. He wanted to be a teacher, and Germany’s free university studies and low unemployment made that a possibility, not to mention its growing economy and protection of human rights. Who wouldn’t want assurances they would be treated with dignity after all they had endured?

  He’d even heard stories of how some citizens greeted refugees with applause when they arrived on German soil. But that was before the assaults in Cologne and the Christmas Market attack in Berlin, as well as the countless flares of violence that had occurred in Europe, where once citizens had assumed they’d been so safe.

  So he’d travelled to Europe in an unholy stop-start relay of dank flats, dark lorries, and a sea journey that made him rue the day he had left Syria. His story was not unusual. He closed his eyes and sank into the flickering memories that tracked across the nebulous pink inside his eyelids: stinking bodies huddled together in the dark, reeking piss pots in the corners of rooms, lumps of valuables strapped underneath clothing, and the ever-present threat of violence and rape. They had no choice but to trust strangers. Even sleeping grew difficult, without allies to watch over you.

  He met corruption at every turn amongst the smugglers. Some slunk away in the night with his money. Others made promises and never returned. Men with dollar signs in their eyes and masks they wore away from their own families. Such men could be found within border control and the police too, of the countries through which Yusuf sought passage. The journey aged him, and his dreams retreated beyond his grasp.

  When he finally reached Berlin and found himself squeezed into the open cubicles in the temporary refugee camp at Tempelhof airfield with thousands of others, he couldn’t imagine focusing on study. His mind raged like a choppy ocean. He needed time to recoup, to find his feet in this new land. Eventually, word reached him from an asylum officer of auditions for the Treptow Circus project. It seemed like the answer to his prayers: a home to call his own, a purpose, and a way to form bonds with others like him, who had a chance of a permanent home in Germany. The physical rigour of circus training suited him more than intellectual vigour.

  He’d been right to come to Germany after all.

  Gratitude didn’t thread its way into the hearts of all the circus refugees; a few carried a sense of entitlement that Yusuf struggled to understand, which caused uncomfortable clashes in the common room at the residences.

  At lunch that afternoon, many of the performers broke from practice and preparations inside the tent to eat together, speaking in huddles about what had occurred between Simeon and Dawud the night before. The room, large enough to accommodate fifty people at once, benefitted from large windows that made it bright and airy, unlike the bedrooms. It served as a space to eat and relax. At one end of the room, eight pock-marked tables stood in a long line, adorned with an odd sequinned runner Leyla the cook had found at a Berlin flea market. An assortment of chairs had been neatly tucked in. The other end of the room contained floor cushions in olive green on a floral rug, and a large L-shaped sofa in grey velvet. Posters of key words and tenses in German dotted the walls, as visual aids for the integration classes that took place there three times a week, encompassing German language, culture and law.

  Yusuf lay on the floor, a towel hooked around his left foot, his leg perpendicular to his body as he stretched out his calf. He and Zul had been speaking in hushed tones when a ruckus erupted at the buffet.

  He looked up and sighed to find Najib hovering over a tray of food he’d deliberately knocked to the floor, judging by the stance of his body, legs wide apart, arm hovering in the air, his expression uncompromising. With Emir nowhere to be seen, it fell to Yusuf to smooth things over. He heaved himself up, and made his way over to Najib, taking care not to tread in the chutneys, cheese and grilled chicken he’d pushed over.

  Leyla, wife of Emir, hurried to clear up the mess, her great bosom heaving as she crouched on the floor with a washcloth.

  “That was unkind,” said Yusuf, using a napkin to scoop a mound of food off the floor. “Leyla spent time cooking this for us. What’s wrong, brother?”

  “Always the same food here. Who isn’t fed up?” said Najib with a scowl.

  “S
omething is bothering you.” Yusuf placed a hand on Najib’s shoulder but Najib shook it off.

  “Like you care.”

  “Of course I care. We are family here,” said Yusuf, although Najib happened to be his least favourite person in the circus, and he’d learned to be wary at the prickles that often arose from nowhere.

  “I was by the television tower on Alexanderplatz this morning. Do you know how much money those living statues make when they just stand there all day? I had a bowl out, and a sign asking for money. I can’t live on what we earn here. A man gave me Monopoly money–the cheek of it!” His nostrils flared, and he dug in his pocket for a clutch of small, brightly coloured notes, before making a show of tearing them in half.

  Yusuf rolled his eyes. Beneath them, Leyla picked up the discarded food, and Najib still knew no shame. “Why can’t you just be grateful for the chance we have here? We have enough to be happy.”

  Najib stiffened in anger.

  Sensing trouble, Zul approached. “How many times have we asked you not to beg? I’d report you if it wouldn’t harm us all by association.”

  “Pah,” said Najib. “My family lived like kings in Syria. We lost everything. Why should I be a pauper now?”

  He rubbed his hand over the stubble that sprung up on his face despite his daily shaving. The beard and well-developed muscles, together with his lack of youthful innocence, had given rise to rumours that he was significantly older than the seventeen years old he’d proclaimed himself to be when he crossed the border into Germany. Without him, the residences would be more peaceful, but he had passed the circus auditions with flying colours as a result of his dancing and musical talents.

  “Our monthly allowance is more generous than in other receiving countries. I’m grateful for what we have,” said Yusuf.

  Leyla finished cleaning up, and stood heavily, addressing Najib. “Son, one day you will learn that what you earn in this life is never yours to keep. We can take nothing to our graves.”

  Najib shrugged. “You are closer to your grave than I am to mine.”

  “That’s enough!” said Yusuf.

  Leyla blinked back tears. Zul placed his arm around her shoulders.

  Yusuf ached for her. Feeding the circus could be a thankless task, but while Leyla might not receive the applause of the crowds, her role remained integral to the refugees’ wellbeing. She managed their food budget skilfully, weaving in the odd culinary surprise to their weekly menus, with never an unkind word, despite the monotony of her task. Her selfless, sunny personality contrasted with Najib’s, who sowed discord wherever he stepped.

  Leyla was right. They were, after all, the lucky ones. How many more had perished at home or at sea? How many people reached safer shores only to be turned away? Yusuf couldn’t understand Najib’s nature, how he insisted he deserved more, how he made waves and rocked the peace of their new home, never once being perceptive enough to read the dismay that his presence caused to those eager to make the most of their opportunity. Even Yusuf, who might have bonded with Najib, given their shared history as Syrians, found himself avoiding close interaction with him whenever possible.

  “You overstep the line,” said Yusuf. “She doesn’t deserve that.”

  “Who are you to school me when you let Dawud get away with what he did?” said Najib.

  Yusuf shook his head. “I’m not protecting him. I told Doris what happened.”

  “And yet you and Emir refuse to let me tell the police what I saw.”

  “If Simeon doesn’t want to tell the police who is responsible, we can’t take that choice away from him. And maybe Simeon is right. Dawud’s just a child. You’ve seen him. He’s sick with regret. He’s learned his lesson.”

  “Can’t you see your double standards? You’re angry at me and yet you all protect him.”

  Yusuf sighed. They needed to come together as a community if they were to heal from last night. Instead, even more fault-lines materialised. By now their conversation had drawn eyes from across the room, and he had no idea how to diffuse the situation.

  “Come now, let’s pray together,” said Leyla, looking up from the crook of Zul’s arm. “People who eat together and pray together, stay together.”

  “You don’t understand. Why should we play fair by the system?” said Najib, wringing his hands together, imploring them to understand, to not cast him in the role of the black sheep. “I fought as hard to be here as you all. The system is rigged. Just look at France. You need to be a superhero, to actually scale buildings like Spiderman, to gain citizenship. Maybe I would be better at following the rules if I thought we had a real chance of being granted permission to stay.”

  “Maybe it’s the other way around. Maybe by breaking the rules, you are the one that is going to close the coffin on this opportunity,” said Zul, thumbing his nose at Najib. “You want everything for nothing.”

  Najib clenched and unclenched his fists, leaving small red welts on his palms where his nails pressed into his skin. “Why should I apologise for wanting more for myself? Why should immigrants be made to feel lesser people just because they want to live better lives? Why shouldn’t we be able to go and stay wherever we want to?”

  Doris walked into their midsts, bringing with her an aura of calm. “Dearest Najib, I understand you’re angry, I really do. Life is not fair, but believe me, the German state isn’t perfect, but it is doing as much as it can.”

  Najib spun around to face her. “This is our common room, Doris. You shouldn’t sneak up on us.”

  “Leave her alone,” said Yusuf. “She’s just doing her job.”

  “I came here to check on you all after what happened last night,” said Doris.

  Najib ignored her and directed his venom at Yusuf. “Doesn’t the global order ever frustrate you? How the Europeans and the Americans always assert dominance over the rest of us?”

  “I can’t say I’ve ever thought about it,” said Yusuf.

  The lie left a bitterness in his mouth, but what good did it do to challenge centuries old dominance? It was the way of the world for some to be born with a silver spoon in their mouths and others to suffer. He didn’t think it fair, but then Najib would complain about the sun and the moon if he could.

  “I’m not stupid. I know we all get dealt different cards in life. The question is, how are you going to play yours?” said Najib. “People like you always toe the line. You’re too scared to step beyond it, but you’ll see, you’ll end up in the mud like the rest of us.”

  Chapter 9

  Rex considered his greatest strength to be his ability to lock away his emotions and get the job done. For that reason, on the night of the stabbing while he awaited news of the boy’s fate, the political serendipity of the incident didn’t pass him by. Not that he wished the boy harm. Rather, Rex’s vanity didn’t allow for him to be painted as the bad guy, and the night’s ills reassured him he acted with good judgement in his plan to close the circus.

  He spent the day working on matters of state, with Jessy slumbering by his side, looking at worrying anti-Semitism trends and agreeing to increase police presence at the nation’s synagogues. Corinne brought him up to speed on cyber threats from foreign agents, and he chaired a round-table of key people combatting terrorism. He loved the variety of his job on a daily, even hourly basis; he loved the importance it attached to him. The responsibility might be great, but he’d been born for a role like this. His parents, his teachers, even his wife had told him so, not that he’d needed to hear it. Ambition was threaded through every cell in his body.

  In the late afternoon, when the dog grew impatient and needed to empty her bladder, he whistled to her, slipped his jacket on, and said his goodbyes to Corinne.

  “Minister, are you sure it’s wise for you to undertake this meeting? Should I not go in your stead?”

  Corinne had been with him since the early days of his political ascent, and though her salary paled in comparison to his, there was no one whose judgement he trusted m
ore. Still, he couldn’t send her in his place, not into a possibly volatile situation. He owed her more than that. Besides, controlling all the pieces was his forte. His instincts told him that his political survival depended on how he handled the growing rumbles of xenophobia, and he needed to assess for himself whether each pawn in his plan functioned as it was supposed to.

  “It’s a few words, Corinne. If I’m accused of anything untoward, then I’ll say I was walking Jessy. Besides, when do you ever leave here before ten? Go home, for once.”

  “In that case, this is where I’ve asked him to meet you,” she pointed to a red x drawn onto a map. “It’s not covered by cameras, and off the usual tourist route. Are you sure you don’t want me to call your driver round?”

  The fewer witnesses to this meeting, the better. Corinne’s file had provided him with all the ammunition he needed. “No, you can dismiss him for the day. Best keep this between just the two of us.”

  He walked from his office in the Interior Ministry to the hollowed out spot of Tiergarten not far from the Holocaust Memorial. The sky hung in silver threads above them, strewn with puffs of candy-floss. Soon, the sun would set, and the tourists that milled around the tombstones of the memorial would disperse. Beside him, Jessy trotted happily, her long tail wagging as she went. Weimaraners had originally been bred as gun dogs for aristocrats, and even now as Jessy walked beside him, noble in gait, full of purpose, it struck him how suited they were to one another.

  Situated a short walk away from the Reichstag and the Brandenburg Gate, the Holocaust Memorial was startlingly visible. Up close, the sheer mass of stone and voids created by the pillared grid stood as a testament to the six million Jews murdered by the Nazis. Ironic then to be on his way to meet a far right extremist, and a Holocaust denier at that.

  Rex shook his head. To not use your intellect constituted a high crime. What drove men to refute naked truths, however horrifying or unpalatable they might be? How could they possibly surmise that the Third Reich only sought to deport Jews when a deluge of historical evidence spoke otherwise? How could school children visit the concentration camp at Sachsenhausen and grow up to be men who denied the existence of gas chambers?