by Hamed Amiri
‘We’re now entering Germany,’ smiled the driver. This was good news. Wasn’t it? I could feel Mum’s grip on me getting tighter and tighter, and soon Hussein noticed it too. I looked at Dad. He also looked a bit uneasy, and I could tell he knew Mum’s hackles were up.
I stayed glued to the window, watching the autobahn whizz past. Were we being kidnapped? Even if we were, what could we do about it? We just had to wait and see where the driver took us.
Suddenly the car slowed and we started to pull in at the next stop. ‘We need to get fuel,’ the driver said. But I could see he had at least half a tank left. It didn’t add up.
Dad looked quickly at Mum, and by now we all knew something was wrong. I nudged Hussein and gave him a look. It meant ‘be ready for anything’.
‘We’re here,’ said the driver. Where? I didn’t understand. This was just a service station, and it was in the middle of nowhere. There was something about the way the driver spoke that gave me the creeps too.
Then he turned to us and said, ‘Please don’t do anything and give me all your money.’ He was pointing something at Dad, who was sitting in the seat next to him. Straight away I could see that it was a gun.
My stomach dropped. Was there any way I could distract him? I looked at Dad to see if I could get a sign from him, but he quickly shook his head at me as if to say no. We were in a locked car. Even I knew we had to pick our battles.
‘Okay, okay, just don’t hurt my family,’ said Dad. He reached for our money – what we had left of it – and then pointed at Mum’s bag. He didn’t want the driver turning on her too. Mum emptied it out.
The driver took the money and put it away. ‘I was told “Germany”. So here you are!’ he said cheerfully. Then he opened the doors, pushed us out onto the tarmac and slammed them shut.
We picked ourselves up, Dad furious and Mum fussing around to make sure we were okay. She was shaking with fear. I just wanted to get us as far away from that man and his gun as possible.
As we hurried away from the car I turned back and saw the driver put the gun back in his jacket, spin his wheels and then speed off.
So there we were, once again stranded in the middle of nowhere.
Mum fussed around Hussein. This was just the kind of thing that could trigger an episode.
‘Mum, I’m okay,’ Hussein said. ‘I’m fine. Are you okay?’
Mum nodded. But we weren’t okay. For the second time we were in the middle of nowhere in a foreign country and all our money had been stolen.
Once we’d calmed down and made sure Hussein was okay, it was time to work out what to do. We knew we were in Germany, but we had no idea how to get to where we were supposed to be. We had no money to make any calls and couldn’t walk anywhere because we were at a service station on the motorway. What were we going to do?
Suddenly I remembered something. I reached into my pockets and pulled out some loose change. ‘Dad, I have some change from the camp. Would that help?’
Dad smiled. ‘It might.’ But who would we call? We knew no one in Germany, and who could we ask to help us, thousands of miles from home?
Dad got a piece of paper out of his pocket and started to look at it. It was his list of names and numbers: friends, family and acquaintances he could contact in case we ran into trouble. Most of them I’d never heard of – they were extended family who’d moved to Europe years ago – but I knew that if they were family they’d help.
‘We might be in luck,’ Dad said. He looked around for a payphone.
Mum took us to the side of the service station to wait while Dad rushed inside with my loose change. She prayed quietly. We’d got this far I suppose, so maybe her prayers were working.
Sure enough, a few minutes later Dad rushed back. He was smiling. Mum raised her eyes to the sky in thanks and we all crowded round him.
‘We’re going to have to sit tight, but a very old friend of mine is going to pick us up,’ he said. He grinned with relief.
It turned out we had to ‘sit tight’ for hours. We spent the time counting cars and watching in amazement at how fast they were going on the autobahn. Each time one of them pulled into the service station we wondered if it was our ride, but each time they drove past us. Eventually, a car pulled in and the driver waved towards Dad.
‘That’s us,’ Dad said. We traipsed towards the car. We must have been a pathetic sight. We had no money, nowhere to stay and no idea where we really were. We were trusting this person to take us somewhere safe.
It was a long journey. Unlike the Mercedes this was no luxury car. After what seemed like hours we came to a town, and we were driven to a little apartment owned by Dad’s contact. ‘You can stay here for a few days,’ he told us, in Farsi.
Dad looked relieved. He shook the man’s hand. ‘That means such a lot to us, thank you. I owe you one,’ he said. The man looked at him.
‘You still have to pay rent,’ he said. Dad’s face fell. How were we supposed to do that? We had no money in the world, and no way to get hold of any.
But Dad said, ‘Of course,’ and promised that we’d pay rent somehow. After all, this man had got us out of a very tight situation.
‘Great, I’ll come back tomorrow and we’ll discuss how. Get some sleep for now,’ he said, looking at us boys.
It was a bit of a depressing night. Although we were safe – and had survived an armed robbery – we felt no closer to getting where we needed to be. And now we had to work out how to pay rent.
We searched the fridge to see if there was anything to eat and found some old cheese and butter. We were used to eating what we could find by now, so this didn’t worry us.
‘Let’s feast,’ said Hussein sarcastically, and we all sat down. Suddenly Dad stopped.
‘I’ve had an idea,’ he said.
‘What is it?’ asked Mum.
‘I think I know how we can pay the rent.’
It was hard to sleep that night. We were so near to where we were trying to be, but I couldn’t see how we were going to get enough money to get to the UK. What was Dad’s idea? How long were we going to stay here? I tried to remember the names of some of the cars we’d seen on the autobahn and the strange German words we’d overheard, and after a while I drifted off to sleep.
Breakfast was the same old cheese and butter as we’d had for dinner, and as soon as we’d finished there was a knock at the door. Dad’s friend from the day before came in.
Before Dad could say anything, his friend turned to us and said, ‘I’ve had an idea about how you can pay the rent. You can all work in my takeaway.’
Dad smiled in response. ‘Great minds,’ he said. ‘I was going to suggest that myself.’
Hussein and I looked at each other. ‘You do know we’re kids, right?’ I said. I wasn’t sure I was ready to get a job.
‘It’s okay,’ said Dad’s friend. ‘You can work at the back making pizza boxes.’
‘Yeah, Box Boy,’ teased Hussein. I wasn’t laughing – building takeaway boxes wasn’t my idea of fun. But I also knew we didn’t have much choice. We all had to do things we didn’t like to get to the UK. Box Boy it would be.
When we were ready, we got into Dad’s friend’s car and he drove us to a small takeaway shop. We got straight to work: Mum, Dad and Hussein in the kitchen making dough and Hessam and me in the back putting together the cardboard boxes.
I thought about other kids our age, normal kids. They were probably outside playing football. But we weren’t normal kids, and there was nothing normal about our situation. The main thing was not to make Mum and Dad feel guilty.
At seven, Hessam was pretty rubbish at making the boxes, but I tried to up his game by challenging him to a competition and we soon got into it. Dad and Hussein were having a contest of their own, seeing who could make the dough the fastest. That’s one thing you could say for our family – we never let a bad day get the better of us.
My first experience of the world of work wasn’t great. For a start, I hadn’t r
ealised just how long our ‘shift’ would be. When, fifteen hours later, we finally finished, we were tired and grumpy. We did get some pizza though: made from Mum’s dough and Hussein’s choice of topping, and we sat outside the back door of the shop to enjoy it.
Little did we know how sick of pizza we’d become over the next few weeks. Each day we’d work a fifteen-hour shift to earn back the money we’d had stolen and pay Dad’s friend his rent. And each day it would be pizza for lunch and pizza for dinner. Some days we even tried eating salad just to escape the never-ending pizza. If we hadn’t had each other it would have been a nightmare, but we were a good team with a goal in sight, so we just got on with it.
Dad said we’d have to work in the takeaway until we got a call from a handler. Then we could move on and try to get to the UK. In the meantime, we repaid our debt and saved as much money as we could. And after several weeks it was finally time.
Dad got a call one night to say we had to get ready. Once again, we had no idea where we were going or what would happen. But at least there wouldn’t be any pizza.
On the day of the move we packed our stuff as usual, but it seemed to be getting smaller and smaller. Then we went to bed early. Crammed into one bed, Hussein lay next to me in the darkness. Hessam snored nearby.
‘Do you think it’ll be good – in the UK?’ I said.
‘Depends what you mean by good,’ replied Hussein.
‘I don’t know … fun?’
‘We don’t need fun,’ he answered. ‘We just need to stay alive.’
There was a pause. Then he added, ‘Maybe it’ll just be normal. That would be good.’
CHAPTER 10
Belgian border control
The next morning we packed our bag and stood ready by the door. I was just preparing myself for another long car journey when Dad said we had something different in store. This time, he said, we’d be travelling by train.
We were excited, but Mum wasn’t too pleased. She hated trains. I was just glad we didn’t have to get on the motorway again. After all, our last experience hadn’t exactly ended well.
As we left the apartment Hussein nudged me. ‘What’s next? Camel?’
We arrived at the train station and the handler told us the journey should be simple – we’d travel by train into Belgium and then into the Netherlands, where his ‘friend’ would be expecting us. All we had to do was sit on the train, show our tickets and keep a low profile.
How wrong he was.
We got onto the train and found some seats as far away from other people as possible. The train was very modern, with smooth and comfortable seats. Dad said we just had to keep our heads down and it would be fine.
We spent the next few hours watching out of the window and wondering how fast we were going. Mum felt sick and wasn’t enjoying it at all. At one point the conductor came and asked to see our tickets, but then he went away again. All was going to plan.
Then we came to the Belgian border. We stopped at the station for longer than we had at the others, and Dad said he could see border control getting on the train. We knew we had no passports or other documents, and offering a bribe wouldn’t get us very far in Belgium. We’d just have to try and stay out of sight.
‘Close your eyes and pretend you’re asleep,’ Dad whispered. So we did as we were told and pretended to sleep as the police moved through the compartments asking for ID. It was hard not to peep, especially as I could hear the guards getting closer.
‘Pass bitte?’ they were saying, ‘Pass bitte?’ Then there’d be a pause as each passenger handed over their documents. The voice got closer and closer, until it was on top of us. Still we kept our eyes closed. I could feel my eyelids shaking.
‘Pass bitte? … Pass bitte?’ the guard said to us.
I prayed they would carry on through the carriage, but this guard had other ideas.
‘Wecke deinen Vater auf.’
What did that mean? I hoped it meant ‘It’s okay, they’re asleep’ but somehow I wasn’t so sure.
Then I realised. Hessam had opened his eyes. The guard was asking him to wake Dad. ‘Wecke deinen Vater auf’ meant ‘Wake your father up.’
I peeped through a half-open eye and saw the guard tapping Dad on the shoulder.
‘Pass bitte,’ he repeated as Dad opened his eyes. There was nothing else for it.
Dad looked up at the guard and said, ‘Refugee.’
Unlike the man at passport control at the airport, the guard seemed to know exactly what Dad meant. So did all the other passengers, and we could suddenly feel the stares of the whole carriage. I always hated it when people stared. It made me want to stand up and tell them why we were there. About the execution order, Mum’s bravery, Hussein’s illness. About being robbed and made to eat all that pizza. But the guard was already ushering us through the carriage. It seemed we weren’t welcome on this train any more.
Dad was quickly trying to think of what to do. We were expected by a new handler in the Netherlands in just a few hours, and now we had no idea where we were being taken. So much for the easy ride.
We did what we were told and got off the train. Then we watched as our ride to the Netherlands disappeared into the distance. We were at a small local station, and almost immediately we were met by the police. They asked us to sit in yet another waiting room while they fetched us some water and food. Then they asked Mum and Dad loads of questions. They weren’t as kind as Lukas, but at least they weren’t trying to steal from us.
Mum and Dad answered the questions the best they could. I didn’t understand much, but I could tell they were giving false names again. Not James and John this time, but the surname Akbar. Hussein giggled. ‘I wonder what we’ll be next,’ he said.
After a few more questions, the border control police took us back to the train stop. I could tell Dad was still desperately trying to think of a plan to get us back on our journey. Mum’s plan was to pray. As we stood there, another train drew up. The border police gave us a handful of tickets and told us to get on. What was happening? Why were we allowed back on the train?
We looked at the tickets. They didn’t say much, but we could tell the destination was somewhere back in Germany. The Belgian police explained that they’d informed the German police we were coming and we’d be handed straight back to them when we got there.
But the guards showed no sign of getting on the train with us. They simply waved us off and left it at that. I looked at Dad. He winked. I could tell he had no intention of ending up back in Germany.
‘Come on,’ said Dad as soon as we were back on the train. ‘We’re not staying on this train any longer than we have to.’ We moved to seats near the door and, as soon as we reached the first stop, we all got off.
We stepped down onto the platform of another Belgian station. We didn’t know where we were or how far it was to the Dutch border, but this time Dad was on a mission. He found a payphone and straight away called the handler. I could see him shouting down the phone to him.
‘You were full of shit. What are we supposed to do now?’ I could hear him saying.
The conversation lasted a few more minutes, and then Dad came back. Well?
‘He says to get on the next train to Holland,’ said Dad. ‘But we’re going to have to get some tickets first.’ Thankfully we still had some money left from the takeaway job, and, using a combination of sign language and the word ‘Holland’, Dad managed to buy the tickets.
We had to wait about half an hour for the next train, but once we were on it, the rest of the journey couldn’t have been easier. There didn’t seem to be any guards at the border, and no one asked us for anything. No one even mentioned passports. We sailed into the Netherlands as if nothing had happened. I could almost feel Dad relaxing and, although Mum wasn’t so calm, at least we knew we were one step closer.
That didn’t mean there wasn’t trouble ahead.
CHAPTER 11
The pit
We reached the Netherlands a few ho
urs later. The train stopped and everyone got up. It seemed this was the last stop. Hussein and Hessam were asleep, but Dad gently shook them awake and we gathered our things. We stepped down onto the platform and waited as the other passengers moved off to their destinations. Eventually we were the only ones left, standing at the entrance to yet another country on our own. We scanned the area for police, but it seemed pretty quiet. Dad said we should look out for the next handler too, who should be there to meet us.
After a while Dad spotted something. Sure enough, there was a man at the other end of the station waving at us. Dad walked cautiously over to him.
The robbery had affected Mum quite a lot, and she seemed nervous as Dad spoke to the handler. But when Dad returned he said that everything was okay, it was the right handler and he’d been given a description of us by the first guy. He knew who we were and would take us to the next location. Dad also said he was keen to get going.
‘We’re too vulnerable out in the open,’ he said. ‘Plus, I’m sick of thinking up new names for my kids.’
It was a short walk to the car park and we were told to get into a hidden compartment in the boot of a car. My heart sank. We’d got used to riding in the back seat instead of being tangled together in a tiny space.
‘I know it’s not a private jet, boys,’ smiled Dad, ‘but you can’t always get the VIP treatment.’
We folded ourselves into the boot as Dad got into the passenger seat. I was excited in a way – with every new country we were closer to the UK. The end was starting to feel real.
There was no bumpy ride this time. In fact, we weren’t in the car for very long when we stopped and were told to get out. We unfolded ourselves from the boot, and saw that it was already dark. The handler told us to walk slowly behind his friend.
‘Don’t say a word,’ he ordered, and I felt like I was in some sort of stakeout in a movie. We crept along in the darkness, through thick bushes and long grass. Who knew where we were, and I had a horrible feeling we were heading for another jungle, like the one in Ukraine.