by Bel Mooney
When he was six months his voice would rise and fall, in sounds mimicking sentences, with beginnings, middles and ends. Radu said he would certainly be a great politician because he could talk emptiness for hours, certain of no interruption. I laughed, but knew it was not nonsense Ion was talking, it was language: to him precise and full of meaning, and to me the first, frightening evidence of otherness: of the separateness of being which would one day remove my child from me forever. Perhaps I was wise after all: I ran to meet Fate, I took control.
‘Mama?’ said the boy.
‘Ano, Milosi, muj drahy, ja te posloucham,’ she replied.
Ana watched them walk away, then looked back at the information board with new concentration. Frank-furt, Frank-furt, Frankfurt, Frank-furt … ran the refrain in her mind, like the rhythms people use to encourage themselves in hard physical work. It strengthened her; it ironed out the creases in her confidence and sent her onwards to the platform, knowing that everything would be resolved, very soon.
They reached the German border at five, in the muddy light of an early spring afternoon, when the sun had long given up its struggle first with cloud, then with approaching night. The halt seemed interminable, as the border guards moved slowly through the train, checking papers with scrupulous care. As they gave her passport particular scrutiny, examining the visa stamp, Ana steeled herself. This crossing was the ultimate one, as if she was moving from darkness to light, from danger to safety – for the first time in her life. Tired though she was, she was able to invest this dreary border town of Schirnding with almost magical properties, as if merely to pass through it was like passing through the gates of heaven, into perfect bliss.
‘Danke – auf wiedersehen, Fraulein.’
‘Mulţum … no – er … danke,’ she replied.
When the train moved off, slowly, slowly, she leaned back in her seat and screwed her eyes tightly closed, still expecting something to go wrong, for the thing to shudder to a halt and men in uniform to run up alongside and take her off, to return her to her own country. But nothing happened. The train gathered speed, carrying her into Germany, and Ana found herself crying silently as she gazed out at the darkening fields. It was not so much relief as astonishment and awe that she had actually reached the country which now contained her son.
Thank you, God, thank you, God, if I stopped believing in you forgive me now …
With a thump the train came to a halt at Frankfurt Central and disgorged its remaining passengers, who scurried away to homes or hotels, leaving Ana alone on the platform, looking this way and that, her battered vinyl bag at her feet. At last she picked it up and walked resolutely to the main concourse, knowing instinctively that it is always safer to seem confident.
This station dwarfed any other she had seen. She was overawed by its vastness, the lurid advertisements everywhere, the closed kiosks, the knots of people who stood around, the late-night seediness. And Ana, who was used to seeking refuge (Radu’s studio, the apartment that was Ion’s home, the cramped room with Doina) from the dark world outside, realized for the first time there was none.
She looked around and saw what seemed to be a pile of old clothing in a corner of the station, near the men’s lavatories. Curious, she walked across to see (obeying also the old instinct that something might be useful, might be sold) and smelt the sharp odour of stale urine. The clothes were two bodies huddled together, old men she guessed, but could not see. Acid flowed into her mouth.
She turned away quickly and heard loud laughter nearby. A group of young men and women lounged by the wall – at least she thought them to be young men and women, yet they conformed to no pattern she had ever seen. Dressed uniformly in black they were like creatures from another world: one had pale hair, almost white, rising stiffly like a wall from his shaven head; another’s pale face was almost hidden by a curtain of dark hair, tousled and matted into hundreds of tiny ropes; a girl’s whiteness was slashed by black lipstick, her legs encased in black wool spotted with holes, her feet huge in filthy, black, laced boots. Chains dangled from leather, wrists were studded, one of the men wore a ring in his nose.
Yet the sound that came from this group was at least recognizably human: laughter. They had seen Ana peer at the tramps and turn away in horror and embarrassment, and one of the young men shouted, ‘Why don’t you get down there and show them a good time? … Yeah, go on, lady, give them a good fuck!’ But it was in German and Ana did not understand. Only the tone she recognized: harsh and derisive.
In the women’s lavatories she retched into the bowl, then straightened, wiped her mouth, and leaned back against a door disfigured by graffiti. She checked the contents of her purse, and then counted the remaining dollars, tucked into a cloth pouch she had sewn the night before she left, and tied around her waist, under her shirt, with string. The money which had seemed a fortune in Bucharest was already diminished by the ticket, a pair of boots for the journey, and food. She knew she would have to be very frugal. Tomorrow she would be reunited with Ion, but then what? She had not worked it out, but believed if she told her story to the German authorities they would certainly allow her to stay. Or maybe Ion would want to go home? She had to admit that the thought of Michael Edwards being in Bucharest was comforting. And there was Doina, and old Luca … On the other hand, to be in a refugee camp with Ion seemed an unbelievable prospect of safety. So it went on, round and round in her head.
Ana groaned aloud with a longing, as keen as her hunger. gIn the morning I’ll buy myself a big cup of coffee, and some bread. The coffee will be good coffee, because this is Germany; I will roll it hot and milky around my tongue and sip it very very slowly, to make it last. And the bread will be soft and white, and there will be butter, I know they will give me butter, for this is Germany, and maybe even jam too. I will sit and savour that meal, my first real meal here in the West, and then at nine o’clock I will find the Children’s Bureau, if I can bear to wait, if I can bear to wait. But the coffee and the bread will help me wait, the coffee and the bread…
During the night a policeman stood and looked at the bench on which Ana slept. He hesitated, fingering his belt. Elsewhere his colleagues had moved on a small group of three Somali men huddled near the tramps, and the tramps too, had gone. But because she was a woman, and white, he went on his way, leaving her alone.
The Jugendamt was situated on Weissfrauen Strasse, a straight walk from the station. When Denise Schieke arrived for work she barely glanced at the woman carrying a battered bag who stood anxiously in the street, searching for the nondescript entrance to Number 12. She went in and clattered up the stairs, irritated at the memory of last night, when Hans took up his old refrain, insisting they should marry, saying it would please their parents, when all Denise wanted was to love him but keep her freedom. And now this would be a day of more frustration, dealing with refugees as well as the city’s own problems. So many refugees now, teenage boys from Africa … each day they sat before her, waiting, staring at her impassively with sad, dark eyes, while she phoned for interpreters. So many children … the twelve-year-old from Poland they found wandering in the station, and all he would say was ‘I want asylum please’, over and over again. Not so bad as the thirteen-year-old girl from Eritrea who arrived with her baby brother, and would say nothing at all. Or they insisted they had relatives in France and could they be sent there please? As if!
Sometimes, compassionate though she was, Denise wanted to ask them why, in that case, they had not gone to France in the first place – to ease the burden of the Federal Republic just a little.
She sighed and hung up her coat, merely grunting in reply to Herr Meyer’s greeting. He sat at his desk, sifting paperwork; no matter how early she arrived he was always there first, making sure she knew he was the boss …
Denise Schieke was about to sit at her desk when the door opened and a woman with dark hair put her head around, nervously, like a tortoise testing the air. A pretty woman, Denise noted, but with dark shadows
around her eyes. ‘Excuse me,’ she said in English, ‘is this the Youth Department?’
Denise was gratified. Herr Meyer spoke very poor English, and it pleased her to be able to take charge, without an interpreter.
‘Yes, you are right. Please come in,’ she said politely, motioning towards the chair by the side of her old wooden desk.
The woman sat upright with her bag on her knee; then, as an afterthought, put it down by the chair. All her movements were stiff, puppet-like. Denise Schieke put it down to fear, and was curious. In fact the wooden railway seat had taken its toll: Ana was exhausted and her limbs ached.
‘I am Ana Popescu. I am from Romania.’ The voice was low, but surprisingly confident. The youth worker waited.
‘I have a problem and I hope you can help me.’ She hesitated, then drew in her breath, speaking more rapidly. ‘A year ago my son left Romania and came to Frankfurt. Now I have come to find him. I hope you will be able to help me, please. His name is Ion Popescu.’ She looked expectant.
‘He came alone?’
Ana nodded, held the other woman’s gaze for a minute, then dropped her head. Shame, thought Denise – but why?
When Ana lifted her head again she stared defiantly. ‘I sent him out so that he could live.’
‘Was his life in danger? Were you threatened?’
Ana shook her head impatiently. ‘Yes … oh I mean, no. It was more than his life that was in danger. I wanted …’
‘You wanted him to have a better life in the west?’ Denise Schieke supplied the phrase kindly, but her repetition of it contained a nuance of weariness Ana heard and understood.
She flushed. ‘I must tell you that I did not want him to have food and toys. Not that alone. I wanted him to be free … in here.’ She tapped her own head sharply. ‘And he came with a friend of mine, a man, who promised to see him safely through.’
‘Then he would have stayed with this friend? I see …’
‘No, I read that if children come to Frankfurt alone, with no papers, you look after them. But they must be alone. I told them to be apart when they arrived. So no one would know.’
Denise Schieke frowned. ‘It is not simple like that. There are different cases. We try to understand, to be kind. Maybe your son would have liked to have stayed with your friend … someone he knew.’ She stopped, seeing Ana’s face.
Please don’t tell me I was wrong. Saying goodbye to Radu, you must have been so afraid, Ionica, you must have been so afraid. And maybe I got it all wrong, maybe I should have thought for a longer time. Yet there was no time … so please, you German girl at your desk, with your fair hair tied back in a pony tail and your blue denim shirt – please don’t tell me I was wrong.
‘… Anyway, the important thing now is to trace him. If he arrived at the airport he would certainly have gone to Kronberg, but then he would have been sent to a foster family. Spell his name for me, and I will go and see what information we have.’
‘I am so grateful,’ said Ana, then added, with an attempt at a smile, ‘You can imagine that it is very exciting for me to know I will soon see him.’
Denise Schieke was inexplicably touched by this stiff statement – an attempt at politeness, at small talk, when the woman must have been whirling inside, in fragments. ‘Please wait. I won’t be long.’
Ana was surprised at how calm she felt. She stared down the long room, untidy, cluttered with too many desks, stacks of folders, cabinets, and well-thumbed documents. The man at the end, stocky and dark, looked up and smiled briefly before returning to his work. He looked harassed, she thought, then wondered if Ion had been here, seen this room. They would tell her.
She saw Denise Schieke consult a file, glance briefly at her with an expression she could not fathom, then pick up the telephone. Ana wondered why she did not return to her own place to make the call, instead of standing by the man’s desk. When the youth worker began to speak she turned her back, as though the call were a secret and Ana might understand the language. As the man heard the stream of quick German he stopped working and stared at his colleague, then at Ana. His worried gaze unnerved her. She could taste coffee sour in her mouth.
When the youth worker returned to her desk at last it was with the sliding expression of someone who bears bad news. ‘I … am sorry to say there is a problem, Frau Popescu.’
‘Please … Is Ion ill? Please.’
‘No … I don’t know. What happened was – five weeks after he arrived at the home he … he ran away. He left.’
‘He ran away?’ Ana repeated.
The other woman nodded.
‘No, Ion is not like that. He is so good … I don’t believe it.’
‘I spoke to the Children’s Home, Frau Popescu,’ said Denise Schieke, in a patient, gentle voice. She was used to this sort of thing. So many childen ran away, just disappeared into Germany, into Europe. If the police tried to trace them all, crime would have a field day in Frankfurt. So what could you do? She said, ‘He went with another boy, an older boy.’
‘What sort of boy? Who was he?’
‘A Tamil. From Sri Lanka. You know, many of them come here, and run away. They all help each other, you see. They have uncles, friends, or just numbers on a piece of paper. It is like a web, a network. They all help each other.’
Ana was staring at her, white-faced. She shook her head from side to side, and opened her mouth, but no sound came out.
‘Would you like coffee? … OK, I’ll make it quickly. Don’t worry, we’ll do our best to find him.’
When Denise Schieke returned with two mugs of coffee, Ana was sitting with her head in her hands.
‘Please …?’ said the youth worker.
Ana raised her head and gazed at her with hard, dry eyes. There were bright spots of colour in her cheeks, from the pressure of her palms. ‘I think you think that people like me are very bad mothers,’ she said, her mouth twisted, ‘and if we send our children away we deserve this. But you don’t understand. People like you don’t understand.’
Denise Schieke shook her head. She thought, with a little spurt of irritation, of Hans, who worked in a bank and wanted to marry her, and did indeed make such judgements when she talked about work over supper. ‘They’re not like us, are they?’ he had remarked, when she had been describing the wails of a group of children sent back to Turkey and Iran, not allowed through immigration at all. They had quarrelled, of course.
‘Frau Popescu,’ she said slowly, ‘you are wrong. I may be young, and live safely in Frankfurt, but I still try to understand. I think mothers love their children in the same way all over the world, and to send their children away they have to be desperate. Really desperate. And for myself, I do not have to have experienced that desperation to be able to understand it. I have the … er … imagination, I think. Do you see?’
She placed a hand on her chest as she said this, and left it there, feeling the slight rise and fall of her own humanity.
Ana heard the gentleness in her voice and was grateful. The hard look went from her eyes, to be replaced by a panicky expression. ‘What shall I do? What can I do now?’ she asked.
‘Well, to begin with I suggest you visit the Home. The staff there are very sympathetic, very kind, and there is a Tamil man, Pushpa, who may be able to help. The man I spoke to, who is in charge there, said Pushpa has some ideas. They are very nice, very kind,’ she said, as if such repetitions might assuage the grief of the woman who sat, head moving slightly from side to side, before her.
‘May God forgive me,’ Ana whispered, as if she were alone.
‘No – please,’ said Denise Scheike, ‘please don’t put blame on yourself. Look …’
On an impulse she riffled through the papers on her desk and pulled out a single sheet, which she laid before Ana, who looked down at it, puzzled, peering at the words. Denise read aloud, ‘Zahlen unbegeleiteter Minderjähriger, die 1989 über Flughafen einreisten’… do you know what that means, Frau Popescu?’ Ana shook her head. ‘This
is a list of all the children who arrived at Frankfurt airport last year – alone. Look at the figures – there were 1,724 from Sri Lanka, and 207 from Turkey. Two thousand four hundred and sixty in total. And most of them had mothers and fathers, I think … Their families sent them away, for good reasons in most cases. It is not just you.’
‘Look.’ Ana was running her own finger down the list, over the words. ‘Vierundsiebzig aus Afghanistan, 43 aus Pakistan, 41 aus dem Iran, jo aus Eritrea, 30 aus Indien, 11 aus dem Libanon, 11 aus Angola, 7 aus Somalia’ – then she stopped.
‘Ein aus Rumänien’ she read aloud, and looked up bleakly, ‘one only from Romania. And I think that was my Ion.’
Denise Schieke nodded. ‘But I want you to realize – why I showed you this – that it is not your fault. There are many children, you see, from where there is terrible trouble. They come here to safety … we hope.’
‘I know. Thank you.’ She hesitated and added, ‘But I don’t know … if Ion is safe.’
At that moment the door opened and someone slid in, silently and apologetically, standing with his hands hanging loose at his sides. It was a teenage boy, tall and bony, with high cheekbones and wide, serious eyes.
‘Guten tag, Tefari,’ called Denise Schieke, ‘Eine minute, bitte.’ She shifted in her chair and looked at her watch. ‘He is early – always. Last week he came here – from Eritrea – he has a terrible story, but he is over sixteen already. I try to help him with his application for asylum. It is hard now – we have so many people coming here from East Germany, and the Federal Government thinks we owe them our help first. We are all Germans, you understand. So these people …’ – she nodded towards the boy – ‘… well, I think he will be sent back. What can I do?’