“If anyone talks…”
Hovel turned away, his interest in the meeting over. “See that they don’t.”
Chapter 11
Horgoš, Serbia
Jet held Hannah close to her in the backseat of the nondescript sedan that Milun’s man, Bojan, had loaded them into in the predawn. The crime boss had made good on his promise to get them refugee passports, and it was now time to put them to their first serious test at the border. The sky had transitioned from plum to salmon on the drive north and glowed tangerine as the sun burned off the morning mist and the ground fog along the highway melted away.
Bojan had insisted on chain-smoking the entire way from Subotica, the cloud sucked from the cracked window each time he exhaled. Hannah’s frown at the stench lasted the entire trip. When he’d first lit up, Jet had asked him to put it out, but he’d refused, insisting that he needed the nicotine to keep him awake. One look at his red eyes and hungover puffiness and she opted for conflict-avoidance – she didn’t need to get into it with Milun’s driver when they were this close to the home stretch. Matt had thankfully stayed out of it, deferring to Jet to decide how to handle things, and as the long field that was the refugee camp just before the Serbian border station at Horgoš came into view, she exhaled in relief and squeezed Hannah reassuringly.
“When I drop you off, you’ll need to register with the guy who’s collecting the day’s names,” Bojan said, his voice gravelly. “It should be Josif today. Tell him you’re a friend of Milun’s, and he’ll do the rest. He’s expecting you.”
“Should be?” Jet repeated.
“Don’t worry. He’ll be there.”
Jet was wearing her robe and headscarf and Matt the scruffy worn clothes of a migrant. Their belongings they’d stuffed into a pair of backpacks acquired at a flea market the day before, the high price of their travel bags a giveaway to anyone with a sharp eye, though they’d had to discard half their clothes, figuring they could buy more once out of the refugee camp in Hungary. They’d researched the logistics, and both sides of the border had camps with tens of thousands of refugees, mostly young men. Those on the Hungarian side sometimes waited weeks for their turn to board a train to Germany, France, Italy, or Spain, and they didn’t want to stand out until they were well away from Hungary.
“And what about Olaf?” Matt asked. Milun had told them that the Hungarian immigration supervisor assigned to the Horgoš crossing was named Olaf, and it was with him that they would need to negotiate preferential treatment in order to get out of the Hungarian camp and on the first train out.
“He has your names. He’ll see that you make it across today and find you on the Hungarian side.”
“What if something goes wrong?” Jet asked. “Something unexpected?”
Bojan laughed, the sound ugly. “What do I look like, a magician? My job’s to drop you off here and tell you about Josif. That’s all. From here you’re on your own.”
Jet wasn’t surprised by his tone. He’d been objectionable from the beginning, and the trace scent of alcohol that emanated from his pores, intermingled with the smoke, told her that they could expect no help from him beyond the ride.
The sedan bounced off the road and careened down a rutted trail to the field, where several thousand migrants were gathered in a long column. Jet eyed the line and gave Bojan a dubious stare. “We’re supposed to wait in that?”
“Correct. They take everyone’s names and verify their documents before turning the list over to the Hungarians. Some have been here for weeks. A few hours on your feet won’t hurt you.”
Bojan skidded to a stop on the dirt and turned to Matt. “This is it. Everybody out.”
They piled from the car, and Bojan walked to the back and unlocked the trunk so they could retrieve their bags. Then he climbed back behind the wheel without a word and roared off in a cloud of exhaust, leaving them standing near the end of the queue, the Syrians staring at them with dead eyes.
They moved to the tail of the queue and shuffled forward periodically as more refugees were processed and took seats on the ground to await the calling of the names. The two-hour wait dragged to three, and finally they were at the head of the line, as fatigued by the sun and dust as by the demoralizing procession of misery.
They gave their names to a goat-faced man seated at a folding card table, holding a clipboard – Matt’s passport identifying him as Givon, Jet’s as Laila, and Hannah’s as Hanna. When the man had checked their documents and scribbled down the numbers, Jet mentioned that they were friends of Milun. His face didn’t change, but his eyes darted to the remainder of the line and then back to them. He nodded and leaned into her. “Stay close as you can, so you hear your names called.”
And then they were being directed to the waiting area, where the press of refugees sat like expectant puppies awaiting a treat that would be insufficient for their number. Jet tried to imagine what it must be like to have this as an everyday reality and shuddered.
“It’s unbelievable,” she whispered almost inaudibly to Matt when they were seated cross-legged with Hanna near the edge of the field – the closest they could get to the folding table.
He nodded, glancing to either side, unwilling to talk in case one of the Syrians heard him and wondered why a refugee was speaking English. They’d already warned Hannah not to speak under any circumstances, and she sat mute as a log, her eyes closed, tired from the wait and from being woken in the wee hours of the morning.
Another hour passed, and the goat-faced man reappeared and began shouting out names through a bullhorn, his amplified voice distorted. Theirs were the last to be called, and they received glares from their neighbors when they stood and moved to join the new group of the lucky. Another man in uniform approached and called out in rusty Arabic to follow him, and led the ensemble past the Serbian border buildings toward the Hungarian station a thousand meters away.
When they arrived, they were herded into an area to the side of the road clogged with cars passing through customs, and directed into a fenced section, where two Hungarian officials checked refugee passports against the names on the list. They waited their turn, and when they arrived at the table, Jet handed their paperwork to the men without a word, wondering how Olaf would make contact.
If he was one of the officials, he gave no indication and swiped their machine codes beneath a scanner before handing the passports back to her after a cursory glance to confirm the photos matched the faces. The man pointed to where the rest of the processed refugees were clumped by a gate, and grunted something in Hungarian. Jet caught the drift and pulled Hannah along with her as Matt followed, his head hanging in his best imitation of a shell-shocked Syrian.
Another long wait ended when two heavy trucks rumbled up to the gate and shut off their engines. A stern-faced man they hadn’t seen before neared the gatepost and read a short statement in Arabic from a worn yellow index card.
“Everyone onto the trucks. You will be taken to a camp, where you’ll be held until arrangements can be made to transport you by train to your final destination. There will be no questions. That is all.”
Jet didn’t have to translate for Matt, who understood the sentiment of the declaration if not the exact content, and he filed through the gate with the rest of the throng and joined Jet at the rear of the closest flatbed, plywood attached to both sides to keep the cargo from falling or jumping off. Two jeeps sat a hundred meters away, their machine guns all the warning the refugees needed to stay on the trucks.
Matt clambered onto the bed and was helping Jet and Hannah up when a trio of men wearing army uniforms approached and barked at them in Hungarian. Matt froze, unclear on what the soldiers wanted, and then one of them marched to the rear of the truck and motioned at Matt and then the ground with his submachine gun, his message clear – Matt was to get off the bed.
He obeyed, concern writ large on his face, and Jet watched in horror as one of the officials walked toward them, clipboard in hand, pointing at them a
nd speaking rapidly in Hungarian.
Whatever was happening, something had gone badly wrong with their documents, and the expressions of the soldiers conveyed that Jet and company were in trouble. The rest of the refugees stood watching the drama play out, and then an officer exited the customs building and hurried toward them.
An argument ensued in Hungarian between the officer and the official, culminating in much hand waving and disgusted gestures by both. In the end, the officer prevailed and pointed back at the truck as he addressed Jet in mangled Serbian.
“I’m Olaf. There was a misunderstanding. You are to get on this truck. Say nothing. I’ll meet you on the other end.”
Matt nodded and hoisted himself back onto the bed, pulling Jet and Hannah on board after him, and they pushed toward the cab to make room for more passengers. Their fellow migrants averted their eyes as they followed them on, nobody wanting to know anything more about their companions who’d been singled out by the Hungarians.
When both trucks were full, the drivers restarted the motors and the badly overloaded vehicles lurched off, followed by the jeeps and a dark gray staff car that presumably held Olaf. Jet watched their escorts as they rocked onto the highway, and then closed her eyes against the wind, Hannah hugged close, Matt’s arm around her waist providing welcome, if slim, comfort.
Chapter 12
Szentmihály, Hungary
The trucks ground to a halt at the edge of an expansive muddy field, where tens of thousands of refugees were living in abject squalor in a sea of tents and filthy humanity as they waited for their chance to move on to a more hospitable destination. Armed guards patrolled the perimeter, and Jet caught sight of several oversized German shepherds straining at harnesses as groups of two and three soldiers walked the dirt path that ringed the area.
A tall Hungarian with a straw hat shading his face called out to them in Arabic. “Everyone disembark and line up for registration and to secure ration coupons and supplies.”
Jet led Matt and Hannah off the truck amongst the other migrants and looked over to where Olaf was standing by his vehicle, watching them. That he was still showing an interest was the only positive in the experience as they were herded like livestock into another ragged line. Jet had been prepared for the hardship and the dehumanization, but what had taken her aback was how much of a refugee’s time was spent standing in queues, doing not much of anything at the direction of some authority figure.
After a half hour shambling forward, they were given a single two-man tent for the three of them, several garbage bags to be used as rain parkas by tearing arm and head holes in the plastic, and a day’s worth of coupons for sustenance. A gaunt man with an olive complexion handed Matt three one-liter bottles of water and instructed him to refill them as necessary at one of the taps by the latrines. Matt masked his lack of understanding, trusting that Jet had gotten it all, and then they trod to an open spot near the fence, which was apparently less desirable based on the number of people camped there.
Jet caught Olaf watching their progress through binoculars and was reassured that they hadn’t been abandoned. That it was solely because of a profit motive didn’t bother her a bit. She trusted greed as a catalyst and was looking forward to what would hopefully be their last negotiation –getting them on the next train headed for Italy and out of the cesspool that was the overcrowded camp.
They kicked the rubbish from the small patch of dirt they’d chosen, and Matt set about pitching the tent. A group of four young men watched with obvious amusement, and Jet heard several lewd suggestions from them, along with a proposal that the four of them show Jet and Hannah a good time. She ignored their taunts, but when they continued, obviously bored and with nothing else to do, Jet snapped at them in fluent Arabic, suggesting they perform the acts they’d described with each other’s mothers rather than tormenting new arrivals.
That seemed to take the fun out of the exchange, at least for the time being, and Jet was congratulating herself on having nipped trouble in the bud when she saw the real reason the youths had suddenly fallen silent: Olaf was navigating through the tents to their position, trailed by a pair of armed soldiers with their submachine guns at the ready. The young Syrian men found other matters to pursue and made themselves scarce as the trio of Hungarians neared. Olaf’s face was red from the effort of the walk, his well-fed frame clearly not accustomed to protracted exercise.
“All right,” he said in Serbian, “Here’s the deal.” The soldiers stood out of earshot, looking around as though afraid of being mobbed. “I can get you on the next train out to either Spain, Portugal, France, Italy, or Germany. There’s three of you, so the cost will be…fifteen thousand euros.”
Jet gulped at the number. “I don’t have that kind of money. That’s crazy.”
Olaf shrugged. “That’s the price. The alternative is to wait your turn here. It’s currently running a month or so, at least. Maybe more as the camps fill.”
“Milun didn’t tell me it would be so much,” Jet protested.
“None of my business. That’s what I charge. There are a lot of people who have to be paid off to accomplish this. The railroad personnel, the immigration people…it’s complicated.”
Jet did a quick calculation. They had eight thousand euros left. “I only have half that.”
“Then you have a problem.” Olaf turned, having lost interest.
She reached out and touched his arm. “How do I contact you if I can come up with it?”
He handed her a card with a cell number scrawled on it in pencil. “Don’t lose that.”
“Where’s the nearest big town?”
“That would be Szeged. About six kilometers north of here.” He eyed her dispassionately. “But don’t get caught trying to sneak out, or I won’t be able to do anything for you.”
“Do you know anything about the guard schedules?”
“They patrol the perimeter every thirty minutes. If you watch them, you should be able to slip out after dark. Just be careful on the road. The natives are jumpy.” He paused. “Call me when you have the money, and let me know where you want to go.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Olaf walked back to the soldiers, and they retraced their route through the thronged migrants, distaste plain on their faces. Jet whispered a summary to Matt, whose face darkened when he heard the number.
“That’s insane.”
“I know. But we’re not in any position to negotiate. I tried. He wouldn’t budge.”
“What’s the alternative?”
She thought about Olaf’s description of how long the average wait was running, and shook her head. “There isn’t one. I’ll slip away tonight and head to town and see if I can find a jeweler who’ll buy one of the smallest diamonds. I don’t see anything else we can do.”
“You could have just offered him one.”
“No. That would have had him wondering how many more we have. I don’t want to get jumped by his henchmen. Better he think we pulled in favors from someone and had the money wired to us.”
“I’ll go.”
“You need to stay here with Hannah. You’d be stopped in minutes. Again, most people discount women as a threat, so I’m less likely to run into trouble. Worst case, I speak way better Serbian than you do, and this close to the border, it seems like everyone’s bilingual. I can bluff my way through anything, claim to be Serbian running away from an abusive boyfriend, whatever.”
“What if you get caught by the guards?”
“Then they return me to the camp. How am I any worse off than where I started?”
Matt finished with the tent and glanced over at where the youths had been gathered. Two of them had returned and were making obscene gestures at Hannah. Matt offered them one of his own with a hard glare, and the pair laughed and continued baiting him.
Jet moved to his side and placed a restraining hand on his arm. “Don’t, Matt. It’s not worth it,” she murmured.
“You know as w
ell as I do that if we let them, they’ll keep at it and escalate it. Better to stop it now.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“No, I’ll deal with this.”
“You don’t speak Arabic.”
Matt had to concede the point, and Jet accompanied him as he made his way to the young men after telling Hannah to go into the tent and stay there until they returned.
“Appreciate it if you didn’t do that anymore,” she said, her tone friendly.
“You going to make us?” the taller of the two asked. A shadow crossed the ground and a third youth arrived, holding a length of wood like a club.
“We don’t want any trouble,” Jet tried.
“Then what are you doing here? And why are the soldiers making special visits?”
Jet’s eyes narrowed to slits. “I beat a couple of men bloody. They warned me not to do it again. I promised I’d try.”
That drew a sharp laugh. The man with the club grinned and ogled Jet. “You look like you need a real man, not this miserable old fool.”
“I really don’t want to have to hurt you,” she warned. “Neither does he.”
“You?” Another laugh. “Take those pants of yours off, and I’ll show you how to hurt–”
Jet’s spin kick caught the arm of the man with the club and he dropped it, the entire limb numb. She followed it with a lightning slam to the side of the head with her forearm and then stepped back as he collapsed in a heap, momentarily stunned. His two companions stood with mouths open, and Matt balled his fists, his legs spread slightly, weight on the balls of his feet, his hip turned slightly toward them in case either tried a kick.
Jet wiped away a lock of hair from her forehead and eyed the remaining men. “The only reason I didn’t break his arm or his neck is because I didn’t want to. A little more force behind the blows, and he’d be dead.” She paused, letting that sink in. “You still want to get your kicks picking on us? Because I don’t have a lot of patience right now, and if you’re going to, we might as well get this over with now so you can leave the camp in a box.”
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