Okay, here we go now, I thought, sitting back. The real story.
“His name was ‘Poz’—okay, that was his nickname. But he was, like I kept thinking, just a total Poz. He looked like a cross between Adam Levine and Macklemore, except with way better hair? And so, we’re talking in the ticket line, and he said he used to be, like, this aircraft mechanic for the Serbian military. But now he was working on making documentaries. And also, launching digital platforms for all of Eastern Europe. And it turned out, he and his friend were going to Lesvos to volunteer, too.”
“Wow,” I deadpanned. “What a coincidence.” I couldn’t help adding, “And that does not remotely sound like a pickup line whatsoever.” (Though the East German judge, I had to concede, gave him an eight.)
Ashley leaned forward, seeming not to hear. “So Poz and his friend, they had a car with them that they were going to use to distribute all these supplies to the refugees when they got here, but just when they were about to pay at the counter, they discovered that they didn’t have enough cash on them to bring it over, or their card didn’t work or something, which meant they couldn’t go at all, so I sort of figured, since they were going to be volunteering with the refugees, too—”
“That your dad and I could just foot the bill for everybody.”
“Jesus. It wasn’t like I wasn’t going to pay you back.” She let her head fall forward in a mop of wet hair. “Mom, I’m feeling really horrible right now, so if you’re just going to criticize everything—”
I sighed. “No, go on. Keep telling me.”
“So, okay. That night, on the ferry? Poz and I, like, totally hooked up. It was so romantic, Mom, it was like out of a movie. He had this sleeping bag, and we were out on the deck under the stars. And we were making Vine videos on our phones together, and telling each other about our families—his sister and his mother—oh my God, it was horrible—he said he never tells this to anyone—but they were killed in the war—and when I told him that I was going to work at this camp run by anarchists on the north coast, he couldn’t even believe it because it turned out—”
“It turned out, that’s where he was going to be a volunteer, too.”
“OMG, how did you know?” Ashley regarded me with genuine astonishment. “So. Poz and his friend, they gave us a ride up here. Which was amazing because, otherwise, we’d probably have had to hitchhike. All the buses and taxis were full. So when we finally got to the camp, Pernille went off with her German anarchist friends, while Poz and I slept out on the beach. I had my backpack with me, because the first thing they told us at the camp was to keep an eye on our belongings at all times. And Poz, he even helped keep an eye on it, like, when I had to go pee. So totally sweet, right? And, oh my God, Mom, being with him on the beach, it was like, even more romantic than on the ferry, because now, we were like these two international rescue workers together—these two lovers from two different worlds in, like, the middle of this global crisis.”
I looked at her and sighed. Of course she’d think that. It was such a cliché, it was a cliché of a cliché. It was almost as much of a cliché, in fact, as a middle-aged woman tracking down her old high school boyfriend on Facebook and attempting to rekindle a hot teenage romance with him. Talk about hormone-addled romantic fantasists. How could I blame my daughter? Apple: tree.
“So. Let me guess,” I said, not unsympathetically. “You slept with Poz out on the beach, and while you guys were having this great international romance, some of the refugees robbed you.”
She looked down sheepishly. After a moment, she said, “Basically.”
I took her hand and squeezed it. “People are desperate here, sweetie. Thodoris told me to be careful. The refugees have lost everything. So if a bag is just sitting there—right in front of them…” I wanted to say, I know all too well what it’s like to be desperate, and hungry, and frightened, and homeless, with maybe all of nine dollars in your pocket. I know all too well now how tempting that would be.
Instead, I added, “Do you have any idea at all who— Did you even see—”
“Jesus! It’s just all a blur, Mom—it’s just all— I can’t even.” She stopped abruptly; her whole face shut down.
“What? What is it?”
She shook her head violently, pressed the bases of her palms to her eyes. “Nothing. Can I just, please, sleep some more now?”
I reached across the little table and squeezed her hand.
“Just—your passport. Did you report it stolen?”
Ashley jerked her hand away. “What? Are you kidding me? Mom. You think anyone here cares? They have so many bigger things to deal with.” She picked up her teacup and set it down roughly. “The last thing I want to do here is go to the cops.”
“I understand that,” I said. “Believe me, I do. But if your passport is missing, that’s a big deal. You need to file a report.”
“Jesus, Mom. What could I possibly say, ‘Oh, I was just here volunteering with a bunch of anarchists at that ‘unofficial’ refugee camp’? Like that wouldn’t have gotten me into even more trouble maybe? Or ‘Hi, I know I have absolutely no money or ID or belongings or anything, but trust me, I’m American’?”
She glared at me. “I couldn’t prove anything to them, Mom! They could’ve thought I was just another refugee trying to sneak into the EU without papers! For all I know, they could’ve decided I was from, like, Iraq or Pakistan—or someplace else where the people don’t qualify for asylum—and they could’ve deported me to Turkey or someplace!”
“Okay. C’mon now,” I said gently. “Ashley. You don’t exactly look Pakistani or Arab.”
“How do you know, Mom? How do you know what a ‘refugee’ really looks like?” she said with surprising violence. “You haven’t been here! There are people getting off these boats who could be any of us! Just take away the headscarves! There’s not some special ‘refugee look’!”
“Okay. Look,” I sighed. “Please. Take it down a notch, will you? We’re both exhausted.” I cocked my head at her and took a deep, long breath and closed my eyes for a moment. “I’m not attacking you. I was just asking whether you’d reported the passport, is all.”
She glared at me, still defensive. But her face started to break like an egg. Suddenly, she didn’t look nineteen anymore nearly so much as nine. “Well, I didn’t call the police, okay?” she said tearily. “Mom, I called you.”
After she took some more medicine and went back to sleep, I just sat outside on the balcony, stunned, feeling the sun and unfamiliar wind on my face. I was worn out by worry, relief—all of it. I’d forgotten just how exhausting my daughter could be. Now that my fear had subsided—and she was in living color before me again—I could afford the luxury of getting good and furious at her. Halfway around the world I’d raced, at a moment’s notice, because she’d been careless with her backpack while hooking up with some boy on a beach. Really? I wondered, too: Were all teenage girls this melodramatic with their mothers? Frankly, I wasn’t sure. I’d never had the opportunity to be a teenager with my own mother for very long.
It was morning back in Michigan. If Joey had slept at all, I imagined he’d be wandering around our kitchen, unshaven in his ratty blue bathrobe, repeatedly checking his phone, glancing at the clock, anxiously feeling around in the freezer for some frozen waffles. It was important to get the news to him as fast as I could. I poked around my bag for a paper and pen. BE BACK SOON, ASH, I wrote. DON’T GO ANYWHERE!!! I MEAN IT!!! XOXOX MOM
Finding computer access in the small fishing village was challenging, but eventually, the proprietor of the one hotel in town—who had heard about my plight somehow—word got around fast—Thodoris was right—everybody here did know everybody—he took pity on me and let me use the computer in his office. Skype wasn’t loading, so I sent Joey an email.
Subject: The eagle has landed.
She’s okay, Joey, I typed. I got her.
She’s skinny and sick to her stomach, but still sanctimonious, so she’s still
Ashley, right?;-) We’re in a room here on the island that actually reminds me of home. (Specifically, the basement.) Her fever is down & she’s eating crackers. As soon as she is well enough to travel, we’ll fly to Athens. Tell Arjul: THANK YOU AGAIN.
Also, can you/Austin scan & email copy of Ashley’s birth certificate? (Should be in file cabinet in kitch desk, second drawer on left, green folder marked KIDS’ BIRTH CERTIFICATES.)
My new phone doesn’t work here. Will call as soon as I have Skype and internet, but service is weak everywhere, they say. Lesvos feels like the end of the earth. This refugee thing is INSANE. Really SAD. Who knew? Our kid: She knows how to pick ’em! More later.
I hesitated for a while trying to figure out how the hell to sign off: Best? Love? XOX? Just my name?
Nothing felt right. An estranged couple reuniting when their child was in danger was the stuff of made-for-TV movies. It couldn’t be sustained indefinitely, and we both knew it. One problem rarely erases another. Now, I didn’t even know how to close out an email to my husband. It made me unbearably sad.
Finally I settled on:
With relief—and exhaustion,
D.
Then, unable to help it, I added:
p.s. She may still be in better shape than you and I are in right now.
Then:
p.p.s. As soon as she’s all better, I’m swear I’m going to kill her.
Then:
p.p.p.s. For any third party reading this, that last line was a joke.
Stepping back into the sunshine, I supposed I should try to get some sleep myself. A group of thin African and Middle Eastern young men climbed past me up the hill carrying filmy plastic bags heavy with food containers and fruit and bread. Strangers in a strange land, fending as best they could for themselves. I looked at them and felt a sudden pang of recognition. Above us, on a wrought-iron balcony dripping with bougainvillea, a gray-haired Greek couple sat on folding chairs, watching the square impassively as if it were a piece of theater. Yeah, I thought suddenly, I know what that feels like, too. Standing there was like being in a dream in which I was everyone at the same time.
Even more surreal was the tavern that had been closed that morning. Now its outdoor café was full to capacity. A pale Swedish couple in anoraks sat compiling a list of supplies with a team of young Greeks. Two women draped in black hijabs and robes glanced around uneasily, frosted bottles of Coca-Cola untouched on the table before them. Four German men straddled their chairs like hobbyhorses, drinking beer and laughing. At the adjacent table, a clutch of British journalists hunched intently over a laptop, camera bags and electrical cables piled at their feet.
Beyond them, light shone over the sea like a glaze. White fishing boats quivered on the water. The air smelled of sea salt and pine. Looking around the little village, filled with the melodies of different voices and languages, I was struck by the beauty of it, how all the pale stuccoed houses with their royal-blue trim and ocher roofs seemed to correspond with one another, so that they existed in harmony.
Then, I saw the life jackets. Piles and piles of discarded orange life jackets heaped by the side of the little fenced-in yard beyond the park benches. Heaped on the dock of the little marina. Orange life jackets strewn about the roadside and bobbing in the water like hideous swollen tiger lilies, undulating back and forth with the tide. And piles of shredded black and green rubber rafts. Dark, matte plastic, like body bags.
And garbage.
So much garbage. The road, the shore, the beach dotted with it like a pointillist painting.
Where could it have all come from? It was a tsunami of trash. And then I realized: That was exactly right. The water. The boats. Until that moment, I’d only equated refugees with scarcity. But forty people fleeing on a raft still bring as much as they can to survive. Seemingly hundreds of water bottles lay crushed in the dirt and scattered between the rocks. Colored plastic bags, bloated with air, floated in the tide like jellyfish. Sandwich wrappers and personal identification papers—smeared with blue ink—and diapers and used tissues and lost bottles of sunscreen and scarves and tampons and receipts and plastic combs and empty potato chip bags. Bobbing along the shore: a yellow toothbrush. A cheap sodden baseball cap. A Pokémon phone case.
I had walked this same route earlier that very morning, but now, it was completely transformed. Or had I simply not noticed? Perhaps I’d been too focused on finding my daughter. Or perhaps, in the time it took Thodoris and me to find a room to rent, and for Ashley to shower and sleep, a whole new fleet of rubber boats had landed in Skala Sikamineas, spilling some of their contents and people into the sea? But how could that many people have landed in such a short period of time? Surely this had accumulated over weeks, months.
Maybe Ashley’s passport or some of her belongings could still be unearthed among the debris. Though I suspected it was a long shot—maternal wishful thinking—I started scanning the ground as I walked.
A lone plastic woman’s shoe. A broken pair of pink plastic sunglasses. An abandoned denim vest, soiled and tattered among the rocks. And then, what stopped me cold in my tracks: a sopping wet, pale-blue baby blanket flecked with bits of seaweed. And lichen.
I was Jewish mostly by heritage. Certainly, I’d had no religious upbringing. Yet I’d still had drummed into me like a prayer, like Torah, the number Six million. So many Jews murdered during the Holocaust seemed impossible to fathom. How could how such a vast amount of humanity ever be rendered real?
Through shoes. Eyeglasses. Suitcases.
The summer we’d taken the kids to Washington, DC, we’d seen it in the museum: Here was Isaac Birenberg. Here was his suitcase.
That drove it home.
Now, as I scanned the debris on the beach of Lesvos, every fragment transformed from a piece of trash to a person, to the story of someone fleeing for their life—a mother, a teenager, someone who played cards, who liked to dance. Whether they had made it or drowned was unknown.
And so many.
I could not look away. I followed the garbage trail farther down the road. Wrappers. Shoelaces. A newspaper. A scarf.
Some volunteers on the shore were picking up the refuse bit by bit, depositing it into industrial-sized garbage bags. I tried to stay out of their way, but then someone yelled in a thick German accent, “Hello! Hello!” Dagmar and her girlfriend. I walked over.
“Hey, thanks again,” I said. “You really helped my daughter in her hour of need.”
Dagmar shrugged. On her wrist was a red-and-black tattoo of a phoenix. It looked slightly infected to me. “It is no problem. A lot of people here at the camp get robbed.”
“Still. I appreciate it.”
She squinted up at me. She was not much older than Ashley. Nor was her girlfriend or the other trash-pickers on the shore. They were mostly kids in their early to mid-twenties. Babies, really. Newborn adults.
“I am only sorry we put her in quarantine. But if the refugees get this sickness, it is a very big problem. If they cannot eat. If they are throwing up and shitting all the time—”
“I understand.” I looked at the trash bag Dagmar was holding. She looked at me. It seemed only right. “May I?”
I began picking up the detritus with them, erasing the evidence of the arrivals and the tragedies—preparing the beach, I sensed grimly, for the next wave of refugees.
When we’d finished, there was a shared sense of equilibrium restored—and exhaustion. A sadness hung over me, too. We lugged our bulging bags across the tiny town square to a large trash receptacle behind one of the taverns. “Usually, we try to put the bags in the bins closer to the camp,” Dagmar said, heaving hers into the container, which was nearly filled to the top. “But today, they are all filled with rafts.”
Most of the inflatable dinghies were in tatters, she told me, before the refugees even made it to land. Four dozen people would be crammed aboard a raft designed for twenty—with a weak outboard motor—and simply launched into the sea. If they didn’t crash on
the rocks, half the time the terrified refugees would destroy the boats themselves as soon as they crossed into Greek waters, because the Turkish traffickers had claimed that the Greek authorities would use the dinghies to return them all to Turkey immediately. For the passengers without life vests, quite literally, it was sink or swim. And many of the women and children, Dagmar said pointedly, had never been taught to swim.
Ashley and Austin had, of course, grown up playing Marco Polo in the lake right behind our subdivision. Michigan, the Great Lakes State, the Water Wonderland. Right there on our license plates.
I stared at the rubber skin of a dinghy.
The back door to the tavern kitchen swung open. A burly Greek man with tousled salt-and-pepper hair and a sweat-stained checkered shirt waved us in. “Yassas, yassas, kalispera. Come, come. Parakalo.”
“Hey Kostas. Kalispera, Kostas.” The volunteers gripped his hands in both of theirs vigorously. The kitchen was full of clatter and steam, an engine running to full capacity. Kostas led us through it to a wooden table wedged between the prep counter and the bar area. A few volunteers quickly foraged some stray chairs and hoisted them over their heads, assembling them for all of us to sit in. I needed to get back to check on Ashley—but I was so tired all of a sudden. My back was sore, my skin exfoliated with wind and salt. The jet lag was hitting me. Then my internal heat lamp came on. I just needed to sit a minute.
Kostas set two enormous carafes of water on the table before us with a stack of glasses. I gulped one, two, three down in rapid succession. I poured myself a fourth. He returned with a large basket of crusty bread—Oh! Food! Thank you!—and another large carafe for us. As he set it directly before me, the afternoon sun hit the beveled glass. A beam refracted off of it in a blaze of gold, the liquid inside winking.
White wine.
Like pale sun. Like liquid music. Philippe, the French volunteer sitting beside me, grabbed the carafe by its neck and began pouring out glasses mechanically and passing them around to all the volunteers.
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