Chapter 18

Doris forbade Mirjam and the other children from going outside; she had less luck with the adults. She begged Yusuf to stay inside where it remained safe, but he didn’t listen. What man would cower behind curtains when the enemy had come to his door?

By all accounts, a call on social media to wipe out the refugee scum had gathered steam. Yusuf had neither a mobile phone nor a computer, but the sheer power of the internet to spread messages struck him with fear. Ellie Richter’s article had caught the national mood like wildfire. Disgruntled, hateful men–and some women–had come from across the country, and now only a line of thin-lipped police men stood between the refugees and the far-right radicals.

At the front of the line, partially obscured by the policemen, stood Karl, the jeering leader of the circus break-in and the attack on Emir. Sunglasses obscured his face, but Yusuf recognised him by the set of his jaw, the fringe that hung partially over one eye, the triangle stance and bulging tattooed forearms. On his cheek, he’d painted a German flag.

The circus men grouped together in solidarity: Zul, trembling like a leaf, and Emir and Osman, comforting in their bulk. The women had come too: Leyla the cook, who wobbled when she walked; Old Sayid, his bouffant hair coarse and wild about his head; Najib, as pale as the slate sky, here when it counted, despite his trouble-making nature; Aischa and Esme, and there in the distance came Amena and Aya; circus hands; a subdued Isaiah with a small gathering of local supporters, men and women wearing bright colours to clash with the black worn by the neo-Nazis.

As Yusuf studied the protesters, he grew unsure that they could all be written off as the warped, abhorrent far right. A chill swept through him. Had everyday Germans joined the extremists in a common purpose? If mistrust of the immigrants had gained such ground that their ideology had seeped into the mainstream, then theirs was a lost cause.

Still, what could they do apart from stand their ground, as vulnerable as they were? They had nowhere else to go. He longed for a home, where a six-foot brown man could blend in if he desired it. Fate had not unfolded kindly, and so Yusuf stood, facing the hatred emanating from the faction opposite. Drivers slowed their cars as they passed by, eager to find out the cause of the disruption, some honking in support. Yusuf didn’t know whose side they had chosen. His stomach churned.

The extremists played a techno tune from a ghetto blaster. They chanted a phrase he couldn’t quite catch, jostling the crowd so that the policemen struggled to hold their line. Some of them held up Ellie Richter’s godforsaken front page. One of them gave the outlawed Hitler salute, taking care to hide the act from the police. His dark eyes frothed with rage.

Yusuf hated Ellie. He blamed her article, full of lies and loathing, for stirring a nest of vipers, for putting his circus family in harm’s way.

Why did loneliness diminish him when he stood here with his circus family? He sensed movement at his flank and glanced across to see the ranks of circus supporters swell. Imam Saeed broke the line to slip in between Yusuf and Zul. All this time, an overwhelming emptiness had engulfed Yusuf, and yet, when it counted, strangers and friends alike had come to their aid.

“You didn’t think we’d leave you to fend for yourselves, did you?” said Imam Saeed. He wore his skull cap. He nodded to Rifaat and a group of Turks, all clad in religious attire. “I brought the whole football team. Let’s show these buffoons who we are.”

Around Rifaat’s neck hung a sign: Muslim. Once an Immigrant, Now German. Hug Me if You Dare.

Yusuf would have laughed if the situation hadn’t been so precarious. He touched Rifaat’s shoulder, gulping down the lump burning his throat. “I’m grateful.”

The Imam braced himself as the line swayed. Behind them, the circus supporters began chanting slogans of their own, in Arabic and Urdu, Pashto and German, and a smattering of English.

Imam Saeed raised his voice to be heard over the din. “Your parents might not be here, you might have lost your brother, but look around you, you have friends.”

The Neo-Nazis moved as one hive mind, their faces painted in anger, a sea of German flags held aloft. Some bared teeth or raised fists. Others had knotted scarves around their mouths and jaws, hoping to avoid recognition. All revelled in their show of strength, the thought of quashing their perceived enemy. Karl led the herd in their chants, a mix of expletives and rhyming that hit Yusuf with venomous force, words he couldn’t decipher but understood only too well.

Osman roared. “Why is a brown man so much of a threat? I should let the horses loose. That would teach them.”

“Shall we keep this civil?” said the Imam. “Why men feel the need to show brute force, I’ll never know.”

The rocking of the protesters became more violent, a thrusting to and fro that shook them all. Amena fell and cut her lip, and Aya took her aside. The protesters brayed in delight, revelling in her misfortune and their superior strength. Others in their ranks grew uncomfortable and drifted away.

One of the policemen holding the line stumbled. His colleagues dragged him to his feet, their faces a grim canvas of exertion. With a blare of sirens, riot police suddenly arrived in booted feet with faces hidden by helmets. They crunched the mud underfoot as they slid between the crowds, working in formation, first reinforcing the police line, then cutting bodily through the masses on both sides.

Yusuf’s vision swam, and the rush that accompanied his flashbacks overwhelmed him: the rising panic and constricted chest, the tingling hands.

Imam Saeed’s voice reached him through the ruckus. “Breathe, boy. It will be over soon. Look, they tire.”

Sure enough, the extremists’ rage ratcheted down a notch, as if airing their grievances had punctured their fury, at least for now. They walked away, self-satisfied, shouting insults but taking care not to overstep the mark, lest the police make good on their threat of arrests. The police kept the two sides apart, taking names, shepherding the two groups into different segments of the park, frowning, threatening, encouraging remaining clusters of people to disband.

Finally, only stragglers remained to speak to the refugees, to confide that they had donated clothes and food to shelters, and to express fervent wishes that the group of trouble-makers not be taken as representative of Berliners. Yusuf checked on Amena and hugged his friends, then waited for Imam Saeed, who had stopped to shake Emir’s hand, and to thank the police men and kind faces from the local community. Pearls of sweat beaded the Imam’s forehead.

“You shouldn’t put yourself in danger like this. There may be repercussions for you,” said Yusuf.

“If I stayed behind my walls, I’d be a lesser man. Besides, it’s never been more asked of us to show up as slices of ourselves in different places. I’m an Imam, but I’m also a father and a teacher. And I care deeply about this community.”

“How do you do it? How do you carry on fighting? Some days, I don’t know how to go on. One day, I am resolute that I’m going to make this work. Other days, my pity and anger floor me. I’m of a man made of fragments.”

The Imam grasped his shoulder. “Grief and change are not the easiest bedfellows. Each of us needs an anchor we can drive deep into the ground. It might be the land, or a person, or even a purpose, but without those things, doubt sets in, and it can be like a storm swirling around us. Anchor yourself, son, before it’s too late.”

“I listen to music from home. Prepare food from our culture. Home is all around us. You only need to look. Take the Konditorei Damaskus in Sonnenallee where the sweet scent of the Middle East washes over you. It has found fans across communities. You can indulge in sticky mabrumah with pistachios and exquisite triangles of shaybiyat pastry. Or the vegetarian fatteh and toshka sandwiches at Berlinaskus at Markthalle Neun. It will remind you that we never entirely leave our homes. We take them with us, and we bring that density of culture with us to new lands. It’s human to let negativity linger, but open your eyes, Yusuf. Our culture is celebrated in this city in more ways than you have realised. I can spend hours looking at the collections in the Pergamon Museum: the Ishtar Gate, the Gate of Babylon, the Mshatta Facade, the clay tablets of Uruk, the Aleppo room with its bright wood panelling. I take solace from them and you can too. They remind me life has continued for millennia in some form and is destined to continue.”

The moon climbed higher in the sky. Yusuf lay sprawled on his bed, picking at the grooves on the pine frame. His mind drifted to the hot bricks of his childhood home on the outskirts of Damascus, the rose-coloured gauze at the kitchen window, the garden where he’d played basketball with his brother, the rolling hills and sprawling universities. He tasted the booza ice cream from Al-Hamidiyah Souq melting in his mouth. A wave of melancholy washed over him for all that he’d left behind. Perhaps he’d visit the patisserie Imam Saeed had talked of, and see if it eased his longing for what had once been.

The night hung heavy with recycled memories. His brother’s green eyes twinkling with pride. Lean legs hugging the sides of the motorcycle. The engine revving. Selim’s t-shirt rippling in the wind. Dust flying up from the street. A roar he couldn’t fathom. A broken body in the coffin.

The door opened a fraction and Doris's unmistakable silhouette appeared, her sleek bob mere shadow play against the beige wall. She stepped into the room. “I wanted to check you are all right. There were ugly emotions at play tonight. We can catch up tomorrow if that’s better?”

He could always count on Doris to be in tune with him. “No, come in.” He said a silent prayer of thanks that she’d been allocated as their warden. He rolled out of bed and reached for a t-shirt and shorts to pull on over his boxers.

“Stay. I’ll just be a second.” He finished fumbling with the button at his waistband. His time in refugee camps and, later, the circus, had quashed any pangs of modesty. A body was nothing special.

He picked up the book and smoothed out his bedcovers so they could sit down. Doris sank down beside him as he leafed through the pages. He turned to Doris. “What is it?”

The journal had been filled with dense, messy jottings, half-thoughts and unfinished sentences. Doodles and post it notes, questions and quotes sat side by side. He tore himself away from a page with a drawing of a man who looked eerily like him. “I don’t understand. Whose is this, Doris?”

Yusuf thrust the book away as if he had been scalded. “That woman’s trouble. Why do you have this?”

She held up her hands. “I found it in the circus tent, and then the article came out and I was too busy firefighting to give it back to Ellie, and I was angry too. I’d introduced her to dozens of you. I felt used. And then I read the journal, and I realised, that article can’t have been hers, and it all finally made sense. I knew she couldn’t have betrayed you. How could she, knowing your stories?”

Yusuf peered at the older woman. He trusted her. He always had. Even though his father had taught him to trust no one but himself. “What do you mean?”

“You need to see for yourself.” She tapped the journal. “I’m overstepping the line giving this to you, but with everything that’s happened around here, I needed to show you that nothing is black and white.” She walked to the door. “People make choices for all sorts of reasons, and we can never know what’s bubbling underneath the surface, the secret longings and dark impulses. That’s as close as you’ll get to reading Ellie’s mind, and maybe it can be a lesson to us all that most people are inherently good, despite their actions.”

Yusuf flung back the covers. The journal fell open at the drawing of him. He turned to the first page, realising that they’d stumbled through a record of Ellie Richter’s most private thoughts. The journal presented a jumble of unfiltered information, logic vying with emotions. Here, she worked through her innermost feelings, as well as her work assignments. Prying this way seemed sacrilege. He should close the book and return it to its rightful owner, but like Doris, his intrigue won out over his honour. Besides, hadn’t she betrayed him first?

He read slowly, deciphering her handwriting, savouring every word although reading in German was not yet second nature to him.

He read anecdotes about Zul and Mirjam that told him as much about the observer as the objects of her scrutiny.

Zul the Clown: extravagant and bumbling in the ring. A master of gruesome facial contortions and slapstick. Beyond the clown persona, he is gentle and unassuming. Nothing more important to him than Mirjam, who he has made his daughter. Plain to see he mourns his family. Prays daily for his dead son but also eager to walk into the future with Mirjam. Plucks her flowers from the park. Tells her bedtime stories from his own imagination.

Mirjam: 9 years old. Teases Zul about how quickly she has learned German compared to him. Scraped her knee and ran to Zul in full clown costume. A wisp of a girl, comforted by her new father. Hope their futures ease the shadow of their past.

The hours passed and he cherished this private window into Ellie Richter’s soul, a woman he’d written off to be heartless. Since the attack in the big top, he’d taken to segregating strangers in his mind, marking them out as either friend or foe, depending on how they spoke, what they wore and their demeanour towards him. But Ellie’s journal showed she was an ally after all.

Can’t reconcile what Marina wants me to do with my own take on the circus. Can’t be normal for journalists to bow to the will of their editor against their morals, can it? Will be hell to pay if I disappoint her again but maybe I can somehow convince her that my viewpoint is valid. Who am I kidding?

He absorbed Ellie’s deep sympathy for the refugees and the firm hand of her editor, and her gradual realisation that she couldn’t do what her editor had asked of her. The pages revealed her to be soft and strong, compassionate and brave.