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Ellie sprawled on her sofa long into the night, forlorn as the images reeled across her television screen. Scenes from the Treptower Park protests dominated the news cycle. Guilt prickled under her skin, a vague sense that without her, the refugees would have remained under the radar. The BAZ article had acted as an enabler, ruffling the undercurrent of dissatisfaction amongst the have-nots. It had lanced a boil, releasing a river of pus made from hostility and fear.
The night had held monsters, but surely it had been an anomaly? The city of sorrow and anger Ellie had witnessed didn’t marry with Berlin’s real nature. Berlin had been remade, leaving Nazism and Communism in the past. It was resilient and free and full of possibilities.
Her Berlin never failed to delight her. It brimmed with surprises, even though she’d lived there all her life. The city changed from season to season. What one person loved about Berlin could be completely unknown to their neighbours, and possibly gone before anyone found out about it. This city thrilled like a kaleidoscope. It consisted of puzzle pieces, tiny mosaics of colour and possibility that had been stitched together. Her Berlin was half-litres of beer and bottomless wine, parks blanketed in green and half-pipes covered in graffiti. In its arms, cultures intertwined, giving birth to streets where bakeries with pretzels and sourdough sat alongside patisseries overflowing with Turkish delicacies and Vietnamese noodle restaurants whose spices caused her forehead to bead with sweat. From pop-up theatres, festivals like Fête De La Musique and the Carnival of Cultures, independent fashion labels, beach bars, and nightclubs which pulsed with house music or swayed with jazz, to the life-size Berlin bear mascots with their unique artwork, and people that made the city home, she loved every inch of it.
Her Berlin couldn’t be a lie.
The next day, she rang her mother before the morning sun had warmed the soil, looking for the comfort that only she could give. They arranged to meet at Potsdamer Platz. As she rode the S-Bahn on her way there, fellow travellers clad in S&M gear reminded her of Berlin’s celebration of those on the margins, of the changelings and transformers. Berliners didn’t bat an eyelid at the couple with their peep-hole trousers, spiked collars and leash. There was no judgement for punks or women kissing freely on the streets. The freedom beckoned strangers into its embrace. It was why David Bowie, Iggy Pop and Nick Cave had gravitated here, why creatives and techies from across the continent chose this city as home, and why students at Berlin universities longed to stay. Berlin spoke to who you were and who you could become.
But she’d been shaken by what she had unearthed on her pen drive over the past few days. It had taught her that shadows gathered all around us, even where the sun shone. Even in her Berlin, in what should have been a beacon of democracy.
She stepped off the train at Potsdamer Platz and followed a stream of people towards the main square where her mother waited, transfixed by a topless man in a monkey mask playing the drums. The man danced, blissed out by the rhythms he created, and the crowd around him grew. After a few moments, Ellie pulled her mother away and they meandered towards a patisserie nestled between high rises and a multiplex cinema. Ellie hooked an arm through her mother’s as tourists jostled by. Katharina, a social worker and force of nature, whose hair had been strawberry pink since David Bowie’s Ziggy Stardust days, was a hippy at heart. At the ripe age of sixty-nine, she still painted her toenails with midnight purple nail varnish. They lamented about the riots the night before, and the nasty side of Berlin that had been swept away by the new day. Ellie couldn’t resist telling her mother about Yusuf.
“He’s sad and lonely without his family, I think, but he’s like a cog in this circus. They depend on him, you can see it. And when he’s on the trapeze, the audience holds its breath. You’ve really got to come with me, Mama.”
“Well, I’m glad you have something to distract you from your employment status,” said her mother with a dry chuckle.
“I’m being serious. He’s really talented,” said Ellie.
“What did you say his name was? You should bring him home, you know. This circus boy whose spell you’ve fallen under.”
Ellie flushed. “I wish, for once, you’d–”
“Nothing wrong with giving my girl a helping hand,” said her mother, enjoying herself far too much. “You wouldn’t know romance if it hit you in the face.”
“There’s nothing going on.”
Her mother waggled her drawn on eyebrows. “Of course not, but there will be. Don’t forget the condoms, darling.”
Ellie threw up her hands, exasperated. “I give up.”
“Wise, dear. Very wise.” Her mother cackled. “Wait ‘til your father hears about this.”
“Has he been drinking much?”
“Oh, let’s not talk about your father. The acrobat is much more interesting.”
“Seriously, Mama, I didn’t come here to tell you about him.”
Heavily made up eyes met hers, channelling innocence. “Then why did you start?”
They arrived at the patisserie and peered at an array of cakes before settling into plush seats in a quiet corner. Her mother scooped the cream off her hot chocolate with a teaspoon, and soon, she’d forgotten her mirth at Ellie’s expense and listened intently as her daughter recounted the tale of sneaking into the BAZ offices. As she reached the apex, her mother’s spoon clattered onto the dish.
“You snuck in? What were you thinking?”
Ellie shrugged. “My anger blocked most rational thought. I feel so bad about the article.”
“For goodness sake, Ellie. You could have been caught.”
“I almost was.”
Her mother sighed. “Well, I guess I’ve done worse in my day.”
Ellie laughed. Her mother always knew the right thing to say. “I was up all night combing through the files I stole.”
“And?”
“There’s been three transactions ostensibly for an open democracy project the paper is supposed to be leading. BAZ is hosting a conference engaging young minds, holding elected representatives to account, that sort of thing.”
“Well, that’s nothing out of the ordinary,” said her mother, slurping her coffee.
“The figures were inflated, significantly so, and the money seems to have gone directly into our failing advertising revenue.”
“I see. So Marina’s trying to fiddle figures for the board. Are you sure?”
“There’s more. The money is directly from the Government, and the Interior Minister’s footprint is all over it. It’s like a wormhole. Marina had filed away a cache of emails from his assistant, and I found voice recordings from a meeting with Silberling himself. I compared his voice to YouTube clips. It’s definitely him. Silberling bought off Marina so she’d bury the circus. Everything points that way.”
The hot chocolate stood forgotten to the side. Her mother grasped the edge of the table. “This is too dangerous, darling. You don’t even work at the newspaper anymore. They’ll just think you’re a disgruntled employee. Are you sure you want to pursue this?”
Ellie ignored her. She was her mother’s child. When had either of them ever backed down from a challenge, from doing what they knew to be right?
“What I don’t understand, Mama, is his motivation.”
“When do politicians ever need a reason other than their own interests? Think, Ellie. What can you see around you?”
Ellie cast an eye across the café.
“Not here, you idiot, think bigger,” said her mother.
“I don’t know,” said Ellie.
“The tide is changing across Europe. The people aren’t happy. They are scared and disconnected from the ruling elite. Immigrants are feared, as they always have been. They corrode national identity. They are a burden accepted by the state.”
Ellie shook her head. Credit where credit was due. How could her mother be so critical? “Germany accepted more than our fair share of refugees. We’re exemplary.”
“At what cost?” The older woman toyed with the brass triangles threaded onto her necklace. “Brave governments have taken in refugees and paid the price with their popularity. But it’s not enough to invite in vulnerable groups of people without shaping the narrative that surrounds them. My work tells me that. It’s come straight from the mouth of the people I care for.” She counted on her fingers. “Like the older Sikh man I visit, who has been repeatedly confused for a Muslim since 9/11, or the Afghan who works in Lidl and has been spat on in the street for taking German jobs. Or the young woman studying computer science at Freie Universität, whose peers assume she is under the thumb of her husband or father, simply because of the headscarf she wears. Or the vulnerable child many assume to be older than his years, given the ample stubble on his face, even though his papers prove he is fourteen. Such is our fear and mistrust of immigrants. And you, Ellie, even you, with your humanity and openness and quest for the truth, even you walked off an S-Bahn when the bearded man next to you happened to be reading Arabic.”
Ellie rolled her eyes. “This isn’t about your politics, Mama.”
“I love you, darling, but you’re wrong. We’re all pawns. Minority rights are still in an infant state here. We might give the appearance of acceptance, but look under the surface, our culture is homogenous.” Her cheeks glowed, and her eyes sparkled with passion. “Mark my words, the connection you’re looking for is plain old human ambition. The Government’s popularity is tumbling. Even the brave are forced to make concessions against their ideals. Against that backdrop you have a politician and an editor who want to keep their jobs at any cost.”
“I don’t believe you. Silberling initiated this project,” said Ellie. “Besides, we’re better than that. This is Germany, after all, not some a rogue state.”
“Don’t let your idealism trip you up.” Her mother paused, and scraped back her pink hair from her face. “Do you remember that family trip up to the Baltic Sea, and how uncomfortable we felt when that big group of Muslim women splashed about in the sea in their burkas? If we look inside, every one of us has a seed of resistance embedded in ourselves that strikes out against those different from us. Real change takes effort. It’s much easier to change tactics than it is to push against the mood of a nation. If you can’t control the people, you persuade them. If you can’t persuade them, you distract them. It’s simple, really. An age-old trick.”
Ellie’s spirit sank. Perhaps her Berlin amounted to nothing after all. What if her Berlin was a pipe dream? What if her Berlin was unrecognisable to those in pain? What if her Berlin had a dark underbelly that birthed monsters? Her eyes clouded, and she shifted her chair around the table so she could lean against her mother. They sat together, silent, dewy skin against a powdered cheek.
“In the end, it’s all about resources, isn’t it?” said Ellie. “We come from nothing and we return to nothing. We're meaningless specs on a floating rock in the galaxy. There are countless planets and a perhaps a sea of infinite universes, and yet still people think where we are born is a measure of our value or power as humans.”
Her mother hugged her. “Don’t be disheartened. Democracy is fragile. We have to work for it. And for heaven’s sake, call the circus and make them hear you out. Apologise. You’ll feel much better for it.”
Ellie sighed. She couldn’t fix everything, but she wasn’t giving up without a fight.
Haunted by the need to make amends, Ellie called the circus residences the moment she stepped out of the patisserie. When Doris agreed to see her, she wavered between relief and apprehension, wondering how to frame her regret and culpability. On a whim, she asked her mother to join her, feeling foolish for needing the support.
Broken bottles and discarded waste littered the expanse of park as they neared the circus. Not a soul lingered there. Just beyond, the flat-pack residences stood deflated against the cloudy sky. When Doris answered the buzzer, her puffy eyes revealed her sleepless night.
“Thanks for seeing me,” said Ellie.
“It’s no problem,” said Doris. “But who is this?” Her eyes darted between Ellie and her mother, and realisation dawned. She broke into a reserved smile. “Why, of course. I see the resemblance. Frau Richter, I presume?” The sun reflected on her sleek silver hair as she opened the door wider to let her visitors through. Her pleated skirt swished as she closed the door.
They hovered in the dim hallway, with Doris neither extending a warm welcome nor directing the conversation.
Her mother stood to the side, awkward and silent, a third wheel.
“I feel responsible for what happened,” said Ellie, nibbling on her bottom lip. She would find a way to fix this. She didn’t like the feeling gnawing at her, that she’d come up wanting. She hadn’t ended up pleasing anyone: not Marina, the refugees, her parents or herself. She’d bottled the thing that she’d always known instinctively to do: to pick a corner and stand her ground.
Doris studied her face. “The people here are poor. They’ve faced loss like I’ve never known. They shouldn’t have to face hatred, too. But my gut tells me you’re more friend than foe.”
Heat stained Ellie’s cheeks. She chose her words with care. “I never intended for that article to be published.”
“I thought as much.”
“My editor played me for a fool.”
Doris softened. “We live and learn.”
“I have a plan to set things right.” Ellie paused, looking over Doris’s shoulder for signs of life in the residence, for Yusuf. Perhaps she could tell him all she had learned and swear him to secrecy. “Can I talk to the residents?”
Doris made a steeple of her fingers. “I don’t think that’s a good idea right now.”
Ellie felt the keen sting of disappointment. But she could be patient. Compassionate journalism meant a balance between the infringement of privacy and a story’s need for oxygen. She could build her story brick by brick and gain the trust of its main actors. There would be an opportunity yet to make amends.
“Perhaps the three of us could have a coffee together, since you’ve made the journey,” said Doris.
Her mother beamed. “That’s very kind of you, Frau Kaun. And please forgive my daughter. She meant no harm.”
Doris nodded. “Follow me. I might have a slither or two of banana cake as well.”
The three women walked along the winding corridors to her apartment, with Ellie alert to every sound behind the closed doors they passed, hoping for a glimpse of one of the refugees, if only to convey with her eyes that she regretted her part in the article, that she truly was their friend.
Inside her apartment, Doris put the kettle on and ushered Ellie and her mother to the table, where they sat in uneasy silence, listening to the whistle of the kettle and the clank of kitchen utensils.
Her mother spoke first, tapping her hips. “You know, we’ve already had a treat today, we really shouldn’t have any cake.”
“Nonsense,” said Doris. “There’s never a bad time for cake.”
Her mother’s eyes lingered on a picture of a man on the windowsill. “Your husband?”
Doris swung a cupboard door shut, and brought a tray of coffee and cake to the table. “That’s my Hermann. When he died, and with our boys grown, I was so lonely. The circus gave me a family again.”
“It was a brave choice,” said her mother. “You could be enjoying your retirement.”
“I’m not brave compared to the other people here,” said Doris, carefully dishing out a slice of cake for each of them. “They’ve suffered trauma and loss, and are stigmatised. You saw what happened on the news yesterday. Some would have them return to their lands of origin, without a second thought for what awaits them there.”
Her mother leaned forward, her pink hair a halo around her head. “You have a lot of spirit, Frau Kaun. Many of us become resigned as we age. One of the hardest things about growing older is knowing we can’t fix everything. You know how it goes. The young have ambition and ideals, and we have perspective. You can’t save everyone.”
Doris played with the golden rim of her porcelain cup. “I was a little girl during the war. The lessons we learned will stay with me forever. It’s our responsibility to never forget the past. We have a duty to examine every decision through the lens of Nazism. I applied for the job at the residences because it’s my choice to stay soft rather than go hard. My father was a Mitläufer. I remember him in his party uniform and it shames me. This was my way of making up for the past. Of testing my humanity.”
The two older women retreated into their own thoughts for a moment, lost in the grooves of history and the future they hoped to see.
“We try to teach our children to be compassionate, to share, to appreciate the opportunities they have and the hardships others face. But the structures around them don’t do the same,” said her mother.
Ellie spoke up, eager to prove her colours to Doris, to wash away the residue of her mistakes. “We should have open borders and be done with it. In little more than a generation, all this nonsense, all the wars, will be a thing of the past.”
A flash of surprise crossed Doris's face. “Really? However would governments plan infrastructure if comings and goings were so unpredictable? You can’t run a country without knowing who’s coming in. The state even struggles to react to small changes. Think about how even non-Berliners buying second homes in this city has caused rents to spike for ordinary people. Opening up our national borders would be a tsunami we just wouldn’t cope with.”
Ellie furrowed her brow. “We trust that things find a balance, as they do in nature. Nothing that’s worth anything is easy. If we don’t take any risks, things will only get worse. Look at the role of dark money on the internet. How there’s these silent forces stirring up trouble.”
The older women looked at her blankly. This was a war they'd leave to Ellie's generation to fight.
Her mother spooned some cake into her mouth. “Most people aren’t evil. Their politics are shaped by the lives they haven’t lived. That doesn’t mean they’re heartless or stupid, just blinkered. I’ve seen how those on the bread line live. They don’t have the luxury of caring about anyone else; they are fighting to survive. As for the far right, they can swim in their own delusions for all I care, but we’ll imprison them in our open, tolerant, brave society. That’s the Germany I believe in.”
“For now, the most we can hope for is the neo-Nazis to go back underground and not be so brazen,” said Doris. “In a few short years, white nationalism has gone from a conversation you hold in whispers in the bathroom to one heard at the dinner table and even in bars. It’s too much to hope for that everyone celebrates difference, but the far right mustn’t feel emboldened to threaten or harm others. What happened here yesterday can’t become the norm.”
“I was horrified when I saw the coverage,” said Ellie, pausing. “Look, I want to be honest with you. I don’t think Minister Silberling is the friend you perceive him to be.”
Her mother threw a sharp glance in her direction, a wordless warning about treading carefully without airtight evidence.
Doris raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Well, he’s too untouched by reality to really understand those in need, of course, but the circus was his idea, so he can’t be all that bad.”
“Frau Kaun,” said her mother, with a light touch. “You know as well as I do that all politicians are slippery eels.”
“Well, yes, but when you’re as old as us, you realise there’s neither one type of politician nor one type of immigrant,” said Doris.
“Goodness, look at the time,” said her mother, catching sight of a wall-clock and setting down her fork in horror. “We must get on and leave you to your day, Frau Kaun. We’ve intruded on your time for far too long.”
“It’s been an unexpected pleasure to see you both today,” said Doris. “I do hope to see you soon at the circus.” She drew back her chair, and the two women emulated. She turned to Ellie. “Thank you for your apology. Perhaps you can find a small way to set this right.”
“Of course,” said Ellie, feeling a rush of love for the wise women she crossed paths with, and the world they built piece by piece.
