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Some grown up children chose to build their own lives far from their parental homes. Others never quite bring themselves to be entirely free, bound by the double calling of duty and love to a small corner of the world, because their family resides there.
It took a gentle nudge from Ellie’s parents to turf her out of the family home in Treptow. She rented a flat in Friedrichshain, despite her father’s misgivings about vandalism there and her mother’s worry about the increasing gap between the rich and poor in that particular district. Ellie loved the hodge-podge nature of Friedrichshain, the punk scene that had never died, the gritty streets with their stench of art and dog mess that insisted on realism rather than an illusory sheen. She loved her flat, too–an airy one-bedroom filled with Cézanne and Monet prints–but her childhood home remained her favourite place to be, despite her father’s drinking.
Her parents had met on a march towards the end of the swinging sixties. Back then, Katharina had slept with both men and women. Hunger pangs had made the usually cheerful Katharina grumpy on the march. A stranger beside her called Martin Richter, swigging beer from a bottle he’d stashed inside his jacket, caught her eye. He offered her an apple, and by the end of the day, Katharina realised her loud mouth and quirkiness didn’t faze this quick-witted man. They fitted together as snugly as two spoons.
Every week, unless they happened to be travelling, Ellie’s parents cooked Sunday lunch. Each time Ellie slotted her key into the door, she breathed a sigh of contentment to know what awaited on the other side...as long as her father hadn’t started drinking too early. This Sunday was no different to any other, except that Ellie had invited Yusuf to join them. She imagined curtains twitching at the sight of the tall, bearded man she’d brought home with her.
Ellie paused on the threshold and smiled at Yusuf. “They won’t bite, you know.”
“It’s been a long time since I’ve been inside a family home.”
She’d invited him here almost as a reflex to his sorrow, an involuntary need to share her safe haven with him. Before lunch, she’d rung her parents to ban talk of politics from the table, and warned them to avoid mentioning Silberling. She’d decided not to confide in Yusuf just yet. It shamed her that German politicians could act this way. Yusuf’s fragile faith in the country had already been damaged; she didn’t want to add fuel to fire.
She unlocked the door, and Yusuf hesitated before following her in. Inside, the air wafted with the smell of a nut roast with a burnt undertone. Low voices hummed in the kitchen. To her right, the hallway opened up into a living room bursting with her mother’s penchant for all things tactile: a faux sheepskin rug stretched across the ageing wooden floor, cushions in velvet and satin lay strewn on sofa, oil paintings of warm summer landscapes adorned the walls, and surfaces were awash with framed family photographs and travel mementoes.
Ellie stumbled into a blue stone buddha blocking the doorway. “Ouch!”
Yusuf side-stepped it with ease, and threw her a sympathetic look.
“There you are!” Her father pulled her into his arms. He smelt of soap and coffee, but the sour whiff of excessive alcohol consumption seeped through.
She tensed, then relaxed into him. Now wasn’t the right time to challenge him.
Her father held out his hand to Yusuf, and his eyes lingered for a nanosecond on Yusuf’s beard. “We’ve heard a lot about you. Welcome.”
Yusuf shook her father’s hand, stiff with nerves. He pulled out a small bouquet of daffodils from behind his back. “These are for you.”
“Oh?” Her father smiled. “Katharina will be pleased. Me, I don’t know the difference between real flowers and plastic ones.”
Ellie swatted him. “That’s not true. Don’t believe a word of it, Yusuf. He’s teasing you. Papa could make a rainforest grow in a desert.”
The grey of Yusuf’s eyes swirled to unfathomable depths and Ellie’s heart skipped a beat.
Her father beamed. “If you say so. Lunch is ready. Your mother was talking so much she burnt the roast, but it’s edible.” He waggled his eyebrows at them, indicating they were probably in for a rotten meal.
Ellie stifled her laugher.
Her mother emerged carrying a steaming plate of carrots and peas, an apron tied around her round hips. Her pink hair stood on end like a scarecrow’s. She spoke fast, her speech garbled. “Yusuf, come in, come in. We’re so happy to have you here. I’m sorry I’m such a mess.”
Yusuf’s eyes didn’t move from her animated face, the hair that hovered in the air by design. He smiled.
Her mother reached up to kiss Ellie’s cheek. “Grab the sauce, won’t you, love? It’s on the stove. If we drown the food, it might taste okay.”
They sat at the table in the dining room, the three of them and Yusuf, still and silent. All around them, the jumble of artefacts her parents had collected over the years could be found, the ones that showed how at home they were in the world, showcasing their view that it was possible not to be threatened by other cultures. A tiny family of Sri Lankan elephants had been arranged trunk to tail across the midline of the dining table. A wall hanging depicted a Masai woman, her long neck encased in jewellery, her elongated earlobes heavy with adornments.
It pleased Ellie to widen their usual gathering to make space for Yusuf. Too often since she’d started the circus story, she’d locked away the recurring thought of her parents’ creeping age, the deepening wrinkles on their faces. She’d always been content, it being just the three of them, and besides, she’d arrived so late for her mother that another child had been out of the question. But the refugees had woken her sense of mortality, and she didn’t want to imagine a time when their circle would be broken. Widening it distracted her. It made her feel less alone.
She shook her head and her morbid thoughts scattered like arrows.
Across from her, Yusuf struggled to make conversation while her mother dished out the food and her father acted as assistant. His eyes lingered on the floor to ceiling rack of wine bottles.
“That’s quite a stash,” Yusuf said.
“I have a splendid bottle of Riesling,” said her father. “Would you like some with lunch?”
“Yusuf’s Muslim, Papa,” said Ellie.
“Oh, of course.” Her father paused. “So you don’t drink at all?”
Yusuf coloured. “No, I’m afraid not,” he said in half-apology, as if his refusal were somehow a slight.
Ellie stepped in. “What’s that buddha doing by the living room, Mama?”
Her mother scooped some carrots onto Yusuf’s plate. “We spotted it in Thailand last year and couldn’t resist. It’s taken an age to arrive. Lost in transit, apparently.”
“We’re lucky it’s still intact,” said her father. “When your mother disappears upstairs for one of her scented baths, I can pop it on the sofa next to me and I won’t even know she’s gone.”
Her mother rolled her eyes.
Yusuf glanced at her parents, and Ellie’s intuition told her to be wary, that perhaps instead of soothing him, her family environment brought his own into sharp contrast: the rages and beatings his father had inflicted on him, how there could be no recasting of personal relationships now his father had died.
She suddenly grew ashamed for her good fortune. Yusuf couldn’t know her father, in particular, had his vices. Discord appeared in the Richter household, but it disappeared quickly. Her father would retreat to his office, fester a while, and soon enough return to hug her mother, whose irritation subsided as soon as it peaked. She wished sometimes that her mother would challenge her father on his drinking more, but she seemed blind to his faults and reared up like a lioness to protect him if Ellie ever tried to make an intervention. He wasn’t a mean drunk, thank God, but alcohol transformed his mild manner into childish exuberance and made him prone to sudden impulses. It was not uncommon for him to splash money on gifts for them when in a stupor and for them to return home to mounds of clanking bottles in the living room.
Still, the demons in her family seemed manageable in comparison to what Yusuf faced, and without Yusuf knowing her more intimately, it must seem like her life sparkled with joy compared to his.
They ate, ignoring the charred bits, and her mother turned to Yusuf. “You must miss home.”
Her father coughed. “Give the boy a second, Katharina, before you come at him with all your questions.” Kind eyes shone underneath grey eyebrows that grew bushier by the year.
Yusuf plastered on a smile. “Yes, I miss home, Frau Richter. I miss it a lot. But the home I knew isn’t there anymore. I have a new one now.”
“I hope you’ve been made to feel welcome. Your German really is very good.”
“We have language lessons a few times a week at the residences.”
“Are they enjoyable?” said Katharina, struggling to chew her mouthful.
“Yes, although we find that amongst ourselves, the refugees have adopted a mix of languages. We reach for whatever word we find first, that will be understood by our conversation partner. It’s like a constant language exchange.”
“How marvellous.”
Yusuf’s eyes twinkled. “Of course, sometimes it leads to misunderstandings. Like the time one of the kids wanted to tell me the shower had run out of hot water, and he used the term ‘holy water’ instead. On the whole, though, the kids are picking up the language faster than the adults. They’ve even been holding little clubs, learning the lyrics to songs by the Fantastischen Vier and Udo Lindenberg. The German teacher finds it funny to hear them try.”
“That sounds like great fun. It’s been awhile since I’ve put together a mixed tape. Maybe I could do one for the children?”
Yusuf took sip of water. “They’d love that.”
“How long have you been in Germany, Yusuf?” said her father.
“Almost two years now.”
“It must have been such a wrench leaving everything behind.” Her mother was all warmth, practicality and activism rolled into one. She bloomed at the thought of taking another person under her wing. Caring for others amounted to her life’s work.
“A wrench?” said Yusuf, knotting his brows together.
Ellie chimed in. “Difficult.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Yes, there have been difficult moments, but I’m grateful to be here.”
Her mother ploughed on. “Luck plays such a big role in how our lives unfold. I’m sorry this happened to you.”
Yusuf’s expression hardened and he put down his cutlery, leaning forward, his voice a velvet casket of grief. “I don’t believe in luck. When civilians are bombed, someone is responsible. It’s not just luck.”
“Of course. I’m sorry to be so clumsy,” said her mother.
“What people have endured there is inexcusable, son,” said her father with a longing look at the contents of his glass, as if he wished the water would transform into wine.
Yusuf’s olive skin turned a motley red, as if he feared his outburst had ruined lunch, and he couldn’t fathom how to rewind the past few moments. “Even now, I feel powerless to stop the suffering that continues there. There’s a weight you carry with you,” he said, his fingers tracing the beads of condensation on his water glass.
Her mother pushed aside her plate. “It’s hard, being somewhere new. You must miss your mother.”
Her mother’s sensitivity radar had gone awry: she’d hit the bullseye she should have known instinctively to avoid. His own mother.
“Why don’t we talk about something else. Yusuf wanted to invite you to the cir–” said Ellie.
Too late.
Yusuf set down his cutlery. It clattered against his still full plate. “I’m sorry. Can you excuse me?” He pushed back his chair.
Her mother lips turned downward. “Yes, of course. Yusuf, I hope I didn’t offend you.”
“Oh, it’s nothing Frau Richter. I just need a minute.” He walked into the back room.
Her father rose, but Ellie shook her head.
Yusuf had his back to her when she approached him. She placed a hand in the small of his back and stood for a moment, watching the dust particles dance in the air, waiting for him to compose himself. When he faced her, an emotion she didn’t recognise sparked in his pale face. His fragility surprised her and convinced her she’d been right to hide Silberling’s machinations from him.
“She didn’t mean anything by it, I promise,” said Ellie.
“I know. I’m embarrassed. Maybe it was too soon to see this happy family life.” He drew in a shaky breath. “Look around you. Every corner of this home is filled with memories. What remains of my family, I can fill a shoe with.”
They stood in her parents’ library. Keepsakes from her childhood decorated a small desk in the corner. Medals from teenage swimming competitions hung from overflowing bookshelves. Ellie shrivelled. Had she been unfeeling, inviting him here without knowing how he’d react? She should have known the permanence of her roots only made his own rootlessness more pronounced.
She reached out to him, and he pushed her back.
“You have everything, but I’m not even sure you know it,” he said. “If I were you, I’d be on my prayer mat every day, giving thanks for what I have.”
His willingness to point fingers at her just to make himself feel better angered her. “My good fortune isn’t my fault, Yusuf, just like your poor fortune isn’t your fault.” She refused to be his punchbag, but she wanted to comfort him, still. “Please don’t push me away. I want to help.” She held her hands out to him, palms upturned.
Her parents could probably hear every word. Just behind him, her mother’s placards from marches leaned against the wall. It had always soothed her to march with her mother, but even at twelve years old she’d been aware of the foolishness of marching only to absolve yourself of the need for any real actions. She’d always believed in fighting injustice. It constituted the main reason why she’d pursued journalism.
“I’m ashamed, Ellie. That’s how I feel. This isn’t the man I’m meant to be.” Pride emanated from the set of his shoulders and his flashing eyes.
“You think I don’t know that? Your story isn’t finished, and you have more control than you think.”
“You’re wrong. It’s so easy for you to say.”
She paused, uncertain of how far to push him. “You’re not the only one with problems.”
She intended to make him feel less alone.
It backfired.
“You think you have problems?” he said, his body coiled tight like a spring. “Go on, Ellie, tell me your problems.”
“You know what? It’s not all about you.” She didn’t care anymore about being overheard. She could express herself without the lag that came from a foreign language, and she pressed home her advantage. Her heart pounded. “As privileged as I am, I’m allowed to feel sorry for myself too. I’m grateful for my life, but that doesn’t mean I have to be satisfied the whole time. It’s okay to want more.”
“You in the West, with your culture, your foreign holidays and the world at your feet. You always want more.” He shook his head, deflated. “Don’t you see? Just having enough is no bad thing. I would die for that.”
It cut her to the quick that he thought so little of her.
“I have no right to expect the world at my feet, to be exempt from suffering. But I have the right to point out entitlement when I see it,” he said, stumbling over his words, slowing down so that each syllable drilled itself onto the fabric of her mind. He stepped away and rearranged his hoodie, all brisk movements, his tone like ice. “Please say sorry to your parents for me. I shouldn’t have come.”
His words stung.
She let him go.
