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Attending the May Day protests with her mother had become an annual ritual for Ellie. She’d been nine years old when her mother had first taken her on a march, on the proviso that she’d walk the entire way herself. Ellie had marched until the blisters on the soles of her feet oozed, but she hadn’t complained. Since then, they regularly pounded the streets together, placards in hand, feeling empowered and alive, their fingers resting on the pulse of the nation and not on the keypad of a phone.
Today they ambled along with their signs held aloft, both designed by her mother. The Future is Female read one, next to an elegant silhouette of the female body. Justice for All read the other, beside a boxy gavel in charcoal black. They walked along with the crowds, making the odd friend and greeting old ones. Her mother relished these opportunities to refresh her social justice credentials and to talk to like-minded people.
When the trouble first flickered to life, making itself known in jostling and bottles tumbling through the air, her mother insisted it would be a flash in the pan that the police would control.
“These aren’t people who are here for the cause. They come to make trouble. You know that, Ellie. The police know how to deal with this. They won’t be caught unawares.”
Her mother liked to protest peacefully. She placed the blame for violence firmly at the feet of a small proportion of demonstrators. Violence, for her, ruined the impact of a march, making more enemies and derailing progress. She tutted at those who marched without a sense of togetherness. But Ellie had become less complacent. Her experiences with the refugees had taught her how violence could erupt from deeply buried wounds, suddenly, slipping into spaces like a cat burglar, leaving trauma in its wake. She’d seen how the police, too, could use disproportionate force, and how quickly a situation could escalate.
The tear gas came from nowhere.
Ellie grabbed her mother’s hand and didn’t let go. They ran, dropping their placards in their haste, tripping over themselves and barely managing to stay ahead of the cloud of smoke.
“There was no warning. I can’t believe it got so ugly so quickly,” said her mother, her breath heaving. They found a place outside of the immediate circle of trouble and she sat heavily on the kerb to catch her breath.
“Papa’s going to be furious,” said Ellie, crouching down beside her.
“Worried, more like. We’d better call.”
Ellie shook her head. Her hair fell in dishevelled waves around her face. “Best we leave the area first. Let’s head towards Checkpoint Charlie.”
Police sirens and shop alarms sounded a few hundred metres away. Shouts and the pounding of feet punctuated the air. Her father had been right: they should have stayed home. They looked ridiculous: she, with her patent boots and a cranberry bandana; her mother with her Nasty Women Make Herstory t-shirt and mascara streaming down her cheeks.
They composed themselves, patting down their hair and clothes, and stood.
“It’s a shame about the signs,” said Ellie.
“I’m hardly Usain Bolt,” said her mother. “Can you imagine how slow I would have been if we’d held on to them?”
They laughed, in spite of it all, just as a group of men came tumbling through the smoke, spluttering, eyes streaming. Ellie stared, taking in a young Afro-German in skinny jeans and a bomber jacket. He pulled down his mask and gasped for air. Behind him, a taller man strode through the smoke. He, too, pulled off his face covering, itching at his bearded face. He bent over, leaning heavily on his knees.
Her mother jerked her in the direction of the U-Bahn. “Let’s go.”
Ellie watched the man, transfixed. “Wait.”
The man glanced over his shoulder into the cloud of smoke then lurched forward, scrubbing at his face with the back of his hand, coughing. Their eyes met, and a jolt of electricity travelled up Ellie’s spine.
“Yusuf!” What was he doing here, in the midst of all this trouble?
He dragged his friend towards them.
“I can’t breathe. My eyes are burning,” said Yusuf, clawing at his face. His olive skin had turned a blotchy red.
His friend vomited, splattering the pavement. Her mother, alarmed, tended to him.
“Come with us,” said Ellie.
The four of them hurried away from the trouble, a motley crew. Ellie’s heart thudded in her chest, and she looked furtively around, worried that the police might appear, or thugs intent on exploiting the situation.
“What on earth were you thinking?” she said, staring at Yusuf.
“You’re here too,” he said, his breath raspy, heavily leaning on her. He could barely open his eyes. “And your mother.”
Ellie raised an eyebrow. “My mother is more of a hell-raiser than you or I will ever be.”
His voice cracked. “Isaiah, meet Ellie Richter and her mother.”
Isaiah’s mouth fell open. “You’re the journalist?” He whistled low, before spluttering again.
Ellie nodded and supported Yusuf as they took laborious steps down into Kochstrasse underground station, where the comforting, familiar smell of iron and grease hit her. Her mind worked overtime. Yusuf had told his friend about her. That had to mean something. But what was he doing caught up in the riots?
They sat bedraggled in the U-Bahn, paired into twos: Ellie and Yusuf, slack and wordless; and across the aisle, her mother and the man Yusuf had introduced as Isaiah. The cab swayed as it moved out of the station and away from the city centre towards Tempelhof. Yusuf and Isaiah washed their eyes with water and slumped on their seats, drawing curious glances from fellow passengers. After ten minutes, their symptoms eased.
“They’re going to shut the circus,” said Yusuf, his knuckles white against his knees.
His words hung between them like an axe.
Ellie took in the tone of his voice and the shadows on his face. She’d known it was coming. It had only been a matter of when. Her heart twisted for him, but she recognised something else inside of herself: a belief in the power of her work. She’d done good work on her blog, and her Die Welt article lay just around the corner. It could make a difference in the face of powerful people like Marina and Silberling, as long as she had her wits and the people stood with her. She’d never relinquish the dogged stubbornness ingrained in her every cell.
“You’re not going to just accept this?” she said.
“What else can be done?”
Her mother, ever the fighter, leaned forward, fixing her gaze on Yusuf. “Listen, why don’t you both come and get cleaned up at our apartment? It’s not too much out of your way.” She nudged Ellie unceremoniously with her foot, a signal for Ellie to work with her to persuade Yusuf.
Her mother’s eyes twinkled. “How about you, Isaiah? I bet you have some stories to tell about today. We’re in Treptow, not far from the circus residences. We even have cheese cake.”
“I’d like that,” said Isaiah. “I live with my mother and aunt in a high-rise around there.” He seized the mask Yusuf held, and stuffed it deep into his pocket with his own, as if they had something to hide. Then he turned to her mother. “I’m sorry for the vomit. I like your hair, by the way.”
Her mother beamed, leaning towards him conspiratorially. “Why, thank you. And never mind the vomit. You haven’t lived if you’ve never vomited in public.” She turned her attention to Ellie and Yusuf. “How about it, you two?”
Yusuf’s tired eyes searched Ellie for a hint of whether he’d be welcome. She nodded at him, willing him to say yes. There could be nothing worse than them parting ways now, without her trying to lift the cloud of defeat that hung about him. She was her mother’s daughter, after all.
“Count me in,” said Yusuf.
Her face broke into an involuntary smile. A warmth spread through her at the thought of spending more time with him, at convincing him that the fight wasn’t yet over.
At Tempelhof, they gathered up their things and changed lines. Isaiah and her mother chatted, at ease in each other’s company, as though age and background formed no barrier to friendship. Ellie and Yusuf followed awkwardly.
Her mother swivelled to speak to Ellie. “Give your father a ring, won’t you, love?”
They both knew turning up unannounced would be a mistake. While mostly a mild-mannered drunk, her father would keenly feel the loss of dignity. Should they arrive with guests and find him reeking of alcohol and surrounded by empty beer bottles, he’d never forgive them.
Ellie delved into her bag for her phone. She’d switched it onto silent during the march, and had reached for it only to take the odd photograph before the march spiralled out of control. “I’m just going to let my father know we’re safe. He’ll have heard about the riots on the radio and will be worried.”
“Of course,” said Yusuf.
She blinked looking at the display, gawking in wonder at hundreds of social media notifications on her screen.
“Your father?” said Yusuf.
She stopped on the platform to scan the messages. Her fingers trembled as she scrolled through an avalanche of responses to her blog series.
“Ellie?” said Yusuf.
She kissed him, hard.
He pulled away, surprised, then gathered her to him.
His beard prickled against her skin. Heat pulsed between them.
“What was that about?” he said when they drew apart, searching for an answer in her face.
“I have something to show you,” said Ellie. “Not here. At my parents’ apartment.”
Judging by the way her phone continued to vibrate, she’d reached far more readers than she’d ever imagined just with the human stories she had painted of the refugees on her blog. She’d wanted to present a narrative that countered Marina’s, and she’d succeeded, even before the publication of her article in Die Welt. She couldn’t wait to share the news with Yusuf.
Perhaps the world would swing in their direction after all.
