“I’ve got good news and bad news,” the president of the E.U. Commission says down the line.
“That’s better than nothing, I suppose,” the minister of the interior says. He’s put it on speakerphone because he can barely sit down anymore. His shoulder is made out of wire, his neck is a vice, his back is cricked and he can only keep still if he’s standing. “Let’s have the bad news first.”
“O.K. We haven’t reached an agreement.”
No surprise there. The minister doesn’t respond immediately, like someone taking stock of unpleasant news they’ve been expecting. “What did they say?”
“Not much. But now the French are prepared to take five thousand.”
“Instead of three thousand?”
“I know, it hasn’t got us very far. Still, two thousand more is two thousand more.”
“What else?”
“Nothing else. I reckon the French might move a little more if others gave an indication that they’d help out. But they’re not. The Italians, Spaniards, Portuguese and Greeks are all saying they’ve done enough already. And our friends in the east are saying—”
“I know. I can only emphasise once again that we’re the ones who’d be helping them out.”
“They see things differently.”
“The Bulgarians? Do me a favour!”
“Especially the Bulgarians.”
This is nothing more than a game. It’s Old Maid. It’s a child’s birthday party. A rich boy’s been invited, and nobody likes him. All the other children are laughing and saying how funny it would be if the stupid rich boy got stuck with the Old Maid. They give each other hints as to who’s got the Old Maid, and who has to pass on which card so that it ends up with the stupid rich boy. The hints become increasingly obvious. When they get bored with the game they simply slip the Old Maid between the other cards in the stupid rich boy’s hand, facing outwards, without making any secret of the fact. “Go on, cry if you like!” they say. And if he does cry they’re even more delighted.
“I hate to say it,” he insists, “but the Bulgarians are going to have to deal with the refugees on their own.” Germany may be stupid and rich, but it’s not defenceless.
“That’s what I already told them,” the president says. “But be honest now. Do you really believe that?”
“I’m just saying it while there’s still time. Any country that opens its borders has to bear the consequences. If the Bulgarians think the Serbs are going to take the problem off their hands; if the Serbs think the Hungarians are going to do it; if the Hungarians are placing their hopes in the Austrians – that’s their business. But we aren’t going to do it. Last time we went as far as we could. Germany has reached its limit.”
“But you’re still offering to allocate them to the various countries.”
“I don’t think you’ve quite understood me. We’re not offering anything. We can’t offer anything. But if someone is in a desperate situation and asks for our support, we’re always ready to help.”
“Five thousand refugees?”
“We have a limit prescribed by law. And the job of defending our country. The principle of proportionality still stands. With a smaller number we could opt for a softer approach. But with four hundred thousand people that’s out of the question. You know that as well as I do.”
“Yes, you know that, I know that, everyone knows it. But the countries along the Balkan route may well be prepared to let it come to that.”
“Didn’t you say something about some good news?”
“I think we need more time. It’s no good if every decision is taken in this highly charged atmosphere.”
“We’re not the ones with a foot on the accelerator, it’s the refugees. And – I can’t prove this, but it appears to be the case – the transit countries.”
“Alright, now listen. The calculation is simple. If the borders stop working, Germany risks ceasing to be a functioning E.U. Member State. And if Germany buckles, the entire E.U. buckles too. Are you with me so far?”
“But we’ve already passed that point, surely. The other countries’ borders are no longer functioning.”
“How?”
“We’ll make the borders look as if they’re functioning. If Germany voluntarily accepts the refugees, we can, for a certain period of time, continue to claim that the border is functioning. The E.U. will unanimously declare its gratitude to Germany for making a one-off exception once again.”
“Unanimously . . .” the minister says sarcastically.
“Unanimously. I’ll sort that out. By now you might be thinking we’re incapable of sorting out anything, but I’ll do it, I give you my word.”
“What use to us is this ‘certain period of time’?”
“It’ll give the E.U. the chance to agree a refugee policy that is properly consistent.”
“And you believe that?” the minister says.
“There’s one thing I’m certain of: if, in the eyes of the world, the E.U.’s external border is breached, then nobody will see the need for an agreement anymore.”
“The same is true of the German border. No, the only way it will work is like this: once the Bulgarians have reeled in the first quarter of a million refugees, they’ll ponder whether they want the same again.”
“Are you really going to put up those high-voltage fences?”
“No comment.”
The story had already appeared in several newspapers and Bild was referring to him as “Mr 100,000 Volts”. He had leaked the information himself, to ensure his plan became public knowledge as rapidly as possible. He doesn’t have any political backing. Officially the chancellor’s office knows nothing, and first needs to commission a review. They’ve made it clear that he’ll have to carry the can if the plan goes wrong, if it’s criticised, if there’s a scandal – in every eventuality, in fact. Some experts regard the plan as completely unviable, others say it’s definitely possible. At any rate, electricity is quicker to deploy than soldiers. What helps his cause is the widely held view that the Germans aren’t famous for bluffing.
“In that case,” the president says dejectedly, “I’m afraid I won’t be able to help you. You know I’ll keep trying, but there’s no point in me going back to them with the figure of five thousand refugees.”
“And you know that I can’t bargain. I can say seven thousand, I can say eight thousand, but I’ll never get anywhere near the numbers that would be of any use to you. I can’t go back to the German people with even half the number of refugees.”
For a moment there is silence on the line.
“I can’t think of anything else,” the president says. Suddenly she sounds incredibly tired and shockingly old. “I don’t know where to begin. Clearly we’re going to have to chance it.”
The minister says goodbye. Standing in his office, he has to concede that he doesn’t know where to begin either. Which means he might as well go and have a good sleep.