Dogs were barking; the old cobblestones were wet with urine and early morning drizzle.
‘Shit!’
‘Dog shit. It’s everywhere round here.’
The old man wiped his shoe against the kerb. The bar opposite was still open. It was called ‘Babylon’.
‘Want to go in?’
The younger man looked around Hein-Köllisch-Platz. They had entered the heart of St Pauli, close to Hamburg’s red-light district and the famous haunts of the early, so-called ‘savage’, Beatles. The Beatles had been tamed, but Hamburg, thankfully, still had a few rough edges.
The old man spotted a bench beneath a tree and sat down. The younger man felt his friend’s need for a hot drink and a bed. There was another corner bar opposite. Within its cosy shadows, two young Kurds drank coffee, smoked and discussed football.
‘I’m looking for the Kurdish Centre.’
The youths stubbed their cigarettes out. ‘You alone?’
‘I’ve a friend outside. He’s not well.’
They nodded to the barman. The barman whisked up a cappuccino and grabbed a chocolate croissant.
The old man had passed out. The Kurds tried to wake him. A ship’s horn echoed up from the docks at the bottom of the steep cobblestoned hill.
The old man was coughing.
‘Drink this. Speak Kurmanji. Where you from? Turkey? Iraq?’
‘My case. Where is it?’
‘Thank God.’
‘Need a doctor?’
‘Coffee’s good.’
The old man nibbled at the croissant while the Kurds addressed his friend. ‘The Community Centre’s round the corner in Silbersackstrasse. If nobody’s up, we’ll find a way in.’
‘Have you a blanket?’
The barman nodded. ‘Anyone after you?’
‘It’s been… pretty bad.’
The old man gripped his friend’s hand. ‘No… It’s been interesting.’
Half an hour later, Hamburg’s streets were washed in dismal dawn light. As the men shuffled into Silbersackstrasse, they passed a newsagent’s window covered with posters in German, Turkish and Kurdish. Next door, a handpainted sign in rainbow-coloured letters announced that they had reached the St Pauli Kurdish Community Centre. Its spartan café served as an informal advice centre for newly arrived immigrants and asylum seekers. An emergency dormitory occupied the top floor. The light was on inside.
The younger man tried the reinforced metal door. Three youths in leather jackets were seated round a table in the grim reception; they did not look Kurdish. As the new arrivals entered, the youths disappeared round the back.
‘Hey!’ cried the younger man. ‘I thought they told you we were coming!’
No answer.
‘Please! A bed for my friend! What’s the matter with you? Please!’
There was scuffling round the front. The youths who’d rushed to the back emerged on the front pavement. Shadows darkened the front door. A car drew up outside. A door slammed. Some words in Turkish.
The front door was kicked open. The younger man looked up. ‘You!’