Hidden Colours, page 14
“And what do you say to the people concerned about the high numbers of immigrants flocking to Germany? Government policy here is more generous than those of our neighbours in the European Union. Are citizens right to worry about crime levels and new arrivals who refuse to integrate?”
Rex was nothing if not meticulous. Short, sharp sentences made for the best sound bites. They’d be repeated on the twenty-four hour news cycle, gaining him maximum exposure. “Of course, it’s not good for our country to accept vast numbers of unskilled migrants. Refugees are rehomed according to our legal processes, and in liaison with federal states. We want people here who will integrate. Who will be successful. Who will live the German way. Who won’t struggle in our country or rely on the state.”
The presenter nodded. “Why is it, Herr Minister, that the very flagship project championed by you has fallen flat on its face? The Government has failed to protect citizens in Berlin-Treptow from the spike in crime, an increase, I might add, driven by the very refugees your aides handpicked. As we know, low-level criminality is often a path to greater transgressions.”
The camera panned closer. Rex sensed sweat on his upper lip. “The papers of the refugees in question have been expedited. That doesn’t mean we are without recourse should any criminal behaviour be taking place.” He looked directly into the camera. “Any criminals will find their applications halted. I will send each delinquent home, from the first to the last. That is my promise to the German people.”
“Are those empty assurances, Herr Minister? It is, after all, only a few years since innocent Germans lost their lives in the Berlin Christmas Market tragedy, an attack perpetrated by a failed asylum seeker. Isn’t it true that the Government has invited the enemy into the very heart of our communities?”
On the edge of the pool of hot studio lights, Corinne flapped about like a bird. She’d warned him this wouldn’t be easy. Rex resisted the urge to tug at his collar. He had plenty of practice at avoiding traps laid by journalists. He just needed to keep a clear head. A swerve here, a side-step there, a glimpse of good humour and a firm steer, and the people would stay in the palm of his hand. He’d listened to their concerns about the immigrants, and they would be as malleable as putty.
He only had to tell them they were being attacked, and that he was their saviour.
“We live in very dangerous times. In today’s world, a car can be used as a weapon. An adult can masquerade as a child to win asylum. A child can blow up a train. But you have my word, this Government will stamp out any violence against our citizens, even if we have to use water cannon and weapons on the streets of our cities. We have both the intelligence and the means to protect ourselves.”
The journalist took the bite. “And do you speak for the Chancellor in the use of unprecedented force where it is necessary?”
“This Government speaks as one.”
Rex smiled in satisfaction. He’d showcased his strength, lest his enemies think the felling of the immigrant circus happened to be a stain on his resumé. What is more, he’d used the oldest trick in the book–negotiating by media–to bend the Chancellor to his will. She might have more liberal instincts than he and balk at the use of water canon on the streets of Germany, but a show of power always garnered respect from the electorate. Agreeing with him would be a more palatable prospect for the Chancellor than admitting her team included a loose cannon.
All in a good day’s work.
The sky hung like a dense blanket as Rex left work, a black whirling mass without even stars to puncture it. Earlier in the evening, his wife had visited his office with the children for a picnic supper of sausages and pickles. The children jumped up and down on his sofa, to the dog’s excitement, and pleaded with him to return home before their bedtime, but his mountainous workload stood in his way. He sent the dog home with them as a consolation prize, his heart heavy with the missed family moments that he traded for career progression.
He’d not long left the shadow of the Interior Ministry when a firm hand cupped his elbow and pulled him into a side street.
Rex spun and found himself looking down on Karl.
“What are you doing here? If you have any requirements, contact my assistant–discreetly,” said Rex through his teeth.
Karl’s words tumbled out at nineteen to the dozen. “I’ve held up my side of the bargain. Immigration is now a national talking point, and tensions have flared. My sister–”
“Carry on walking. We’re too visible here,” said Rex, signalling for Karl to follow him into a café.
Inside, mocha paint and oil paintings in miniature lined the walls. Rex nodded at the owner’s greeting and led the way to the lavatories at the back. He knew this part of town like the back of his hand. The toilets smelt of dried urine and bleach. He wrinkled his nose. Once he’d ensured nobody lurked inside the cubicles, he turned to Karl.
“How stupid can you be?” said Rex, curling his lips in disdain. “I asked you to get in touch with Corinne should the need arise. You risk too much coming here.”
“I’m risking too much for you, you mean,” said Karl. “The thing is, Minister, I keep expecting to see the police around every corner. I just need to know you’ll make arrangements for my sister if something happens. You must be pleased with the results so far.”
“You didn’t need to rough them up.”
“You didn’t give precise instructions,” said Karl, his hackles rising. He took a deep breath, suddenly contrite. “I need to be sure you’ll keep your word before I’m behind bars,” said Karl.
Footsteps sounded outside the lavatory door before petering off.
Rex held his hands under the drier to trigger it. Air rushed out, providing him with noise cover before he spoke. He couldn’t afford to be caught having a tête-à-tête with the likes of Karl. “It’s funny your love for your sister didn’t keep you out of trouble in the first place. You’re not finished just yet. Let’s see if you can rile the performers just a bit more. Ideally, they’ll misstep and that’ll bring this whole sordid tale to an end.”
“A few more days then,” said Karl, next to the urinals.
“A few more days. Give it five minutes before you follow me out.”
The hand drier came to the end of its cycle. Rex stepped over to the mirror above the sinks to adjust his suit jacket and tie. He grimaced. His hair had thinned of late.
He left the toilets without a second glance at the younger man.
Rex had been summoned to the Federal Chancellery within minutes of the interview airing. It didn’t faze him. His political manoeuvring might be an irritation, but it by no means placed him on the guillotine. Not yet. The most he had to fear was a verbal warning.
Early the next morning, the press secretary ushered him into the Chancellor’s wing, where modernist furniture in white wood sat alongside amber accents and an array of bookshelves.
The Chancellor grimaced as he entered. “Leave us,” she said to her press secretary.
The door clunked shut.
“Rex. This won’t take long. I take it you know why you are here?” The Chancellor’s displeasure could be measured by the depth of the grooves in her face. When she approved, her eyes twinkled and her skin remained smooth. A little deviance from her expectations, and the lines in her face showed a range of emotions from exasperation to rancour.
He didn’t wait for an invitation to sit down. “I understand you must have reservations.”
She arched an eyebrow and knitted her hands together, refusing to sit herself. “The scuffles in the park were bad enough. You went on national television and announced to the country that refugees are to be feared. You stated the Government will use force on our streets. That is without precedent in peace time. What were you thinking?”
Rex’s talent as a politician lay in his ability to marry capitalism with social need, but underneath the sparkling rhetoric and full coffers, the stench of opportunism lingered. He had something of a used car salesman aura about him that he tried to hide under fine clothes. If he sensed the political headwinds were changing, he had no qualms about abandoning his position with utter charm or ruthlessness, as the situation demanded, and following another direction.
“Let’s not be coy,” he said. “You’ve seen the polls. Alternative for Germany won a 13% share of the vote in the last election. Polls show even more of the electorate have sympathy with their aims now. They have supporters amongst the rich and they have already sold themselves as the pro-workers party. How do we compete against a party that wants social justice but only for native Germans? We’re on a back foot here.”
The Chancellor’s hand flew up like a whip, cutting shapes in the air. “You think I don’t know all that? This Government doesn’t govern on a whim. The polls change with the wind. You’re not our campaign manager. Leave that to Baier.”
Rex’s nature didn’t allow him to be slighted. “Do you really expect us to stand firm when the people turn against policy? When immigration has become a byword for forgetting our own people? You and I both know that the root causes of these problems are ordinary people losing jobs to technology, them seeing their neighbours and friends buy bigger houses and cars when they are stuck in the same place. But what are you going to do? The wheels of Government are slow. And fury needs to be fed, otherwise it will consume us all. Would you put your body in the way to protect your ideas like Jo Cox in England or Mayor Hollstein? To be attacked with a kitchen knife when you least expect it?” He slammed his hand on his knee to emphasis his point. “Nothing can stem the tide of anti-immigrant sentiment sweeping across Europe.”
The Chancellor didn’t flinch. She stared at him in disdain. “I see you. Men like you are a dime a dozen. Tread carefully, Rex, and be sure not to slip or you’ll force my hand. You bound the Treptow refugees to the circus. You convinced me of the merits of the project. Together, we opened our arms to refugees in need of a safe haven and we won’t turn them away easily, however you posture and prostrate before the nation. I won’t have the lives of these men, women and children on my conscience. Since when is good media coverage more important than our track record? Your ambition has turned you into a shell of a man.” She pointed her finger towards his chest and jabbed at the air. “Fix this.”
He nodded, feigning humility. This woman was nothing without the men around her. “Of course, Chancellor. If that’s what you want.” She didn’t realise the favour he’d done her. There was a time to reason with the public, a time to cajole, and a time to bow down to primal instincts. The Chancellor didn’t understand that if the government didn’t address the fears of everyday people, they would choose a strongman to give them security instead. To hell with morals and beliefs. Politicians needed to be changelings. Without listening to the public on immigration, the whole house of cards would come tumbling down and they’d be an opposition party. Only those with a firm hold on power had the luxury of idealism.
He took his leave.
The Chancellor began flicking through her next briefing paper before he’d even left the room.
The ball was already in motion. For all they knew, his intervention today could be the turning point in the campaign cycle. He’d given the people the impression he’d listened to their concerns. The BAZ article might have been fake news, but it heartened those who feared the immigrants, in the strange way that bad tidings could buoy someone, if they gave legitimacy to long-held suspicions. The article plumped up the tail-feathers of readers marginalised by governments ignoring their needs. It gave them someone to blame for their own failings, and helped stop the grumblings that one day might have turned into an anti-establishment revolution.
The Chancellor might have hauled him over the coals but she would thank him later.
Chapter 20
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.”
