by Diana lorenz

“Late as usual.” Hans Hoffman shook his head and checked his watch. “Blasted migrants.” He rubbed his hands together and stamped his feet. His breath sent out puffs of steam in the cold autumn morning air. “The bus should have arrived one minute ago. The driver is one of those migrants. Can’t even speak proper German. They should go back where they belong, instead of taking all the jobs away from us Germans.”

Frank Hoffman stood a little back from his father, looking around nervously. His black hoodie was pulled up over his blond hair and he hitched his school bag higher on his back. Frank hoped nobody had overheard his father’s words. He tried to hide his embarrassment by tugging his hood over most of his face.

On the wall of the bus stop beside Frank was an advertisement for the election coming up in February. The ad was for one of the far right parties and encouraged all ‘real’ Germans to be sure to vote to protect their ‘pure’ country. Frank shuffled away from the sign and heaved a sigh as he looked around. This was a quiet middle-sized town in what had once been East Germany. Most of the homes were detached two storey houses with nicely manicured front gardens and generous back gardens. Some of the houses had carports, others had garages. The red tiles of the roofs were sprinkled with white patches from the last snow and looked like triangular red fly agaric capes over the white stem of the houses.

Frank had lived here all his life. He loved his neighbourhood.

“We could just walk,” Frank suggested. “It’s good exercise.” The school was only twenty minutes away, but Hans preferred to take the bus since the stop was only three houses from theirs, especially on grey, dark January mornings.

“You see that, my boy?” Hans nodded towards the political ad. “They know what hard working people really need. We need this.” He tapped the bottom of the sign where it read: MIGRANTS OUT. “They definitely have my vote.” A satisfied smile appeared on Mr. Hoffman’s face as the bus pulled in.

“You are late,” he barked as he climbed into the bus. “As usual,” he grumbled.

“Good morning to you as well,” the bus driver said, his tone professionally neutral as if he was so used to the insults that he didn’t even notice them any more.

“Good morning,” mumbled Frank. He slid into the seat next to his father. Only two stops and he would be with his friends. He wouldn’t have to listen to his father’s ranting again until dinner. Frank couldn’t understand this man sitting next to him. Where had all his dad’s resentment came from? They were rather well off,  and lived in a nice house on a quiet street.

Frank was relieved when he arrived at the the Art Nouveau building that housed his school and be away from his father’s ranting. He was happy to meet up with his best friends, Abdula and Chen. Sometimes Frank wondered how father and son could be so different. Mr. Hoffman hated migrants. He liked most of the German traditions, foods, and values. Frank enjoyed learning about his friends’ cultures and traditions, especially tasting their exotic meals. He wanted to learn more about the world beyond Germany.

Frank realized that although he had visited his friends’ houses, he had never invited them to his house.

Normally, Frank enjoyed the morning break when all kids went outside with only a couple of teachers to watch over them so they wouldn’t get into too much mischief. He, Abdula, and Chen could goof around, play catch or show off their collectable cards.

But today was different. Michael, Leon, and Leander surrounded Abdula and steered him away before Chen or Frank realised what was happening. Helene had distracted them,  asking about the math homework that was due after break time. Chen gave her his homework, which she copied down fast before a teacher could catch her.

When Frank and Chen arrived at the yard they saw Micheal punching Abdula in the stomach. Abdula doubled over and lay on the ground. Leander kicked him in the side.

Frank and Chen sprinted across the yard to help Abdula, but were stopped by Johannes and Thomas.

“You are German,” Johannes snapped at Frank. “You should know better than to hang around with migrants.” Johannes and Thomas held Frank’s arms so he had to watch helplessly while Michael, Leon, and Leander hit and kicked Chen. Abdula was still holding his stomach, whimpering in pain.

“Serves you right, you pigs,” Michael shouted. “Go back to where you came from. We don’t want you here.” The gang marched off, leaving Chen and Abdula on the ground, dirty and bloody.

Frank wanted to help them up. “Sorry.” He wanted to say so much more, but had no words that could express his frustration, anger, and fright.

Chen and Abdula picked themselves up and walked away without a word.

Frank looked around the school yard. A lot of kids were looking in their direction, worried or angry. Most of them were friends with migrants or migrants themselves, but none had helped. He imagined they didn’t want to draw unwanted attention, afraid to be the next target. He wished with all his might that this voiceless or ignorant or frightened majority would stand up against these bullies.

The two teachers who were supposed to be supervising stood nearby, deep into a conversation. No adult had seen what had happened: the gang would get away with it.

That evening Frank sat at the kitchen table with his parents, eating one of his father’s favorite dinners: boiled potatoes, steak, and boiled red cabbage. Sometimes Frank wished they could have a more traditional  German cold dinner, with bread, cheese, and ham. But Hans had attended an English boarding school and had adapted the tradition of a full dinner in the evening.

“Can you imagine, dear,” Hans addressed his wife, “at the bakery today, the woman who served me, definitely from one of those backwards countries on the other side of the world, had the audacity to lecture me that I don’t know my favourite bread roll from some fancy bread roll. These migrants are getting more and more cheeky. They should thank us on their knees, that we let them work for us.”

Frank glanced at his mum. She knew he was best friends with Abdula and Chen. Mum was the one who had encouraged him to cherish those friendships and learn about others’ traditions. But she was always careful not to disagree with Dad. Why didn’t she stand up against him and the other bullies if she embraced the open society they lived in? Frank couldn’t understand this woman. He hoped against hope she would oppose his father, at least once, instead of just following what others told her as if she was afraid to be left behind or disregarded.

“Yes, dear,” Mrs Hoffman said. “Mrs. Becker told me that all the so-called refugees get more money than us. They don’t respect our culture. We have to work very hard for the money and they just get everything they want for free. It’s a real disgrace.”

Frank poked at his food.

Looking back, Frank could only ever remember Mum holding her ground against Dad when her own comfort and happiness were compromised.

“Even the ones that work don’t know how to work and are not able to speak proper German,” Hans said. “My colleague was in the hospital last week. He said he had no idea what that so-called doctor was talking about because his German was just a joke. He probably wasn’t even a proper doctor judging from the diagnoses he gave my friend.” Hans went on and on between mouthfuls of potatoes.

“Some of my friends are migrants,” Frank mumbled. “I think they are cool and their parents are rather nice and friendly.” He pushed his food around his plate. The boy had had enough of this fulminating against other races, which had culminated in the attack against his best friends that day on the yard.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full. You are a German and we have manners!” Hans shook his head, disgusted by his son’s behavior. “At least you are not running wild on the street like these foreign kids. No manners at all. They are just loud and everywhere. Kids should not be allowed to be out and about the whole time, causing havoc.”

“They are just playing, like all kids should,” Frank said and looked his father in the eye. “Do you really think your life would be easier without all these people doing real hard work and all those kids who will pay your pension?”

There was a loud clunk as Mrs. Hoffman’s fork fell to the floor. She stared at her son open mouthed. Only the ticking of the clock was audible for three seconds until Mr. Hoffman exploded.

“How dare you! Since when are you a migrant friend?” Hans glared at Frank, gravy dripping from his mouth. His right hand, holding a knife, slammed down on the table. “But as you asked, son, yes, if I had a wish, then I would wish for my country to be free of all refugees and migrants. Go to bed and think about your behavior.”

Standing at the bus station the next morning, Frank had the feeling that something was different. He looked at his dad and decided that it was just another school day.

“Late again,” Hans scoffed, looking at his watch.

“Yup, a completely normal day,” Frank thought.

“How dare these Muslims be so late,” Hans said. “Some people actually have to work.”

“The bus driver is a Buddhist,” Frank said, staring straight ahead and avoiding his father’s glare. “He has a Buddha statue on the dashboard.”

Hans tapped his food and checked his watch again. “If he’s not here in three minutes, the next bus will be here before him.”

Looking around, Frank couldn’t shake off the feeling that something was off. Shouldn’t all the kids from the neighborhood who took the later bus be here by now? If it wasn’t for his father, insisting that a German is never late, Frank would take the later bus as well and arrive just on time, like all his other friends, instead of ten minutes early.

There were no lights in many houses. Most of the kids who usually caught the later bus didn’t show up. Had they all walked? That didn’t seem likely.

“Do we have a bank holiday?” Frank watched the street and the side street, but only a handful of people were up and about.

“A bank holiday? My dear son, do you really think I don’t know when I’m off work and when I’m expected to be on time at work?” Hans said. “No, today is a normal day. Now even the next bus is late!” He shook his head. “It looks like we have to walk. This is what happens when you give migrants important jobs.”

“Can I have a pretzel from the bakery?” Frank asked as he tightened the strap on his rucksack, ready to start walking.

“Well, if we have to go past the bakery, then we should get a treat. How about a pastry and a hot chocolate with that pretzel.” Hans clapped his son on the shoulder. “Like before they had this bus route. Just you and me on the way to work and school, stopping at the bakery and enjoying a breakfast on the go. I sort of miss these times.”

“Me, too.” Frank squeezed his father’s hand on his shoulder. He had enjoyed their walk in the mornings, first to Kindergarten and later to school. His father’s work was still in the same building so his route hadn’t changed until the new bus line. As more and more migrants came into the country, they took on jobs nobody wanted, which allowed the town to add this bus line.

But a lot of Germans, including Hans, felt that although they worked hard, at the end of the month there was not as much money left in their bank accounts as they wanted. In the past years, Hans had started discussing this perceived unfairness with his wife. He became increasingly frustrated, believing that others, who didn’t deserve it, were earning as much or even more money than he got. The discussions at the dinner table had gotten increasingly bitter whenever the topic of migrants or wages came up.

 With no buses in sight, Hans and Frank started walking. Frank looked back. Two girls in the class above him were still waiting at the bus stop. A couple of boys about Frank’s age started walking as well. There were no signs of Abdula or Chen. He knew they normally took the later bus so they should be at the bus station now.

 Frank wondered why there were no buses today. Maybe some sort of transportation strike?

The bakery was eerily empty. No customers, only a few loaves and rolls, hardly any variety and only one older woman working.

“What happened? Why is nobody here?” Frank asked before his dad could get his order out.

Hans looked around, then ordered pretzels, pastries, a coffee, and a hot chocolate.

“Sorry, I’m alone today,” the woman said. “I don’t know where everyone else is. I can only offer you bread rolls. Our coffee machine broke this morning. I tried to ring the repair man, but he isn’t answering his phone. Luckily, most of our regular customers haven’t come in yet. I can bake more bread or some rolls and pastries, but it will take a lot of time.”

“You should hire proper personnel and not these unreliable migrants,” Hans said. He purchased bread rolls and they left the bakery without coffee or hot chocolate.

Frank couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling from the bus stop. Something terrible must have happened. But looking up at his dad, purposefully striding towards his office, the boy knew there was no point in talking to him.

The day got stranger and stranger. Half the students at Frank’s school were missing, including Abdula and Chen. He hoped they were all right, especially after the incident yesterday. He felt lonely in class. During breaks, he missed talking and messing around with them. Maybe they were ill. That was a logical explanation for their absence. They would be back in a day or two at most.

After school Frank walked slowly home. He wondered why so many kids were missing. He started counting the absentees on his fingers. As he pictured their faces, he made the startling discovery that all the kids who were absent were migrants. Frank felt shocked and horrified. Had they all just disappeared as his father wished? Frank imagined playing football alone, sitting in a boring math class all by himself, and wandering around the school yard with no one to talk to or play with. He felt more miserable than he had ever felt before in his life. An emptiness started to grow inside him, his shoulders sagged, and his feet seemed to be weighted down more and more with every step he took towards his house.

Contemplating the strange morning, Frank wondered if he had been the only one to realize that something was wrong. No. He remembered the looks in his teachers eyes: confusion, fear, despair. Why had they kept silent? Anger built inside him. He wanted to scream, run, and punch something but in the end he just let the tears stream down his face, as soon as he was in the safety of his bedroom. The growing emptiness inside him threatened to consume him.

A lot of things did not work that day, mostly small things, but they could snowball into a troublesome avalanche. The dinner ladies hadn’t been in and dinner had been canceled so by the time Frank headed home, he was starving. Worse, he urgently needed the loo. The toilets on his floor had broken and, with no handyman about, they couldn’t be fixed. Frank had decided to hold it in when he saw the long queue for the next floor toilets.

That night, when his family sat around the table, this time with potatoes, schnitzel, and onions, Mrs. Hoffman looked tired and nervous as she handed Frank his plate.

“Can you imagine, so many people didn’t show up for their appointments,” Hans said. “Someone from the migrations office said that not one migrant came in today. They were twiddling their thumbs all day. That’s what comes from letting foreigners do whatever they want.” He shook his head in annoyance.

“How was your day, dear?” Monika Hoffman asked, looking at Frank, who nearly choked on his meat. He hadn’t expected his mother to address him. Normally, she let Hans rant about his day, the migrants, and how much he had to work, only providing the odd anecdote to make him feel better.

“Ah,” Frank said. “A lot of kids were out today. I guess the flu season has started.” He didn’t believe that but he had no clue what was going on. That assumption was better than the nightmare visions he had during the day.

“I’m not so sure it’s the flu, dear.” Monika said quietly. She looked at her husband and added. “Hans, my mum and your dad will have to move in with us, probably tomorrow unless things change.”

Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock. Time seemed to have stopped and then Mr. Hoffman’s face turned a very purplish shade of red and his breathing got very fast. His mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out.

“You’re joking, right?” Frank looked pleadingly at his mother. “We don’t have enough space for Gran and Grandpa. Where are they supposed to sleep? Who will take care of them? Wasn’t Gran supposed to have that very important surgery at the end of the week?”

“Yes.” Tears streamed down Monika’s face. “The hospital doesn’t know if and when she can have that operation. It seems that quite a lot of the hospital personnel vanished during the night. They don’t have enough doctors or nurses anymore. The same thing happened in Grandpa’s nursing home. You’ll have to sleep on the sofa until we’ve figured something out.”

“What the heck is going on? Where are all these people? They can’t just have disappeared!” Hans found his voice. He looked taken aback by what Monika had said. “We can’t take them in. This is ridiculous. How can you even say something like that? We don’t have space or time to care for our parents.”

“Either we take them in or they’ll die on the streets.” Monika looked her husband square in the eye. “As of tomorrow, they won’t have a place to stay or anyone to take care of them.” She braced her hands on the table, looking more forceful than Frank could ever remember. “The shops were empty today; nobody was there to fill the shelves. They just about managed to keep two tills open. It was the same at the bakery and the clothes shop. The building site two blocks down was deserted. Trains, buses, and trams didn’t run on time if they ran at all. There was nobody to drive them. The rubbish wasn’t collected and most of the restaurants have closed.” The normally composed and quiet Monika was flashed with anger now.

“Why?” Hans asked.

“Don’t you get it?” Frank looked incredulously at his father. “Your wish came true!”