Mahmoud stared at the gun pointed at him. Was this real, or was he still asleep and having a nightmare?
The Serbian taxi driver waved the pistol at Mahmoud’s family. “You pay three hundred euros!” he demanded.
This wasn’t a dream. It was real. Mahmoud had been groggy just seconds before, but now he was wide-awake, his heart hammering. His eyes felt dry even though his shirt still clung to him with sleep-sweat, and he blinked rapidly as he looked at his parents. They were already awake, his father hugging the still-sleeping Waleed protectively.
“Don’t shoot—please!” Mahmoud’s father said. He threw one of his arms protectively across Mahmoud and his mother.
“Three hundred euros!” the taxi driver said.
Three hundred euros! That was more than twice what they had agreed to
pay the driver!
“Please—” Dad begged.
“You not die, you pay three hundred!” the taxi driver yelled. His arm shook, and the gun danced between the two front seats. Mahmoud’s mother
closed her eyes and shrank away.
Mahmoud’s father threw up his hand. “We’ll pay! We’ll pay!” They were being held at gunpoint in the middle of nowhere in a foreign country.
What else could he do? Mahmoud’s heart thundered in his chest as his father handed Waleed to Mom and fumbled with the money hidden inside his shirt under his belt. Mahmoud wanted to do something. To stop this man from threatening his family. But what could he do? Mahmoud was helpless, and that made him even madder.
With shaking hands, Mahmoud’s father counted out three hundred euros and shoved them at the taxi driver. Why he didn’t demand the whole stash of money, Mahmoud didn’t understand.
“You get out. Get out!” the taxi driver said.
Mahmoud and his family didn’t have to be told twice. They threw open the car doors and scrambled outside, and before the doors were even fully closed again the Volkswagen tore off down the dark road, its red taillights disappearing around a curve.
Mahmoud trembled with anger and fear, and his mother shook with quiet sobs. Mahmoud’s father pulled them all into a hug.
“Well,” Mahmoud’s father said at last. “I’m definitely giving that driver a bad review on TripAdvisor.”
Mahmoud’s quivering legs gave out, and he sank to the ground. Tears streamed down his face, as though they’d been held back by a dam before and now the floodgates had suddenly been opened. He’d had a gun pointed right at his face. As long as he lived, Mahmoud would never forget that feeling of paralyzing terror, of powerlessness.
His mother sat down in the road with him and hugged him. Mahmoud’s tears came harder, fueled by everything that had come before—the bombing
of their house, the attack on their car, struggling to live in Izmir, the long hours in the sea, and of course, Hana. Mostly Hana.
“I’m so sorry, Mom,” Mahmoud blubbered. “I’m so sorry I made you give Hana away.”
His mother stroked Mahmoud’s hair and shook her head. “No, my beautiful boy. If the boat hadn’t come along when it did, if you hadn’t convinced them to take her, she would have drowned. I couldn’t keep us above water. You saved her. I know you did. She’s out there somewhere.
We just have to find her.”
Mahmoud nodded into his mother’s shoulder. “I’ll find her again, Mom.
I promise.”
Mahmoud and his mother cried and held each other until Mahmoud remembered they weren’t getting any closer to Hana or to Germany. He dragged a sleeve across his wet mouth and nose, and his mother kissed him on the forehead.
“That thief took us about halfway to Hungary, at least,” Mahmoud’s father said, looking at his phone. “We’re on a back road about an hour’s drive from the border. I think we’re close to a bus stop. It means we have to walk again, though.”
Mahmoud helped his mother stand, and his father hefted Waleed up higher on his shoulder.
Mahmoud’s little brother had slept through the whole thing.
Mahmoud worried again about his brother. Air raids, shoot-outs, taxi holdups—nothing seemed to faze him anymore. Was he just keeping all his tears and screams pent up inside, or was he becoming so used to horrible things happening all around him that he didn’t notice anymore? Didn’t care? Would he come to life again when they got to Germany?
If they got to Germany?
They made it to the bus stop in time to catch the late bus to Horgoš, a Serbian city on the Hungarian border. Even more Syrian refugees had collected there, but no one was getting through. Not by road or rail, or even out in the countryside the way Mahmoud and his family had crossed into
Macedonia and Serbia.
The Hungarians had a fence.
It wasn’t finished yet, but even now, at night, Hungarian soldiers were hard at work driving four-meter-tall metal poles into the ground along the border and stretching chain-link fencing between them. Once the fence was hung, another group came behind them and attached three tiers of razor- wire coil to it, to keep people from climbing over.
The Hungarians were closing their border.
“But we don’t even want to go to Hungary,” Mahmoud said. “We just want to get through to Austria.”
“The Hungarians don’t care, I guess,” Dad said. “They don’t want us in their country, whether we’re coming or going.”
A group of refugees suddenly rushed a part of the unfinished fence, trying to get through before it was done. “We’re not terrorists!” someone cried. “We’re refugees!”
“We just want to get through to Germany! They’ll take us!” someone else cried.
There were more shouts and screams, and before Mahmoud knew what was happening he and his family were caught up in the press of refugees trying to get across the border. Mahmoud was jostled from every side. He clung to the back of his father’s shirt, hanging on like Dad was a life preserver and they were going over a waterfall.
As frightening as the stampede was, Mahmoud was excited too—the refugees were finally doing something. They weren’t just disappearing into
their tent cities. They were standing up and saying, “Here we are! Look at us! Help us!”
But the Hungarian soldiers weren’t interested in helping. As the refugees swarmed the border, soldiers in blue uniforms with red berets and red armbands hurried to stop them, firing tear gas canisters into the crowd. One of the canisters exploded near Mahmoud with a bang, and people screamed as a gray-white cloud erupted around them.
Mahmoud’s eyes burned like someone had sprayed hot pepper juice in them, and mucus poured from his nose. He choked on the gas, and his lungs seized up. He couldn’t breathe. It was like he was drowning on land. He fell to his knees, clutching at his chest and gasping uselessly for air.
I’m going to die, Mahmoud thought. I’m going to die. I’m going to die.
I’m going to die.