Non-nationals
By John Mulligan
There's a rasthof about an hour south of Munich that does a decent Weiner Schnitzel. Good food isn't something you expect to find at a truck-stop, but this place does it well, with nice small boiled potatoes and a bit of parsley and butter on top. Like your mother used to make, if your mother was German.
The traffic was easing a bit, and apart from the long tailbacks behind the gritting trucks it was moving along fairly well. The digital thermometer on the dashboard read minus twelve; cold enough in anyone's language. He saw the sign for the rasthof and pulled carefully across towards the exit lane. A big plateful of the tasty battered pork and some good potatoes would be nice, maybe washed down with a beaker of strong coffee. That sounded like a plan.
The day was darkening rapidly, heavy snow clouds adding their greyness to the fading daylight. It wasn't actually snowing but there was a bitter cold fog that got right into your bones if you stood around. He pulled off the Autobahn and into the parking lot, past the twenty or so trucks that were still there, drivers dozing and waiting patiently until their tachographs gave them permission to proceed. It was a United Nations of a truck park, with plates from Italy, Hungary, Turkey, Poland and a few he didn't recognise. He drove slowly past the trucks and pulled into an empty space by the kerb, close to the rasthof doors.
He paused for a minute, reluctant to leave the warmth of the car. The young girl mistook his intentions and sidled up, saying something to him in German that he didn't understand, although he knew what she meant. She was shockingly young, a mere child. 'Go home to your mammy' he said, more in sorrow than in anger. He hoped that she would do just that, on this night at least.
She shuffled down between the trucks and was rewarded by the flash of an interior light from a big Scania with Italian plates. She climbed quickly up to the darkness of the truck cab with an agility that reminded him of a little girl climbing trees.
The slush and snow was frozen into a dangerously rutted and slippery mass that crunched under his feet as he got out of the car. He felt the sharp sting in his lungs from the freezing fog as he took a deep breath; the skin on his face burned in the cold air. Along the footpath, the intermittent ice was polished and treacherous; he picked his way carefully towards the warm glow of the single storey building, eyes on the ground to keep a safe footing.
The white-coated woman behind the counter was smiling, middle aged and welcoming. The Schnitzel was as he remembered it; like home cooking, warm and tasty. She spooned extra potatoes on to his plate; it would be quiet this evening, not many people on the road, and the food would go to waste otherwise.
He saw them arrive as he finished his dinner at the table by the window. They pulled up to the petrol pump in an old Passat estate that was sitting low on its springs; it's back stuffed with bags and suitcases. The man got out first, followed by the boy who had been sitting in the back. They were wearing leather jackets; the man in black, the boy in brown. The man had a black woollen cap pulled down to cover his ears; it was getting colder out there and their breath trailed behind them like smoke. The woman was in the passenger seat, her black hair mostly hidden by a headscarf that made her look older. She had a navy overcoat on her; she hugged herself against the cold but she didn't get out of the car.
The man peered at the prices on the pump; petrol is dearer on the Autobahn, you have to get off and into the towns to buy it at the normal price. He spoke to the boy and they put five euros worth in the tank. Inside the window, the watcher could imagine the conversation.
'That'll keep us going until we get across the border, it's cheaper there. The prices are just mad here, you'd need to be stuck to buy anything at a rasthof.'
The man screwed the top back on to the tank. The hinged flap was missing, and he double checked the cap to make sure that it was secure before heading towards the shop to pay for the fuel. The boy followed him towards the automatic door; the cold draught plucked at the ankles of the solitary diner as it slid open.
The man approached the counter while the boy browsed the periodicals on the rack. As his father returned he showed him a motoring magazine, pointing to the price in astonishment.
'Eight euros! Who would pay so much for an ould book?'
At least that's what he seemed to be saying; the man at the window table didn't speak Turkish though, so maybe he was wrong, but that seemed to be the gist of it.
Gastarbiten, that's what they are called. Guest workers who do the jobs that the local don't want, at wages that the locals won't work for. At home they are called non-nationals. They are like the Irish in England and America over so many years, hard-working people trying to save a stake to get ahead in their own mismanaged countries. Believing the stories of the people who came home for the holidays, loaded down with presents and driving cars, buying drinks and telling them how good it is in the new El Dorado.
'You wouldn't believe how much I make in Hamburg, Mustapha, on the buildings. We have our own car and an apartment, and the boy has a leather jacket. It's only a cod staying here, trying to scrape a living off a bit of land.'
He finished the food and went outside to the car, pausing for a minute to run through the headlines on the paper before setting off. There was plenty of time; he was booked on the last flight and it was still several hours away. The woman had emerged from the car and he could see that she was younger than he had first thought, probably no more than forty with shining hair peeking from under the multicoloured scarf. She was very attractive, once you saw past the careworn look. A typical Turkish beauty, like a picture of Mary from the bible. Mary came from Turkey, didn't she? He wondered whether Joseph had been a Turk as well, or had he been one of the gastarbiten, one of the non-nationals? They never tell you the whole story in school.
She headed towards the restrooms just beside where he had parked, but stopped short when she saw the stainless steel turnstile and the winking light above the two euro slot. The toilets are like the petrol; expensive on the autobahn.
Her husband fished in the pocket of his leather jacket and took out a coin; she smiled gratefully and turned back towards the turnstile. The man and the boy walked back to the field at the rear of the rasthof; no point in throwing money away. He saw them head towards the dark wooden shed with its thick capping of snow that stood in the middle of the field, about a hundred meters from the edge of the carpark. Two lines of footprints in the deep snow.
He didn't know what came over him, what led him to the Passat to unscrew the filler cap, thrusting the nozzle of the petrol pump into the neck of the tank and squeezing the trigger. The metal felt bitterly cold to his bare hands, the fuel gushed into the tank and the numbers clicked over. Ten, then twenty, then thirty. The dial seemed to be moving ever more slowly; he wanted it to hurry, he could see the man and boy emerge from behind the shed. A puff of smoke rose up from the father's cigarette as they stood in the snowy field and debated something, maybe nothing more than the fact that they had just saved themselves four euros.
At last, the meter reached fifty and he slotted the nozzle back in its holder, screwing the cap quickly on to the tank. His hands were shaking; he didn't want to be seen doing this crazy thing.
He heard the turnstile click as she came out of the bathrooms, smelling her hands; you get plenty of sprays and potions for your two euros. He was fumbling with the cap and didn't move away quickly enough and she saw him. She looked alarmed, frightened, clasping her hands in front of her mouth, but then she saw the fifty euro note in his hand and her expression changed from fear to puzzlement. He rushed through the sliding door and almost threw the money at the cashier.
She was looking at him strangely as he jumped into his car and started the engine. He was moving down the slip road as he dragged on his seatbelt; in the rear-view mirror he saw her waving urgently and calling to her husband and son. He accelerated hard and joined the empty autobahn at speed, so much so that he had to brake sharply a couple of hundred meters away to get down to the underpass and to cross to the other side.
He emerged from the tunnel and hit the north bound lane; he could see the rasthof approach on his left as he rejoined the autobahn. They were still there, mother, father and son, like Jesus, Mary and Joseph, huddled together and gesticulating in the direction he had gone; they didn't notice him passing them again on the other side of the motorway. Then he was in the darkness, away from the lights and he couldn't see them any more.
It would be good to get home; hotel nights and empty evenings can wear a bit thin. He checked his watch, there was time, but better be early than to miss the flight. He had no choice but to catch this one; there wouldn't be any flights tomorrow or the day after, and this would be the worst possible time of year to be stuck on your own in some hotel in Munich. It had started to snow again.
The airport was quiet; he had never seen it so peaceful. The girl at the check-in desk was friendly, smiling, and full of the joys of the day that was in it. She gave a cursory look at his passport and handed him the boarding pass.
'Have a good trip, sir, and a merry Christmas to you and your family.'
About the author:
Irish Writer, political commentator, hiker, human rights worker and lover of life! Past his sell-by date but doesn't know it yet. For more information about John and the books he has published, visit www.noplaceinthesun.com.
