I remember the night I arrived in Munich.
The train came in late. The station was big. High ceilings. Cold light. People walked fast. Suitcases on wheels. Coats buttoned tight. I stood on the platform. My bag was in my hand. The woven plastic bag. Blue. Faded. The same bag. The same straps. The same weight. But the city was different. The language was different. The air was different. Colder. Sharper. Cleaner.
I walked out of the station. The street was wide. The buildings were tall. The snow was not falling. But the cold was there. On my face. On my hands. On my shoes. I did not know where to go. I had no address. No name. No money for a room. I walked. The street was long. The lights were bright. The windows were full of things I could not buy. Clothes. Shoes. Watches. Bread. I walked until the lights became fewer. Until the buildings became shorter. Until the street became dark.
Then I found the underground passage.
I remember the steps.
Concrete. Gray. Worn smooth from years of feet. The walls were wet. The air was damp. The light was dim. A single bulb. Yellow. Buzzing. The sound was like the basement in Warsaw. The same buzz. The same dim light. The same smell of wet stone and something else. Something old. Something that had been there for a long time.
I walked down the steps. My shoes were loud. The sound echoed off the walls. Tap. Tap. Tap. I reached the bottom. The passage was long. Straight. The walls were covered with paint. Colors. Words. Pictures. I did not understand them. German. The language was new. The letters were familiar. But the words were not.
I walked to the end. There was a corner. A place where the wall turned. A place where the wind did not reach. A place where the pipes ran along the ceiling. Thick. Metal. Warm. I put my bag down. I sat against the wall. The floor was cold. The pipes were warm. I put my hands on them. The heat went into my fingers. My cold fingers. My cracked fingers. My Warsaw fingers.
I closed my eyes. The pipes hummed. The bulb buzzed. The city was above me. Sleeping. Working. Living. I was below. Waiting.
I remember the old man.
He came down the steps later. I did not hear him at first. The pipes were loud. The bulb was loud. But then I saw him. He was standing at the bottom of the steps. Looking at me. His coat was gray. His hat was gray. His shoes were cracked. He held a plastic bag. White. The kind from a supermarket.
He walked past me. He did not say anything. He went to the other end of the passage. He sat down against the wall. He took a bottle from his bag. Vodka. Clear. Cheap. He opened it. He drank. He did not look at me. He did not speak.
I watched him. The bottle was half empty. Then empty. He put it down. He closed his eyes. He slept. His chest rose and fell. His hands were on his knees. The fingers were thick. The nails were dirty. He was not old. Not young. Something in between. Like me.
I remember the word on the wall.
It was red. Four letters. Painted above the pipes. I had seen it before. On the train. On the station walls. On the newspaper someone left behind. I did not know what it meant. But I looked at it for a long time. The red paint was fresh. Not faded like the other words. Someone had painted it recently.
The old man opened his eyes. He saw me looking at the word.
"Freiheit," he said. His voice was low. Rough. Like sandpaper on wood.
"What does it mean?" I asked. My German was bad. But he understood.
He looked at the word. He looked at me. His eyes were gray. Not light. Not dark. The color of rain on concrete.
"Freedom," he said.
I did not understand. Freedom. The word was big. Too big for a wall. Too big for an underground passage. Too big for me.
He closed his eyes again. He did not explain. I sat against the wall. The pipes were warm. The bulb buzzed. I looked at the word. Freiheit. I said it in my head. Freiheit. The sound was strange. The 'ei' was like 'eye'. The 'heit' was like 'height'. Freiheit. Freedom. I did not know what it meant. Not then.
I remember the heat.
The pipes ran along the ceiling. Thick. Metal. They were hot. Too hot to touch for long. But I kept my hands on them. The heat went through my skin. Through my cracks. Through my scars. My hands had been cold for weeks. Months. Years. I did not remember a time when they were not cold. But here, in this underground passage, in this city I did not know, my hands were warm.
I took off my shoes. My socks were wet. I put them near the pipes. The steam rose. The smell was bad. But I did not care. My feet were cold too. I put my feet near the pipes. The heat went into my toes. I had toes. I had forgotten.
The old man was asleep. His mouth was open. His breath was slow. The bottle was empty. The plastic bag was crumpled. He did not move. I sat against the wall. The pipes hummed. The bulb buzzed. The word was red on the wall. Freiheit. I did not know what it meant. But I was warm. That was enough. For now.
I remember the first morning.
The light changed. The bulb was still on. But the street above began to wake. Footsteps on the pavement. Car engines. A tram. The sounds came through the ceiling. Through the pipes. Through the walls.
The old man woke. He looked at me. He did not say good morning. He did not nod. He stood up. He picked up his plastic bag. He put the empty bottle in it. He walked to the steps. He did not look back. He went up. Tap. Tap. Tap. His shoes were loud. Then they were gone.
I sat against the wall. The pipes were still warm. The bulb was still buzzing. The word was still red. Freiheit. I did not know what it meant. But I remembered his face. His gray eyes. His thick fingers. His rough voice. "Freedom," he said. I did not know if he meant the word or something else.
I put on my shoes. They were dry. My socks were dry. My feet were warm. I picked up my bag. The woven plastic bag. Blue. Faded. I walked to the steps. I looked back at the passage. The pipes. The bulb. The word. Freiheit. I said it again. In my head. Freiheit.
I went up the steps. The street was cold. The snow was not falling. But the cold was there. On my face. On my hands. On my shoes. I did not know where to go. But I was warm. That was something.