It’s fifteen degrees below zero, and I’m standing with my camera at the
Bahnhofsmission am Zoo. A small hatch opens, and the homeless come to pick up a packet of sandwiches, a banana, and hot tea or coffee.
They don’t get much more help here, so to find a place to sleep, they’ll have to keep moving through the city. Inside, I talk to the volunteers and ask if there’s anyone I can accompany on their way to an emergency shelter. And film them.
He knows someone right away. “Aber die kann ich Ihnen eigentlich nicht zumuten.” (I really can’t burden you with her.) Still, I go talk to her.
Annette is from Nuremberg and is clearly confused. But she’s nice, so I walk along with her. After five minutes, it becomes clear that I’m the one leading her along instead of the other way around. She doesn’t want to carry her bag another meter, and if I weren’t with her, she would have gotten on the wrong train long
ago.
I try to take some nice shots with one hand, which is somewhat hindered by the camera bag and tripod on my back, and Annette’s bag in my left hand.
Just as we’re getting going, a Romanian homeless man who doesn’t speak English suddenly joins us out of nowhere. “Bonita bonita,” he keeps shouting. And he grabs his bike and, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, puts Annette’s bag on it. Even without words, he knows where we need to go and walks with us until we reach the blue door leading to the emergency shelter.
There’s no room left here tonight for men, but as a woman, Annette gets lucky. She can stay here and is now so exhausted that she doesn’t want to talk to me anymore.
It’s midnight. I’ve got my story wrapped up and take a taxi home. The network is covering the fare. Where Annette is sleeping tonight—I have no idea.
