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With a jerk of his head, Hans grabs his carry-on handle and glides the two spinner bags effortlessly across the floor toward the exit. I grumble as I swivel my stupid two-wheeled suitcases the right direction and follow. Barney swerves into the smaller case, nearly catching my heels, but I manage to straighten them out before we reach the sliding doors under the “Nothing to Declare” sign.
I follow Hans around the glass barriers toward the waiting throng of families and drivers holding signs. I hope Hans knows where he’s going—I’m supposed to take the S-Bahn to the main train station and haven’t seen any of the circular green signs the internet told me to find.
“Mine!” Barney’s handle is ripped from my fingers and slams to the ground. A child screams. I stumble to a halt and spin to find my toddler friend sprawled across Barney, pitching a full-on tantrum.
His frazzled mother stomps across the black and white tiles to confront me. “What did you do to my darling?”
“Nothing. He jumped on my bag.” I shake my stinging fingers. “Ripped it right out of my hand.”
“She.” The woman glares at me, making no move to comfort her screaming child. Or remove him—her—from my suitcase. “She loves purple.”
“Eva!” Hans hollers from behind me. “You coming?”
“Hang on!” I throw the words over my shoulder as I squat beside the wailing kid. “I like purple, too, but you can’t have my suitcase. I gotta go.”
The girl stops screaming and glares at me, the resemblance to her mother almost frightening. Her fingers clench on the Barney scarf. “Mine!”
I can’t believe a child this age even knows who Barney is. He’s from my childhood. Not that I liked him. Except ironically, of course.
I try to uncurl the girl’s fingers, but she screams louder. Her mother grabs my shoulder. “What are you doing?”
“I’m trying to remove your offspring from my luggage. I have a train to catch.”
“Eva!” Hans hollers again, sounding more urgent this time. “We gotta go!”
“Get your hands off my daughter!” The woman turns, scanning the concourse. “Police! This woman is molesting my child!”
“I am not molesting your child! I just want her off my bag!” I move to the handle of the suitcase. “Look. I’m untying the scarf, okay? She can keep it!” I struggle with the double knot.
The woman keeps hollering for the police, demanding I be detained and deported. The child continues to wail, although I see no tears on her face. In fact, I’d swear that’s an evil grin hidden behind her ratty hair. Another hand falls on my shoulder. “Eva, are you coming with us?”
I throw a glare at Hans. “I’m trying. Can you get Belinda Bulldozer to stop shrieking?” Beyond him, dozens of people watch the woman looming over my head. A pair of airport security guards hurry toward us. “You speak German, right?”
“Yeah, but—” Hans glances over his shoulder and closes his eyes. “Perfect.” He takes a step away, as if to distance himself from the spectacle.
“Are you deserting me?”
“I can’t bail you out if I’m in the clink, too.” He jerks his head at the pair of uniformed men stomping toward us.
My stomach clenches in dread as I work at the knot. “They aren’t going to take me to jail. It’s not my fault.”
The two guards reach us. Hans launches into an explanation in German too fast for me to follow. One of the guards listens intently as the other attempts to calm the angry woman. The child still sprawls across my bag, with her grubby hand latched to the scarf. The father is nowhere to be seen. Probably hiding. I would be.
I finally get the knot loosened and manage to untie it. “Here, take it. It’s yours.”
The little girl gives me another evil grin and scrambles off my suitcase, her prize in hand. “Mine!”
I rotate Barney back onto his wheels and struggle to my feet. As I rise, the rent-a-cop takes my arm. “You must file a report.”
“Why?” I gesture at the little girl running in circles around her mother, yelling and waving my scarf. “She’s fine. I didn’t hurt her. She got what she wanted.”
“The mother insists.”
I appeal to Hans. “Will you help me?”
He looks sheepish. “They speak excellent English. I have to—” He looks to the exit doors, then back to me and almost rolls his eyes. “I guess—let me check.” He pats me awkwardly on the shoulder and scurries away.
“Hans!” He doesn’t stop.
