A refugee's arrival in Rosenheim

In the blazing Bavarian summer heat, a team of some 20 police officers swelter beneath the weight of their stab vests, pulling on latex gloves as the Eurocity 88 draws into platform one of Rosenheim train station. In recent months, the task at hand has become a daily routine for officers in the small southern German town.

Last month saw a record number of 6,400 refugees arriving in Rosenheim – most of whom have traveled from Syria, Eritrea and Sudan. Police already recorded 2,900 arrivals in the first 10 days of August alone – more than double the number in the whole of 2010.

'Are we in Germany?'

As police officers enter the train, searching for refugees who have illegally crossed the Austrian-German border, tourists, enjoying the school holidays, look on bewildered. No compartment, bathroom or baggage rack goes unchecked.

"Your passports, please," a young German officer asks in English. Everyone in the first compartment reaches for their bags, but only a handful are checked. Passengers of African, Middle Eastern and Mediterranean appearance are at the top of the officers' agenda. Among them is a group of young men, unable to present their documents.

Encouraging the refugees to exit the train seems to be no easy feat. Reluctant to leave, the men appear at first to not understand, until one asks: "Are we in Germany?"

"Yes," the officer replies.

The small sense of relief fills the train compartment. Unaware of where their lives may lead in the future, the refugees know, at least for now, that they have reached their geographical goal. The chance of applying for asylum is one step closer.

"Good luck!" a passenger wishes them.

Never too late

Well dressed, with styled hair and luggage, many of the asylum seekers appear to have been in Europe for some time since leaving their home country. Others, however, leave the train with only the clothes on their back.

Moving down the carriages, the search continues: many of those identified by police are groups of young men and women. Among them, however, is a handful of elderly people. who even in their old age are determined to make the often perilous journey to Europe.

German empathy

"This is so mean," a young German girl mutters to her friend.

"It would be much worse to leave them to continue to Munich without an idea in the world of where to go," an officer responds.

"But it’s how they do it," she insists, gesturing at the officers as they proceed through the aisles.

Police seem to carry out the search calmly and politely, however; proving to the refugees that their task is to help and not to hinder.

Further down the train, they find three men hiding in a bathroom.

In the neighboring corridor, a German mother in her mid-30s holds her son close, stroking his hair for comfort as she struggles to hold back tears.

"Can I help at all?" an officer asks.

"No, no," she sobs.

"We’re helping them," he reassures her. "We’ll give them food and drink, and after they’ve registered, they’ll be able to move on to Munich and apply for asylum."

Taking a deep breath, she nods.

Just a number

As the train pulls away from the station, some 60 to 70 refugees fill the platform staircase, in the hope of finding some shade. Across the platform sits an elderly Bavarian, observing with mild curiosity as she tucks into her warm Pretzel and afternoon coffee.

Sheltering from the midday sun, the refugees wait in turn to receive a numbered armband. Mobile phones, money, belts, cigarettes; all personal belongings are packed into see-through bags, bearing the same number as the fluorescent strip around the wrist of each refugee.

‘I had to run’

In the queue, I meet Charles, who traveled alone from Niger.

"I left my country there because there are a lot of problems going on right now," he says.

"Not only in Niger but in Africa as a whole. There is a crisis… fighting."

After leaving Niger, the 27-year-old says he stayed in Libya for a long time.

"There was a war crisis, so I had to run. I went to Lampedusa from there," he explains.

He would "love to work in Germany," he tells me, "Constructing houses and maybe painting."

During his journey from Niger to Rosenheim, Charles met 31-year-old Bellostanley.

"Now we are like brothers. He’s the only one I have now."

Full to capacity

As Charles reaches the front of the queue, a smaller team of officers heads to platform three. A regional train is due to arrive any moment. At least another 60 refugees are found on board.

"No more trains today," an officer confirms with his colleague.

Regardless of whether any asylum seekers are onboard a later train, this will be the final search of the day. The makeshift registration hall is full to capacity. Tomorrow the process will begin again.

Heatwave

Identified for now by only a number, the refugees file onto a huge police bus which will take them to the so called "Bearbeitungsstraße" or "processing street" in a former sports hall.

Scenes at the hall are a stark reminder of the refugees' struggle to escape their lives back home. Dozens of families and friends rest on camp beds, catching a moment’s sleep. Many of the refugees have been wearing the same clothes for days. In temperatures of plus 30, a muggy perspiration fills the room. Here they sit. And they wait.

Before moving on to Munich, each refugee must provide German authorities with a photograph and a copy of their fingerprints. Medical checks for contagious diseases such as tuberculosis, scabies and whooping cough are also carried out.

‘We don’t have freedom’

Crouching on the edge of an orange camp bed is 27-year-old Rosina. After leaving her life in Eritrea, she had hoped to reach Sweden.

"I’ve had family there my whole life," she explains. The mother of one says she loves her country, but left because of the "political problems."

"If you finish education, you don’t get satisfactory work. We are suffering from…"

She pauses and sighs.

"We don’t have freedom actually. You don’t have the right to say what you want."

Waiting in Eritrea is her seven-year-old daughter. Her face lights up at the mention of her.

“When the government allows me, I will bring her,” Rosina says.

"The whole journey was too risky for her," she adds.

Like thousands before them, Rosina and her husband of four months traveled across the Mediterranean on a boat carrying some 550 refugees.

"But there were no problems," she says. "Everyone made it."

As I move to leave, she turns, looking over her shoulder as if to check if anyone is listening.

Turning back she whispers: "Please. How long must I stay here? How long must I stay in this place?"

Time is of the essence for the police, but unforeseen problems, whether a technical issue or a large arrival, can leave refugees waiting for hours. The last arrivals of the day are more than likely to stay overnight.

Language barrier

Vital to the process is the work of interpreters and translators, drafted in by authorities.

"It can sometimes to take hours to find an interpreter who speaks a specific dialect. There are so many" says Rosenheim Police spokesman Rainer Scharf.

On successfully completing the checks, each refugee is provided with an "Anlaufbescheinigung" which enables them to travel on to Munich where they can apply for asylum.

Emotional pressure

Amid the bureaucracy of the German authorities, comes a natural sense of humanity. Children, oblivious to the changes going on around them, chase around the beds, giggling, playing with toys and teddy bears - many of which have been brought in by police officers.

"We work very closely with the Malteser charity," Scharf explains. "Our officers have also made donations."

For the team leading the search, the task comes with its understandable share of emotional stress.

"The officers are confronted with the destinies of these people," Scharf says.

As the number of refugees has risen, however, police officers have in turn been able to distance themselves from the personal stories.

And so the pattern looks set to continue. Germany’s Federal Office for Migrants and Refugees (BAMF) estimates that as many as 600,000 asylum applications will be made in 2015.

Rolling into the grounds as I leave the hall, the police bus arrives from the train station. On board sits a tiny 0.01 percent of those 600,000 applications, all chasing their destiny in Germany.

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