"My brother, my brother, he has gone! The police caught my brother."
Roshdi said they had tried to avoid the transit camp and the Hungarian police when they crossed the border, and had waded through a river.
Like many refugees, they feared being fingerprinted in Hungary; a country that is neither welcoming to refugees, nor empathetic to their plight. They wanted their asylum application to be processed in Germany or Austria.
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The +49 country code caught my eye. It was a missed call. Germany? Who would be calling me from Germany in the middle of the night?
I was confused for a moment but then the penny dropped. Itwas probably a refugee.
"Rachel? Is that Rachel?" said a voice in a heavy Middle Eastern accent.
"Yes, it is. Who is this?" I ask.
"Rachel! It is Abdula. I found my brother!"
I laugh out loud and so does Abdula. I can hear his brother Roshdi in the background yelling too.
"We are together, we are together!" he says.
I wrote about Abdula and Roshdi 10 days ago in Serbia, when I was reporting on the European refugee crisis. I met the brothers in a park next to my hotel in Belgrade.
They had stopped to camp for the night and were hoping to reach the Hungarian border the next day.
Abdula is 24 and has a physics degree. His brother Roshdi is a year older and is an economist. They are Iraqi-Palestinians from Baghdad.
It was Abdula who had approached me in the park in Belgrade, quickly pushing his hoodie off the back of his head and introducing himself in perfect English.
He asked me if I was a reporter. I asked him if my large notepad and pen gave me away, and he laughed.
He told me they had been travelling for over a month and had left their mother, father and two younger brothers behind in Iraq.
"Our mother told us to go, to save ourselves," Abdula says.
Abdula and I had swapped numbers but the next day I saw his brother Roshdi at the border. I was walking in the rain and mud towards an intimidating line of Hungarian police when I saw Roshdi running towards me.
"My brother, my brother, he has gone! The police caught my brother."
Roshdi said they had tried to avoid the transit camp and the Hungarian police when they crossed the border, and had waded through a river.
Like many refugees, they feared being fingerprinted in Hungary; a country that is neither welcoming to refugees, nor empathetic to their plight. They wanted their asylum application to be processed in Germany or Austria.
Abdula was cold and shivering after crossing the river so Roshdi left him on the riverbank and went looking for a bus or a taxi to take them to Budapest.
In the meantime, Hungarian police and their dogs found Abdula, and when Roshdi returned he had vanished.
I could tell Roshdi was distressed.
"I don't care about Europe anymore, I will go home. I just want to be with my brother," Roshdi told me.
The two of us were still talking when Roshdi's mother phoned from Baghdad. His voice broke when he answered the call. He told her he had lost Abdula and he covered his eyes with his hand and cried.
He said he was worried he would never see his brother again.
Rachel Smalley with Roshdi as he talks to his mother. Photo / Jo Currie
I told Roshdi it was likely they had taken Abdula to a transit camp to be processed and Roshdi should go there too, but Hungarian police were standing in front of the buses and prioritising women, children and families. Single men were told to wait.
It was such a hopeless, wretched situation. I couldn't do anything to help. I wished him luck and told him to get on a bus as soon as he could. And then he walked away from me with his head in his hands and I knew he was crying again. It's an image that will stay with me for a long time.
That was 10 days ago. Now I am speaking to the brothers on the phone.
Roshdi is still yelling in the background.
"We are together, we are together!"
I can't stop laughing and I tell Abdula I am delighted for the both of them. He tells me they are in a refugee camp in Mannheim in southwest Germany and aid agencies are keeping them warm and fed. The two of us agree to keep in touch through Whatsapp.
"If it is acceptable to you, we would like to call you our aunt," Abdula says.
I laugh again. I've been called many things in my time, but the aunt of two Iraqi-Palestinian brothers is a first. True to his word, Abdula has kept in touch and this morning there was a message from him on Whatsapp.
"Hello dear Aunt. Everything is going well in Germany. We are still in the camp waiting to complete our papers. I hope you will visit soon."
I hope they are granted asylum. They have a good case. As Palestinians, they are one of the most persecuted races in the Middle East, and Iraq is arguably the most dangerous country on earth.
I send a reply to Abdula.
"Good luck with your papers. I hope you will know soon if you can stay in Germany. Look after each other. Best wishes, Aunty Rachel."
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