The Souda family is one of many that have made the long and dangerous journey across the Mediterranean to northern Europe. They are anxious about their new life in Germany, but they felt they had no choice when they decided to leave their home in Syria.
Winter suits Berlin. The low light softens the scars and early nightfall hides the trauma. The tourists don't notice - for them, the German capital is a neon cocktail of nightclubs and hipster bars, but in the bleak eastern borough of Kopernick it's as though the wall never came down.
I've come here to visit the Salvador-Allende-Haus, a former retirement home turned refugee reception centre in a run-down estate of 70s apartment blocks. The city tried to soften the monotone by painting the balconies in pastel colours, but the washed-out pinks and blues only enhance the greyness.
Inside, past the security guards - there have been more than 500 attacks on Berlin's refugee homes this year - the corridors are bright and clean. From behind doors labelled not by name but by floor area - 13.3 sq m for a single man, 15.3 for a couple and 17.1 for a family - comes the smell of cooking, garlic and cumin, and the muted sound of Arabic music.
Three-hundred-and-twenty-eight of Berlin's 51,000 refugees live here. Others are accommodated in billets in old schools, the hangers at Tempelhof airfield and even in the former Stasi headquarters on the Ruschestrasse. The total number of migrants is increasing by around 750 per day, with each migrant paid 359 euros ($395; £260) a month by the state.
The people I pass in the corridor flash nervous smiles, drop their heads and hurry on. Open doors are quickly shut, and mothers clip gaping toddlers around the ear. This is not a place in which to be noticed. ( BBC )
