German Boy: A Refugeeâ??s Story

Chapter 3. The Train

Chapter 3 THE TRAIN T he stationmaster’s hut was set in the middle of the weathered concrete platform. I looked at my reflection in its tiny window. I was just a little taller than most of my classmates. Once blond like Ingrid ’s, my hair was now brown, and was covered with a thin layer of snow. I brushed the snow away. The boy looking back at me from the window didn’t look like me at all. He looked so normal—not cold, hungry, and tired as I was. Looking down the platform, I decided to run back and forth, from one end to the other and back again, to warm up. My shoes sounded loud on the cold concrete. When I passed Mutti on my way back, she beckoned for me to stop. ‘‘I don’t like you doing that,’’ she said with a frown on her face. ‘‘You might get separated from us. Stay put and quit running around. Do you hear me?’’ ‘‘Yes, Mutti. I won’t run anymore,’’ I replied. Instead, I jumped up and down. I didn’t know if I was getting warmer, but at least I was busy. When I sat down on my suitcase, the cold reasserted itself. On the open platform there was no way to stay warm. We spent the entire night on platform number two waiting for the train from Liegnitz. The morning light seemed dim and grey, only slowly pushing back the shadows of night. I could imagine the sun somewhere up beyond the grey layer of clouds. A warm, round, golden sun. A dreary winter sky emitted snow showers now and then, as if 31 32 deliberately wanting to add to our misery. Many more people had joined us since our arrival just after midnight. They arrived in ones and twos all night long, silently, not wanting to be noticed. Like us, they waited for the westbound train, waited to get away from something dreadful. I looked at the round platform clock sitting on its decorative cast-iron post. It was tenthirty . The old clock still worked. It had to be very old, maybe from before the turn of the century. Most things still worked in spite of the war. I was hungry, very hungry. There simply was no food, and it made no sense for me to complain to Mutti. I knew she couldn’t do anything about it. None of us had thought to bring along bread, or cookies, or anything to eat. We were in such a hurry to get away, to keep from missing the train, that we forgot about food. No train. No food. No train. A chant formed in my head. We could, of course, buy a meal in the station restaurant using our ration cards. If we did that, we took the chance of missing the train if it arrived while we were eating. Time passed, agonizing minute by agonizing minute. My eyes remained riveted on the old clock. Its hands moved exceedingly slowly, I thought. Every minute the big hand jumped forward. In between , time seemed to stand still. I waited for that long hand to jump and jump again. Noon. Then afternoon. The platform filled with even more silent people, all waiting for a train which was over twelve hours late. I had no idea where they had all come from or why they wanted to go to Berlin. Like us, they were waiting patiently. I stayed close to Mutti so we wouldn’t lose our place on the crowded platform. Everybody tried through unobtrusive movements to obtain a position along the tracks so as to have the best possible opportunity to get on the train once it arrived. The assembled mass of people was in ceaseless motion. My thoughts moved slowly, as if the cold had frozen them, too. At two o’clock in the afternoon, well over twenty-four hours since any of us had slept, I fell into a stupor, unable to fight my fatigue any longer, barely able to stand on my feet. I had to concentrate hard to even remember where I was, and at times I couldn’t remember anything about why we were here. All I wanted to do was sleep and get warm. I blew into my hands for the hundredth time, vainly trying to warm my fingers. My breath rose in front of my face like a little cloud of steam. Occasionally it snowed. The wind...