Magda

68 Short Story

Trees blurred together from where she sat looking out the train window. The uncracked glass shined enthusiastically in her gray eyes. And trees, trees, trees of yellow, orange, red, fumbled and toppled over. One could not determine whether the shortness of her breath was caused by the dazzling sight or by the mass of bags she had brought with her. The clothes had burdened her and poured out into the aisle as she tried with her weak arms to stuff them into the overhead. With every mishap, an ounce of certainty left her willing body, and she was left as splintered as she had begun.

Her neck finally resisted her heavy head and she rested it against the cloth backing of the chair. As she watched the trees pass by, she thought of all the things she wished for. The first was a song to sing that was hers, no lullaby heard in ancient times or hymnal laid upon a graceful head. She craved a song so vivid it could break the glass and put the drunkards to rest. A song to settle the silence and disrupt the children who beckoned for her in the far-off distance of time.

I wish for you and you appear. You are here to be wild and feared. Free and magical and clear. She hid her face as a man dressed in navy flipped through Der Sturmer, Germany’s most-read newspaper. Every printed word like a dagger held closely to her throat. She choked on the stream of smoke that left his serpentine lips. A trail of ivory and ghost shrouded her and mingled with her short breath. “I’d appreciate if you didn’t light one so close to me. Cigarette smoke gives me a headache,” she lied to the man. He simply crossed his legs the other way and blew a long puff into the aisle. Der Sturmer harassed her eyes once more and she wished he would turn back around anyway.

She pressed the side of her head to the cold glass. The rhythmic hum of the tracks, the turning of his pages, and her own breathing put her to sleep. She dreamed of bright green countryside and no trees in sight. She dreamed of daisies with soft stems and warm petals that never died because of perpetual sunshine. She saw men dressed in clean linen lying on a winding brick path and women braiding little girls hair on the fresh cut lawn. There was dust in the air, pollen on her hands, and sweat on the back of her neck as she stretched her sore limbs. The children laughed and ran in the endless field, clean linen and healthy bones.

She awoke to the sudden jolt of the train stopping. The man next to her got out of his seat and laid the newspaper where he’d been sitting. She stood up to leave as well, confused by the mass of people leaving the train car. Her eyes drifted over the delicate paper left on the seat and the words floated in her head like senseless bumblebees. She wished she had not lied about disliking cigarettes.

As the passengers waited outside the train, small talk was made about the war and the rumors. They hushed when the conductor walked up towards the crowd and raised his head to speak. “I’m sorry to report that there will be a slight delay in your arrivals to Canfranc International. We will be stopped here until matters can be resolved,” was all he cared enough to say. The crowd began to murmur a communal whisper of dread. As the conductor began to walk away from the scene, she ran after him. “What seems to be the matter?” “That is what we are trying to figure.” “And when will you men know?” “We will know when we know.” At his remark she turned on her heel and walked back towards the crowd. Some had made small groups and others had sat on decaying wood or in the grass. The newspaper man leaned precariously against the train car. She approached him with the impression that he’d know more of what was happening. As she looked closely at him, she realized his eyes were green like the fern that grew beneath their feet and his hair the color of ash. They observed each other. Neither could determine who would speak first. He cleared

his throat and pulled a cigarette from his breast pocket. “Smoke?” he said.

“Please,” she replied. Their discussion was of no importance. Nothing he asked her ever breached the surface. She felt lucky to have met someone so uncaring.

“Where are you headed?” “To my family in the south of Switzerland.” “Quaint.” “Yes, quite. And you?” He pretended not to hear her. She was unsure whether to ask again or simply leave him alone. He finally responded with, “Just to see Switzerland. I’ve never been before.” She chuckled at his reply and searched his eyes for some display of emotion. His green crystals flitted in the fall wind and traversed the wood, failing to meet her glare. *** As darkness began to spread across the countryside, her body begged rest. She craved the lullaby of the train once more and was disappointed that her journey had come to a standstill. She was stuck in a middle ground of unknown land. She longed for either the familiarity of her homeland or the charm of a land she hoped she could learn to love. Her body craved the touch of rest, something it had only known on this excursion and within this Canfranc train. Her past life was one of constant upkeep. Her limbs were sore and weak from the sapping puppetry she chose to partake in. With no one to hold her up, she felt as if she could float away, left with all the taunting thoughts of the crimes she’d committed.

As she gave in to the beckoning of dreams, she sang, I wish for you and you appear. You are here to be wild and feared. Free and magical and clear.

*** The man in the navy blue suit smoked his last cigarette in the darkness of that foreign land. He threw it to the ground and put one perfect shoe to it. He reached into his breast pocket for the pistol that warmed against his side. The blunt edges had pressed close to him all day, reminding him of the journey that must be put to an end. Its blackness gleaned in the moonlit wood. He loaded it with a single bullet and wiped his forehead that dared to sweat in the ripe air.

*** She awoke to the chilling of her temple against the cold window and the relentless cry of a nearby infant. Its cry rang like those of six children, and she shuddered at the loss of air inside the small train car. She turned her head to look out the clear glass, hoping to find the yellow and orange trees mingling together once more. She wilted at the sight of yesterday’s trees still standing firmly. It occurred to her that she was not alone, and she turned her head to find the navy-clad man reading the newspaper again. He sipped his tea and ignored her evident staring. Just then, an attendant walked by to ask if she would like any breakfast. “Yes. Any news on the state of the journey?” “The conductor has an announcement to make at the 10 o’clock hour.”

She sighed, and the reading man smirked, amused by her incessant nature. She glared at him. “What is it you find so funny, young man?”

“Just that every person on this train lacks patience. Every time that poor fellow walks by, another passenger asks him what’s wrong with the train, and when we will be on our way again, and how long will it take.” “Well, some of us have places to be.” “And where exactly, Mrs. Goebbels, is it that you have to be?”

At his sudden knowledge of her name, her pale face turned to that of a corpse. She stood to leave and he grabbed her wrist forcefully. Her breath caught in her throat at the pressure his one hand caused. The child behind them whimpered now. She sat down, unable to look at him and tried to swallow the lack of moisture in her mouth. “You must have me mistaken, sir. I am no Goebbels.”

He shook his head at her weak attempt at words. She rubbed the imprint his grasp had left and looked at him in mock offense. She worried herself with the window, knowing full well that the conversation was not over. He said, “This will be your last tea, your last biscuit, and your last chance to tell me the truth. Do what you will with it.”

She kept her eyes fixed on the unmoving trees and imagined them whizzing and whirling past at great speed. She leaned her cheek against the cold window once more, thankful for the contrast in temperature. Hot tears fell from her startled eyes.

The navy man sat reading the newspaper once more. The words filled with so much fire it burned his eyes and left his palms scorched. When he closed his eyes, every syllable danced in his mind. Gas, poison, whimpering. 69 Short Story

70 Short Story A rattling of pills and an eternal scream. And the fire, fire, fire they left behind.

The attendant arrived, carrying the fateful tea and biscuit. She turned to grab the dainty cup and stared at its milky contents. She wished to drown in it, to die at her own hands, not his. A blissfully white death free from crimson or charcoal is what she hoped for. She brought the porcelain to her lips and sipped, frightened to find there was no cyanide.

*** As she took the last bite, the both of them stood. The navy man took the newspaper with him. The attendant stopped them before they walked out, reminding them that the announcement was at 10. He nodded for the both of them. She trailed close behind him. Once outside the train, she looked around desperately for something to latch onto. He kept walking though, trusting her enough to follow him into the wood without having to be told to. She could not think of anything but to walk and see what that foreign land had produced for her. She felt the scream of a child inside her throat try to escape. She suffocated it with a swallow, like cotton in her mouth.

He said nothing to her as they journeyed, giving her the privilege of self-pity and reflection. He granted her this chance to simply walk, to breathe the air and feel whatever there was to be felt in her soul. Maybe this was his way of letting her say goodbye to the foreign land her shivering body inhabited for that short time. Maybe he could not bear to bring up any words with which to speak to the pathetic creature that trailed behind. He was exhausted by this wood and by the bitterness that he reeked of. His fern-like eyes seeped into the ground and reached for its surroundings. He preyed on the trees that loomed overhead, their ashy voices calling to him in his heightened awareness of what would soon transpire. He felt like running and collapsing into the soil.

He did not think of her then. He did not speak to her or look at her. He did not know if she was there anymore, could not hear her footfalls. But she was impatient and finally said, “Where are you taking me?” To which he did not reply. She was desperate for answers, something he did not feel she was worthy of. “What will you do to me?” He could not bring himself to respond. She whimpered like a child and sang to herself. I wish for you and you appear. You are here to be wild and feared. Free and magical and clear. His head shot back and he stopped walking.

She stepped up to the nearest tree and turned around as if she had rehearsed this during their march here. He pulled the pistol from his breast pocket and cocked it. Her figure shook in the patchy sunlight, and she whimpered and screamed the scream of millions of children. He approached her and put his hand on her shoulder; her body froze. She turned around and stared at the ground. He lifted her chin and pale blue eyes clashed with green. “Tell me, Miss. What is your name?” She felt a stirring in her soul like thunder and shame. The man with fern-colored eyes stood unwavering, an everlasting tree. The children who laughed now put to rest, she realized her journey was over and this was her homeland. She spoke it, and it was “Magda.” The calm knocked every tree in that forest down, only a fern remained.