The train pulled into the station, slowly drawing abreast with the platform.
Gigantic clouds of smoke issued from the engine, but the eager people both inside and outside the train didn’t seem to mind.
He sat alone in a corner, in one of the last carriages.
He seemed to be there almost by mistake, like someone had noticed some empty space and put him there.
And he needed just the smallest of empty spaces to fill.
It had been a long time since he had consciously allowed himself to think about what this day would be like.
Through the hole in the rotting wood of the carriage he silently looked outside to catch little glimpses of what the world looked like.
The world had changed, changed beyond recognition.
No, the absence of recognition was not due to overwhelming all-encompassing change, but his own inability to recognize it.
His inability to imagine, to think.
The train drew to a halt, and the doors were opened by attendants.
There were some people who rushed out like breath exhaled, others came forth slowly like a sigh held back too long, and there were yet others who remained inside, too afraid of what to expect, like their breaths still held inside in fear.
It was a long time before someone noticed him sitting in his corner, and held his bandaged hand and led him out of the train on to the platform.
The sudden flurry of sights, of sounds, caught even his attention. And he dared to think back of a time long forgotten. Mercilessly forgotten almost four years ago.
Slowly, fearfully, he guided his thoughts, focused the essence of his mind towards what he remembered of this place.
The station had changed; wreckage and novation seemed to stand side by side.
There were marked distinctions, newspaper stands, small food outlets, and the smell of French tobacco.
Very carefully, so as not to scare himself, he thought of the last time he was here. It had been different: barking dogs, innumerable wooden cattle carriages behind locomotives on all platforms, the smell of fear, and the filthy scratches of orders being shouted in German.
He thought once again, of the things he had left behind when he stepped on to that train. A home, he presumed and then remembered, a family perhaps, yes yes, he was remembering. A mother, warm and wise, a father, aged and able, a brother, strong and sure. And someone else.
Who was it? A woman, yes, a woman. Why couldn’t he remember her?
Because he dared not think of her. Lest the airs he breathed for four foul years found out.
A beautiful woman, was she not? Yes, very beautiful, something that could make him smile so contently that he would have a tear in his eye.
And in that moment he remembered, her face, her eyes, her hair, and his eyes searched the platform for her.
Would she be here? Would she remember him after all this time? Was she even alive herself? He turned, and looked at the other end of the station, searching for the one face he remembered so vividly, it burnt him.
Would she still love him? Would she care? Would she have found love again? What would he do if she wasn’t there?
And then he saw her face. Standing at the far end, at the end of the platform, at the end of her hope. He saw a face that had been seen on that station ever since the announcement that the camps were to be liberated. A face that had waited and watched as every train returned to her without him. A face that hoped and prayed it wouldn’t have to live alone. A face that saw him now.
A face that put on its bravest smile now, but yet could not hide its tears. A face that slowly came to him, and gazed deeply into his eyes looking for the man it knew all those years ago.
A hand came forth and held his. Not tightly, but firmly enough to say that it would never let go.
There were no words spoken.
And in that silence, while she prayed and thanked, he remembered.
Sheryl...
