The 5:42 to Belgenhagen left the station without our engineer. He chased it desultorily to the end of the platform waving his pastry in vain at the empty locomotive car as we pulled out from the shed into the icy dawn with certain questions. Among them, since the train had departed early, should we still call it the 5:42, and furthermore, since our destination was no longer assured, could we confidently call it the train to Belgenhagen? What landmarks we might have recognized lay smoothed below a foot of fresh powder and the turnings of the track we had always neglected gave us no clue which way we were traveling. The girl who pushed the coffee cart thought she recognized a barn, but when the train made its first stop beside a frozen lake, she merely shrugged and asked us if we wanted cream. My daughter must have disembarked then from a forward car; I saw her, as we pulled away, standing by the lake with no promise of a return train. There were no platforms where the train made its stops, so those who wished to leave us we helped down into the snow, some alongside deep pine woods, some within sight of distant towns. We passed through Belgenhagen without slowing, right on time, and crossed a bridge I have never seen, and came to rest near the foothills of mountains I know from maps. The snow has piled up nearly to the windows and continues to fall. There are no tracks; but, while it lasts, the coffee is good, my son is still on the train I believe, and the faces of the passengers on passing trains are peaceful as they make their way toward Belgenhagen. Would they seem so unconcerned if there were cause for alarm?
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8 comments
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January 5, 2010 at 7:42 pm
JK
For some reason this is one of my favorite stories I’ve read here. The sense of the mystical and fantastic with what would otherwise be, and to some of the riders might still be, a mundane morning commute. The way the coffee lady and the narrator take this unexpected trip through a world of snow really caught my imagination.
And here I was thinking nobody liked it. Thank you, JK. I’m very pleased with it too.
–David
January 8, 2010 at 1:27 pm
litlove
I rather fear this IS the experience of people trying to travel on trains in the UK at the moment, and they could do with an injection of your narrator’s calm! Your narrators are often hugging opposite ends of the emotional spectrum, David, and whilst I feel for the distressed ones, I have a special place in my heart for the preternaturally calm. They lend an air of enchantment to the situation that is charming.
Like so many situations here at Very Short Novels, Litlove, this one is better read about than experienced, or for that matter narrated. It reminds me of the man who receives a court order by the post, but opens and reads all his junk mail first. I’m glad you like it.
–David
January 9, 2010 at 4:39 am
litlove
Ah, you mean I read it wrong, but you are too polite to say. 😉 Yes, okay, so the shedding of children, for instance, is something he really ought to be concerned about. I should have paid more attention to the last line. Sorry!
Well, this is fun! I thought your “preternaturally calm” had it just right, Litlove. I’m concerned for the daughter and about the son’s unknown whereabouts, but then, I’d be concerned about the lack of an engineer, which doesn’t seem to trouble our narrator except epistemologically. He’ll sing a different tune when the coffee runs out.
–David
January 14, 2010 at 11:07 pm
grantman
If a train leaves for Belgenhagen but never gets there, is it possible that the train never left at all? I see this one as children coming and going in the life of a parent caught up in destinations. As for the engineer, we all like to think someone is out there with a plan and in control, but maybe, just maybe we are all on our own!!!
One of my favorites..
Grantman
Wow. I’ll be careful not to say anything to dilute your rich response, Grantman. What a helpful reader you are!
–David
January 20, 2010 at 1:41 am
mariathermann
Nearby is a little train station, sleeping under a blanket of snow. A short distance from platform No. 1 stands a forlorn carriage with a sign reading “In Memory of all those who died in the concentration camp at Hessental”. Perhaps the faces of the people in the oncoming trains who took the journey between Schwäbisch Hall and Hessental showed no alarm either. They may have enjoyed the view of half-timbered houses dusted with powdery snow. After all, who would have believed that the 30 neighbours torn from their homes would never return, would simply vanish into the snowy foothills?
Reading your story about a journey to Belgenhagen reminded me that our neighbours don’t just vanish. Their heartbeats leave a trail which we can follow through time and space for all eternity. Thank you for this wonderful story.
Every word of what you say is true, Maria. Thank you for your magnificent comment and welcome to Very Short Novels.
–David
February 26, 2010 at 10:04 am
ThatNeilGuy
I like it because it has coffee and (implied) donuts. #shallow
You know if I’d had just a few more words to spend, ThatNeilGuy, the donuts would have made it. Welcome to Very Short Novels!
–David
February 27, 2010 at 6:44 am
mazzz_in_Leeds
Very creepy, in an amusing way to start with (waving pastry at departing trains should be a recognised sport), and then wonderfully atmospheric.
For me this is a ghost train. It may not have started off as one, but I think it turned into one along the way. The daughter escaped, at least.
Thank you, mazzz. I hope you’re right about the daughter. Unlucky for her if the train is life and getting off is death. Ah, metaphor!
–David
February 28, 2010 at 9:33 am
CJ
I’m don’t want to figure anything out – all I know is that it made me feel like I had just gotten a glimpse of something ethereal. Absolutely beautiful. Sadly, the part of me that wants to understand things keeps nagging, eating away at the mysteriously calm feeling this flash gave me.
Such is life. Too hard to just enjoy what is, eh? Gotta poke and prod.