What a strange scene this was! Hundreds of people—families, old people, babies—were lining up, allowing the merciless midday sun to beat down on them. There was no shelter in this place that resembled an extra-large chicken coop. Many, old and young alike, were fighting for discarded wooden crates they could use for shelter from the heat.           

Nearby, a small boy, unnoticed by the crowd, watched the activities with some curiosity. He had been sitting on his perch, a discarded box, since early morning, hoping to find out what people were doing here. He still knew little, except that people seemed content to spend long minutes waiting for rides on cattle car trains. If he could only take a closer look…

For what seemed to be the hundredth time that day, he made plans to slip away from his post. He squinted nervously toward the “entrance,” where a guard was ushering people through a hole in the mesh. At that moment, an elderly woman stumbled and fell in the soft dust, clutching a black wooden cane. As the guard placed the woman back on her feet, a small figure darted from his box seat and disappeared into the crowd.

When he reached the depot, the boy slackened his pace and slipped behind a sizeable crate. He was close enough to feel the draft from the trains as they clattered by. Where were they going?

The next train swerved to a halt. The doors, wood slats the length of the car, were rolled back efficiently by the guards. Names were barked out and as each person boarded the car, his or her name was checked on a clipboard. The man, or guard holding the clipboard was skinny, his uniform crinkled and sagged. His face was pinched and his eyes blinked tightly as each name was checked.

Overcome by curiosity, the boy crept forward until he was five feet from the next open car. Aside from a few glances, he was virtually ignored. The two guards were facing the other way and the boy used this opportunity to peer inside the car.

He was startled to find no seats, only a dark space permeated by the smell of straw and sweat. Bewilderment consumed him as he watched people pack into the car and the doors squeezed shut behind them. What sort of a train ride was this?

Slowly, the boy edged back to his hiding place, where he continued to watch the train lines. He noticed a family huddling together, in line for the next car. As they pushed simultaneously toward the open doors, a pudgy conductor-guard barred their entrance, shoving them back and choosing four of the astonished group: the mother, two daughters and the grandfather. The rest, he announced, would have to wait for the next train, as their names did not appear on this particular list.

When the father protested, “But we are a family—” the conductor-guard cut him off, stating crisply, “There is a system to respect. You will wait in line.”

The mother stifled her tears as her husband told her to have courage, not to worry. The guard was becoming impatient. There were hugs and words of shaky reassurance among the family. Finally, as the grandfather reached for his son, he found himself being torn from the would-be embrace. The irritated conductor-guard pushed the old man into the train car and the skinny guard with tight, blinking eyes resumed “roll call.”

The boy’s mouth gaped at this sight. It seemed as if the guards had purposefully separated the family. The roots of a deep fear began to gnaw at him. There was something horribly wrong here. Yet, the people seemed so eager to board the ugly trains. Well, he wasn’t going to be a passenger. Suddenly he thought: how am I going to get out of here?

Feeling like the weasel he once saw trapped under a garden gate, he began to search for an exit. His eyes drifted up and down the tall, chicken-wire fence for many long minutes until at last they came to rest on a minute tear, about forty feet from where he stood. With a little squirming, he figured, he could probably make his escape.

At that moment a set of bony fingers closed firmly around his right shoulder. He could feel the hairs on his head prickle in panic and he almost shrieked. Somehow managing to refrain himself, he spun around to face his captor. It was an old woman! Emboldened by his relief, the boy tried to break free, ordering her: “Let me go!” Despite his protestations the woman kept her firm grip on his shoulder.

“Boy,” her voice commanded. “Where are your parents? Your uncle? Your guardian?” He shook his head while continuing his efforts to break free. “Then you have no family?” she pressed. The boy refused to speak.

“Listen to me, boy. You don’t want to ride on those horrible trains. They lead to death and disaster. Are you paying attention?” Still retaining her grip on his shoulder, the old woman whose hair was tossed like bleached straw around a sunburned, wrinkled and apple-shaped face, kneeled until she was glaring directly into the boy’s face. “You have a chance. You are small enough to escape from here. For your own sake, run from this evil place and don’t look back once you are free.”

“But you…” the boy finally stopped struggling, his dark eyes flickering in sympathy for the old woman. Here was somebody who saw what he saw, knew that there was something very wrong with this ugly place. Yet he couldn’t quite picture this hunched figure squeezing through the hole in the mesh with him.

The weary figure loosened her grip and shrugged her shoulders in resignation. “And where would an old woman like me be going? I have no family. My home and possessions have been stolen. I am not a strong young man like yourself. Do as I say. Escape. Hide. Disguise yourself until these terrible times have ended. You have your whole life before you. Guard it like a treasure.” With that, the old woman rose, shook some of the dust from her clothing and walked toward the depot in silence.

The boy watched as she reached the depot and was motioned inside a waiting car by the pudgy conductor-guard. Choking back his impulse to make a miraculous ruckus during which he might convince her to break away, the boy began to notice that a feeling of strange importance had begun to sparkle inside him. Never before had a grown-up person talked to him in that way. She had even called him a young man! He began to feel so pleased, he nearly grinned.

Trying to forget the old woman, the boy checked his path to the hole in the fence. Patches of people blocked his view of the secret exit. However, there was no guard in sight. A sense of calm clouding his nervous impulses, the boy slipped stealthily in the direction of his intended escape route.

He had barely gone ten feet when a voice boomed behind him. “Well, well! Who do we have here?” Now what? For the second time that day, the boy turned to face a stranger. Fear blanketed him from head to toe when he was that it was a guard.

“I–, I–,” he could only stammer in petrifaction.

This guard was extremely tall. His crisp green uniform had no sags or crinkles like that of the squinty man holding the clipboard. His boots were made of shining black leather, decorated with brass buckles so bright they looked like gold. “There, there now. Surely you are not afraid?” The booming voice had mysteriously melted to a soothing, honeyed tone and the guard kneeled to face the boy, just as the old woman had.

Don’t let him know you’re afraid, the boy numbly commanded himself as he assumed a stiff, surly stance.

“Ah, now,” gushed the guard, “it is obvious that you are a very brave young man. Not like those other silly people. Do you know, I have a young boy, my son, who is about your size? But he is not wandering about, lost in such a big crowd. He is at home, playing with so many toys—why, his only worries are his dreams! And he eats so much good food. Chocolate! Whenever he pleases!”

The boy was taken aback. This was one of the guards? Perhaps, after all, only some of the guards were as cruel as the conductor-guard. After all, this man had a son. And he, a tired, hungry boy, actually reminded the man of his own son. Perhaps the other guards had no families. Perhaps they were even jealous of those who had families, treating them cruelly. Maybe if he explained the harsh actions of the conductor-guard, this man would put in a good word and make them stop their evil ways. But what to make of the old woman’s warning? These thoughts began to revolve all at once in his head, confusing him. “But the trains—” he stuttered.

“You do not know where they might be going,” the guard cut in. “Is that your worry?” The boy nodded. “Let me ask you, then,” the guard questioned, “do you want to live in a nice home just like my son, and play with toys, live with a real family?” The boy nodded, skeptically.

“As you can see,” the guard motioned with his black-gloved hands, “this land has been torn by the war. It is no place for families and children.” The guard gripped the boy’s right shoulder as firmly as the old woman had. “We have ordered these special trains to take the people to a new land, with houses to live in and good food. Even if you have no parents, the trains will take you to a place where kind people will care for you. You will have a soft bed to sleep in every night.”

“But the trains are so…” The boy attempted to express what he felt about the ugly trains, the unhappy families, the cruel guards.

“So…bad-looking?” As the guard spoke, the boy took note of the man’s sun-reddened yet unwrinkled skin, the cool blue eyes lightly creased with concern and the thin pale mouth curving into a smile. Yes, nodded the boy.

“When there is a war, nobody can afford to spend money on luxuries like the finer trains I’m sure you have seen. There are so many, many people and so very little time. Imagine how impossible it would be to find enough fine coaches for all of these people? We must work fast and move every person from this terrible place as soon as possible. Do you understand?”

The guard stood up and took the boy’s hand. There was no resistance from the boy, who saw only the warm vision of soft beds, hot food and caring people. The guard reached into one of his starched pockets. “Here. Have some of the very chocolate my own son enjoys,” he said as he presented the boy with a foil-wrapped treat.

Continuing to grasp the small hand, the guard walked toward the depot where the lines of the day had diminished and one of the last trains was pulling up to the platform. The boy had the honor of being the very first passenger to set foot in the empty car. His new friend was having a few words with the conductor-guard—the boy had not heard his name called or checked—explaining that the small passenger was an orphan in need of  “especially good care.”

Having completed this business, the boy’s guard-friend turned to wave briefly before turning back to the main field. Dozens of people were beginning to crowd onto the train car, their names barked out, until there was room for no more. The boy felt himself being squashed against the back wall of the car. The large wooden slats for doors were clapped into place and the car became pitch-black.

One woman cried out that she felt faint. A middle-aged man was coughing asthmatically. The air quickly turned moist and sweaty. Each person was pinioned to the next, having no space in which to move. Oblivious to any discomfort, the boy was smiling in anticipation. How wrong the old woman had been and how happy and surprised she would be to see the wonderful new land at the end of her train ride. Yes, everything would be fine from now on.  

Like a crooked serpent, the train wound its way onto a main track to make its long journey to a place called Auschwitz. In one of the many crammed cars, an eight-year-old boy nibbled on a piece of dark chocolate, unmindful of the hoarse breathing around him.

~

© 1982 Sonja A. Skarstedt
["The Sparrow" appeared The McGill Observer]

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