Are We There Yet?

The early morning fog saturated every filthy window of the old locomotive. Only in the very last panel was there a sign of clarity, which came in the form of a tiny handprint. Two large brown eyes, sparkling with wonder, stared directly at the soldiers standing outside of the train. One young man stood smoking a pipe and reading the daily issue of the Völkischer Beobachter. The date read May 14, 1943. 

The eyes stared out the window for a few more moments, then the tiny head which they inhabited turned to the figure in the next seat. “Mame, when will I get my dolly back?” a small voice asked impatiently. “When the train stops, Zeeskeit,” responded the figure in a gentle but shaky voice. “Rest now. We have a very long trip ahead of us.” The figure placed one arm around her daughter, for these aforementioned eyes and hands belonged to a young girl of five years. The train’s steam whistle blew rather abruptly, and slowly the train began to move until it was racing at the speed of lightning.

Choo-choo!” the child cried, clapping her hands joyfully. Her voice echoed throughout the stillness of the train. Her mother sat silently, rocking a sleeping babe who was nestled in a stained rag. The other women and children passengers were coughing loudly into their old, tattered handkerchiefs. There was a certain odor about, but the young girl did not notice. She turned her gaze back out the window at the bright blue sky above her, a promise of infinite possibilities. 

She had heard about airplanes on the radio. Oh what fun it would be to fly one day! She once told her cousin that she wished to become a pilot. He laughed at her and proclaimed that girls could not be pilots, but what did he know? Yes, she was certain that when she grew up, she would fly planes and she would fly them fast. You could get anywhere very quickly on an aero plane, even faster than a locomotive! Speaking of which, the young girl turned back to her mother. “Are we there yet, Mame?” she sighed. “Certainly not. Not for a long time,” replied the mother. “Hush now.”

The young girl’s mother was barely twenty-three herself, yet she had the wrinkles of a forty-year-old woman. As recently as one year ago, she had been considered quite lovely and fashionable. She wore beautiful, flowing red dresses and sparkling high heels. She was an accomplished singer and dancer. In her free time, she would tend to her garden. The flowers brought her and her family so much joy. She was not disappointed when they would die at the end of Summer, because she knew that Spring would always come again, very soon. But now it seemed that a permanent winter had set in. She had forgotten how to smile, how to laugh, and it felt as if she were already dead.

The baby in the woman’s arms whimpered softly and then dozed back to sleep. She knew that he must be very hungry-she had been so sickly and had not made adequate milk for the past 3 days. Her daughter was hungry too, but what could she do? There was no food, no water, and at times, it seemed like there was no air. The young woman glanced at the others on the train. Across from them was an older man and woman, sleeping in each other’s arms. They were thin, pale and sickly. The older man wore nothing but a robe around his lower half, and the older woman’s dress was moth eaten and stained black. 

Yet the young woman knew in her heart that they hadn’t always been this way. Perhaps the old man had been a doctor, or lawyer. Maybe the old woman was a seamstress or designer. The possibilities were endless, just like the blue sky above them. Now, the only thing that remained bright were the stars on their garments. The young woman had hoped that her daughter would someday learn to read. Her daughter was intelligent and the young woman was sure that she would succeed in life. 

Instead, all she knew was the tiny five year old holding a red marble in her tiny hand. “Look what I found, Mame. Isn’t it lovely?” The young woman could only nod, for she had forgotten how to smile. Her daughter seemed completely unaware of and unbothered by their predicament. She was happiest and healthiest of all the children on the train. Two hours into their trip, a deafening cry shook every passenger to the core. Another young woman, who had been sitting closer to the front, let out a weak sob as she shook the blankets in her arms. There was no movement. There was no air. There was no hope. Every bit of faith left this young woman, and she wept without remedy.

The little girl was oblivious to the sorrow. “Are we there yet?” she asked again, playing with her marble. Her mother could not answer this time, for she could not speak. She could only stare ahead of herself, as if she were staring into an abyss. The permanent winter had certainly set in. She rocked her baby son and drifted off to sleep, as did her daughter.

The young woman dreamt that she was back in her garden, her husband spinning her around in his arms. Every once in awhile, he’d whisper  “I love you” in her ear. Her children were nearby, the daughter picking flowers and the son happily cooing. All four of them were plump as ever, and a melody echoed throughout the air. Spring had come again. 

The little girl also had a dream. In her dream, she was flying a plane at full speed. Higher and higher she went, through the clouds and towards the sun. She was the best pilot ever, and she knew her whole family would be proud.

The young woman awoke, and noticed that the train had stopped. The bundle in her arms was now cold as ice. Her tears began to fall, one by one, bathing the soft skin that would never become anything more. She glanced over at her daughter, who was sleeping soundly, her chest rising and falling. The handprint on the window had dissolved back into the fog.

“Are we there yet?” A question that will never be answered.