The White Train

The white train emerges from a dark curtain of tall fir trees with its coat of light snow. The white train appears as though newly escaped from the jaws of night. The white train steams out of the forest into the clear white meadow, melting the fresh snow around it. The trees are towering. Ancient giants. A whole section seems to have been logged. Over there the folded arms of soldiers who gather in small groups. We cannot see leaders or individual faces. Horsemen far away. On their way to the revolution perhaps. In the dining car, behind the velvet curtains— blood puddings and sea pie, clear soups and small marrow. Already today the chef has cooked three luncheons while crossing Poland; the starched waiters managed without spilling a drop. Dozens of dirty white napkins heap on hampers like miniature Alps threatening to fall. But now the train has braked and stopped. Small boys fog the windows with their warm breath as they watch the soldiers with silver sabers who order everyone off the train, into the new snow.