Direct train Prague - Vienna

Direct Train Prague - Vienna

(Narodni Listi, 5. Feb 1925)

We are standing on the platform of the Wilson station and are waiting for the express train, the direct train Berlin - Vienna via Prague, me and my enemies. Everyone is an enemy, and we are scanning each other with angry eyes. We are enemies because we all want to find a seat. We are a band of robbers raiding an innocent train as soon as it comes closer. The lady with the ungainly hat is not one of us, she has just a little wooden suitcase and obviously a third class ticket. Similarly the gentleman who paces up and down because his only luggage is a briefcase and he will go only as far as Tabor. In contrast, the lady in the fur coat who has several suitcases, covered in stickers from Venice, Brussels, and Paris, is doubtless an enemy. She will definitively go via Vienna. Big suitcases, little suitcases, tiny suitcases, and a blue veil covering her face, you see on first glance that she is an experienced traveller. She will use her elbows if must be. She will not tolerate smoking in the compartment, and will peel oranges in leathered gloves. Up to the border she will speak Czech, after the border German. The short-legged man opposite has white gaiters and a suit made by Knize, Vienna-Karlsbad; he just arrived from the Balkans and is dealing with silk, in the compartment he will take off his flat little hat that makes him look like an Englishman and will court me like a French, though in fact he is jewish. The woman on the bench has a baby that is wrapped in five layers of garment, she will unpack a bottle with a dummy and diapers and a changing mat and will say “schschsch” and “bububu” and will claim that her little cutie does only cry today and by pure chance and all other times he is quiet like an angel. Enemy next to enemy.

A crowd of freed people streams from the train that arrived. Only a few steps and they are on the street, walk on the ground again, open doors, sit on a table. Inside a handful of cheap winners are left. The compartment was emptied and they took the best seats. They look  at us as if we were intruders and have elegant, well behaved faces, on which is written: people are pushing like lowlifes! They pretend to belong to the solid, safe half of human society. They sit on their window seats like gentlemen in cars, a piece of conquered ground underneath their feet, and reflect the security and measured dignity of owners. Seven of us rush into the compartment, seven blood thirsty predators, five manage to snatch a seat, five people team up against two, five mean, friendly smiles appear on five smug faces and regret: unfortunately all seats are occupied.

Five intruders and one native, all in all six, a small group,  a crew that for six hours is condemned to a shared life. All know: we have to get along and tolerate each other; that's the best we can do. A minute ago we were pushing, shoving, scuffling, kicking, jabbing, were looking daggers at each other, and now suddenly we became well-educated people from finest society. “Would you allow me to put your suitcase up for you?” “With pleasure.” “Next to me ther is some space for your bag.” “Thank you so much.” “Careful, my lady, you are crumpling your hat. If you permit I will put it into the net.” “How kind of you.” “If my coat should bother you I can put it away.” “Not in the least, really, the opposite is the case.”. We sit there with the pleasurable and flattering feeling that we behaved perfectly, just like it is proper and becoming on a journey. We look at each other with delight and with very subtle smiles we sign each other that we here, we six in this little compartment, we are fine people. The lowlives who were pushing, which we simply cannot understand, remained outside.

The people are still standing at the windows and saying their goodbyes to their friends and family. No one knows what to say and remaining silent is also not an option “Give my greetings to the aunt.” says one “and write soon”. “Soon I will be there as well” says another and for no reason pulls out his watch “We are already one minute late. And give my greetings to the aunt” he adds hopelessly. One can hear the closing of doors in the distance, whistling, screaming. The people on the platform breathe a sigh of relief, pull out their handkerchiefs and stretch their arms. “Give my greetings to the aunt”, they shout. Never in their whole life are people as attentive to their aunts as when they accompany someone to the train.

Now we don’t know where to look at. We have unapproachable faces and sit erect. We are looking out of the window, muse, read newspaper. It is quiet like in a church, the gentleman in the corner slumbers. The conductor comes, six hands  hold six tickets. And silence again. Bum-ta-ta, the wheels thud. Outside there is a boring landscape, behind dead fields a colorless sun is setting. One station after the other whooshes by, and each time I wonder: do people live there? It feels as if I should think about something. Thoughts run rhythmically through my brain, bum-ta-ta, bum-ta-ta, but they make no sense.

The border. One hour stop. Six silent people stand up and hand each other their suitcases. “My apologies, that was not my intention” says one gentleman who dropped his suitcase on the head of another one. “There is no other way” claims the affected man good-naturedly, and with the words “those damned checks” the ice is breaking. “Such a nuisance” can be heard from the window. “I have to go through this every week”, declares the gentleman with the cap. The tongues of six people was loosened. The customs officer is getting into a hornet’s nest. The six palpably stick together. With hornet’s solidarity. When they are alone again they start scolding. The government, the train, the newspapers, the republic. “Last year I was going from Berlin to Paris in the sleeping car… “ tells one gentleman and immediately everyone knows that he was in Paris and elegantly travelling in a sleeping car. Should you never have travelled in a sleeping car then quickly make a face as if you do exactly that daily and say “In Italy it is very different…”. The it’s the turn to bring up acquaintances. “I recently said to my wife, when she came from her afternoon tea with the minister…”, “Oh, these women are always the same. The friend of my wife, the Mrs Head of the Department…”. Surprisingly, I always seem to travel with very noble people, I have no idea how that can happen. After this, one talks about family. The fathers take their wallet out of their left breast pocket and out of the wallet photographs of their children. (All fathers in the whole wide world carry the photographs of their children there.) “What a lovely boy”, you say, “how confident he is looking.”. “I am certainly not exaggerating” declares the father “but he is really a very clever child. Recently he had said: Daddy I can see your shoe laces. What a funny idea, isn't’ it?” Once you managed to get all this behind you then you have to hold forth about political opinions. “My dear Sir, you don’t know the Germans. They will not tolerate this. An acquaintance of mine was confiding in me” -now he is lowering his voice and opens his eyes widely-, “that they are digging a tunnel to Paris. Then they will blow it up. You can trust me, my dear Sir, he has seen it with his own eyes.”

In the end there will some compliments (we are already close to Tulln). The gentlemen on the opposite side is offering candy, is winking and says (if he is a pretty guy) “My dear lady, I know all pretty women in Prague, how come I never met you?” Or (in case he is more of a family person): “Your husband will certainly await you impatiently, of course, with such a lovely little wife.”

The train is going and going, Klosterneuburg, Nussdorf. The suburbs. The wheels do no longer say Bum-ta-ta, Bum-tata. They cross switches, rattle without rhythm. Heiligenstadt, the first houses, the first tram. Six people put on their clothes, six people are getting their things, six people are rushing towards the window. For six people there is one luggage carrier. “Here is my suitcase” shouts the gentleman with the candy and pushes me in my ribcage. “Here is mine” screams the gentleman with the tunnel to Paris and shoves my gloves out of my hands. “Here is mine” yells the gentleman with the clever son and the shoelaces and pushes my hat unto my ears. People are streaming by from left and right, screaming like crazy. I fall out of the compartment with ripped off buttons, ruffled hair, hat under my arm. The gentleman from Berlin is stepping on my food. Then it gets quiet.