The Green Fields of the East

The grey station platform, slightly obscured by the faint streaks made by an earlier passenger's fingers as they dragged down the glass, was thronged with the excited forms of women and children, their arms outstretched towards the carriage, bidding the train farewell. The high peep of the whistle split the crisp, still air of that winter morning as the first wisps of steam started to creep out towards the station-building and the metallic sounds of the vehicle in motion began to grow. The little brick building and the stony backdrop of the town were passing slowly out of sight to the left, this movement quickening gradually as the white cloud began to fill the view afforded by the thin pane, billowing upwards, its tendrils grasping the bottoms of the red banners which had seemed to adorn the world for most of his life, the central white circles with their black symbols folding slightly in the gentle breeze.

As the train gathered pace, the view framed by the window opened to reveal the sprawling urban goliath, its regimented streets and well-drilled houses drifting by, their facades a thin imitation of that traditional Germanic form, the settlement a militarised ghost of a mythical past which always lay, barely perceptible, beyond the veil. Soon even this half-hearted monstrosity faded into green pastures, on which grazed the hulking forms of well-fed cattle. The growing blur soon absorbed the endless grass and the quiet villages which dotted it, leaving only the sky untouched.

After several hours, the rhythmic motions began to slow, and the blur subsided. The man by the window, who had spent his journey gazing out into the green haze of the landscape, turned his head to the right with a violent jerk, the long stubble of his patchy beard faintly scratching his collar. Peering down the carriage, he saw the tall, straight forms of two black-clad officers, haughtily demanding papers from silent passengers as they meandered towards him. One of the soldiers glanced at him, and he froze as piercing blue eyes bored into him from a clean, sharp face. A period a little too long for comfort passed before he broke off the connection, and the man went back to his inspections. In a few minutes, they had reached him, and the sharp-faced man looked down at him, the suppressed phantom of a smirk dancing on his face.

"Your identification, please," muttered the soldier.

"Of - of course," the man stammered, handing him a folded yellow pass from his breast pocket.

"Karl Ahrendt. Date of birth?" the sharp-faced man queried.

"Fourth of March, 1925," came the shaky response. The two men made a slow, drifting turn to face some nearby passenger, and Karl shuddered, still unpractised in his interactions with soldiers.

The carriage continued to glide over the land, which opened into flat, empty plains under a vast blue sky. The cattle looked thinner now, the seas of grain a sickly yellow. The people, too, took on a different form, their backs more hunched and the mechanical swings of agricultural implements fell in a weaker, almost resigned arc. Karl stared vacantly out at the countryside, dimly aware of these changes, without giving them a thought – they were, after all, merely the natural order of things.

The day passed slowly, drifting lazily away as the sun moved over the train and out of sight to its rear. Four more men had demanded Karl's papers, and they had all strolled off with a curious mixture of amusement and satisfaction on their faces. With each passing check, the grazing livestock had grown more emaciated, the people greyer. When the final investigation was concluded, and the train moved on towards its imminent destination, this effect reached its apex, and a sense of worry began to squat on Karl's chest. He had been promised a plot of land in an area as fertile as Germany itself, and all the resources he would need to boot, but the decline before his eyes challenged the confidence instilled in him by the kindly eyes which peered out at him from behind the sharp, clean spectacles of a uniformed bureaucrat. As the sun began to dip below the horizon, it cast a red glow across the great Eurasian steppe, the weary silhouettes of lonely farmers standing as black pockmarks across a bloody land.