The Interloper1
Brown and ageing photos, 'sepia tinted', always seem to speak to me of days gone and lost, irreclaimable. Somehow, in my mind I always see a particular post-war incident in ‘sepia tint’. 2
There was a grey sky that day that muted all colors. And the few leaves left on the linden and elm trees were a rotten brown; as were the weeds by the roadside, and the chaff in the fields. Perhaps that is why it registered as sepia; then and now.3
My parish held sixty families; less than a village, a mere crossroads. Unpaved roads at that, dusty in summer, muddy when it rained, ice-laden in winter, rutted always. 4
Thirty-three families had their men taken off to the war. The ‘fortunate’ ones, the majority, had received the hollow condolences of an uncaring government via a notice in the mail; ‘killed-in-action’, or as was more often the case, ‘missing-presumed-dead’. At least they knew, and had no hope to loose. 5
And the years passed.6
A rumor had gone round the district; the Russians were releasing the POWs. Nine families gathered that day in the parish hall to wait. The double doors stood open, because that gave the best view of the roads. They arrived in drips and drabs. Men dressed soberly in clean overalls and dark shirts. The women in dark dresses, plain, washed out, somber. No joy, no expectation. No conversation beyond mere greetings. Formalities. No blessings. No hope. Just a wait to see if any of their missing ones would walk down the road from the nearest train station, ten miles away.7
I stood among them. But while I was with them I was not of them. I had come to this parish since the war. We shared the war; but I had come home soon after. Their personal experiences were not mine. Mine were valid only for myself, something distant and apart from theirs. It is so hard to bridge that gap. I offered a word of hope here and there. I was met with silence and distant stares. I offered a word of prayer, and found no affirmation in their hearts. 8
A clapped-out tractor, pulling a farm wagon, chugged down the road; its diesel exhaust adding to the grey-brown haze. It slowed at the crossroads, as if unsure which turn to make. A man swung off the back of the wagon, grabbed a canvas bag, and spoke to the driver. The tractor bellowed and trundled off. The man looked around.9
He was tall, and gaunt, and dressed in a worn jacket, worn trousers, and scuffed boots. He wore a peasant’s brimmed cap. He was as sepia as the day. The families stirred, but none moved out of the hall. They crowded the doorway, but only to stare. “Who is this scarecrow? Does anyone recognize him?” they murmured. 10
As he walked up the path towards the hall he asked, “Is this Dornhof?” I answered for all. He stopped before the door, put down his satchel, and doffed his hat awkwardly. He was in his thirties, maybe older. His eyes were certainly older, sad and brown. His hair was shorn, and dappled grey.11
“Good day Pfarrer,” he said hesitantly. He wrung the cap in his hands. He looked at me, but not at the elderly faces of the farmers. There was sorrow in his voice; “I came on the last train.... There will be no other trains.... There will be no more POWs coming home.... I am sorry.”12
All their absences of expectation met in that denial. All hopelessness fulfilled. Ten years in the making, so easily fulfilled. ‘None left’. ‘None coming home’. As one body a soft moan escaped their lips. A brown note on a brown day.13
He put his cap back on, picked up his satchel, and began trudging along the road, back in the direction from whence he’d come.They watched the stranger walk away, until the oldest broke the spell, and pushed through the crowd. “Wait!” she cried. “Stay and have a meal with us. Let us welcome you, at least.” She turned to me and said, “when we have done this to the least of these, we have done it to Him.”14
And I knew the healing could begin.
Author notes
This is a fictional reflection on a German village awaiting the return of its WW2 POWs. Historically, most of the German soldiers who fought on the Eastern Front, and were captured by the Russians, died in captivity. Of those that survived, the last contingent didn't return to Germany until 1955. For example, of the 90,000 Germans captured at Stalingrad, only about 5,000 survived captivity.
[Equally, the Nazis starved hundreds of thousands of Russian POWs to death during the war]
Pfarrer: village pastor.
Hof: farm, settlement
In what way was the old woman's invitation important to the village?
Comments
1 - 11 of 11
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Realy good and moving.
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A very sad and moving tale
Once more you have a well written story that is full of good observation and detail. The sepia set picture held all the way through.
A fantastic piece of writing.
As for your question; with nobody to welcome home and the feelings of utter loss breavment at the total realisation. It is better to celebrate for those that survived and shared the struggle, to mark a line under it all; somewhere to start anew from.
Once again i congratulate you sir on a job well done.
Thank you.
Dave
beginning: 5, language: 5, plot: 5, ending: 5, dialog: 5, characters: 5.
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Thanks Dave,
You've answered the question very appropriately. To draw that line under something we cannot change and move on by incorporating others allows everyone involved to start anew.
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"Good day Pfarrer." He spoke hesitantly. He WRUNG the cap in his hands. He looked at me but, not at elderly faces of the farmers. He continued quietly "I came home of the last train... etc. The first time you say that he SPOKE hesistantly--not SAID--leads into the way that he will end what he is saying and it reads better that he should just continue so that there's a tiny transition before he speaks again. I think it would read smoother and the hesitation is implied the first time. Show don't tell--readers will get that he is hesitant.
It reads much better and I now understand why the old woman invited him to stay for a meal and for not only him but, the people to begin to heal--i did before but it wasn't very clear, I hope this helps.
Also i changed screwed to wrung (drop the up) Anyone who's ever washed clothes understands the word wrung--it's like screwed but the word implies his feelings of anxiety better.
just a few suggestions. everything else read nicely and the words are smooth and the the whole story reads much better than before.beginning: 5, language: 5, plot: 5, ending: 5, dialog: 5, characters: 5.
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MM,
Thank you for the feedback. I will have a chew on what you daid. But, I have already changed screw to wrung.
Ta,
JG
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Much better.
I like it much better now. Much easier to understand.
The beginning doesn't bore me, and strangely, even though I don't know why, hooks me. (or maybe that's just because I already know the rest of it is a good story.)
Parts like the 4th and 5th paragraph really help clear it up. (Those paragraphs were different before, right? Sorry, but I haven't read it for a long time.)
I can't remember what the old last line was, but I think I liked it better than the new one. But that ones really good too.
The only real criticism I have is that I am very ignorant in the art of color shades, so therefore did not know what the sacred shade of sepia is. I assumed it was some sort of brown, but I also thought it was some sort or infantry. (don't ask me how.)
I would say (knowing that almost everyone I know would have no idea what sepia is either) you could make it so when describing the color it goes something like
"It was the color of the leaves, mixed with the tan of blah, and stitched with the jackets of the men at war. It was the color that held in my memory of the aftermath. Blah blah blah, today it was that same muddled brown, looming at the edges of my vision blah blah."
ya know, something so the idiots like us know what your talking about.
hmmmmm, I had another idea on a perfect way on how to introduce the color, and I must say, it was perfect, ingenuous, unbelievably resourceful! It was the mother of all ideas, the shaker of all the great minds of the century!
Sadly, I forgot it.
But I wouldn't worry, It'll come back, sooner or later, and it won't be as good as a remember it...
Ah well, I have to write this English report for over the summer, so, best of luck, an remember, this entire comment is that of one who can scarcly remember the first version of your story.
Oh wait, oh GOD, What is This?
“Good day Pfarrer,” he said HESITANTLY. He screwed up the cap in his hands. He looked at me, but not at the elderly faces of the farmers. He spoke HESITANTLY.
Two "Hesitantly"s in a row? I think not. My god! How could one of your obvious abilities dare do such a- monstrosity? My good sir, that will not do. I decree that you shall fix it imeimmediatly!beginning: 4, language: 5, plot: 4, ending: 4, dialog: 4, characters: 4.
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I repented in sackcloth and ashes, and unhestitatingly deleated the second Hesitant!
Thanks for the feedback.
JG
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I have no idea who that interloper was or why the old woman invited him to stay and eat. I didn't know there would be a quiz at the end of the story. Lol. I just liked the way that it read.
beginning: 5, language: 5, plot: 5, ending: 5, dialog: 5, characters: 5.
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Fasinating
Love it, the tone, the rhythm, the wording, and even the title. Especially the title.
The little dialouge is great, and the lack of dialouge helps set the scene, though may bore the reader a little
Only thing I see is that the beginning, while descriptive and sets the tone, I'm just not hooked. Now, don't get me wrong, I've read plenty of books who open and describe the scene. But something is missing from yours. Maybe because the character isn't doing anything much?
The little dialouge is great, and the lack of dialouge helps set the scene, though may bore the reader a little
Actually, now I think of it, I did feel a bit bored throughout the entire story. Perhaps make more questions. Like, when the tractor comes, you could make the main character think. "What is this?. Who is on the road at this time." I don't know. like when you said “Who is this scarecrow? Does anyone recognize him?” it added greatly to the suspense and such. I think you need more of that. Or maybe I just I'm a boring idiot. *Shrugs*
beginning: 2, language: 5, plot: 2, ending: 5, dialog: 4, characters: 3.
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TFB
By the way, Sepia is the colour of the background of the story's page.
JG -
TF,
Sepia can be a boring colour.
Thank you for the thoughtful comments. I think some author notes are in order, rather than changes to the story. Peerhaps then it will make a little more sense.
JG
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