In Poland nobody travelled by train. Intense fear would momentarily overtake the village when the sound of the approaching train would roll in from a far like an earthquake, that muffled rattling destroying the serenity of blood circulation smashed into icy crystals that would tear one’s veins apart. One day my curiosity overtook my anxiety, so I began searching for the source of that fear. At the end of the overgrown path long untrodden by human foot I found an old marshalling yard covered with grass and scrubs. On the unkempt soil the cold steel of the freight cars glistened so polished as if it had just got off from an assembly line. As I was observing the scene, instead of that toxic nightmare, the massacre and madness, about which the eldest villagers talked about, I could only sense the leaden weight of the ominous silence pressing upon my lungs. As if the most bloodthirsty demons, drawn here by the smell off thick and sticky evil glued to the heavy Ruhr steel, escaped tormented by the eternal repeat of the horrors that took place in those wagons.
© translated by Damir Šodan