Aber Jakob ist immer quer über die Gleise gegangen….(Uwe Johnson – Mutmaßungen über Jakob)

This is an invasion. Sleep taking over his eyes. Little to focus on. The rail tracks dwindle away round the curve. The grey morning rises slowly from the night. Deep red roses round that cottage door. Almost like home.

Two hours to wait. Alone on the platform. Alone on that bench. He leans back on his rucksack. Wonders where comfort might be. Here, in this cold station at 4:30 am on a summer’s day. Before the summer comes out.

A sudden loud snattering as a tank lurches across the level crossing. Just beyond the cottage with the roses. Quite different from home. The birds suddenly catapulted into the sky. The noise in his ears. Singing. Free jazz of the marches. Grates his eardrums. No logic to its progression. Noise he is not yet attuned to. Another kind of music. Gone. Lost in the trees.

The birds begin to drift back to their roosts. Like tissue paper thrown in the air. The silence is frosty in his ears. Keeps him awake. Just. On the border between sleep and wakefulness. Unable to commit either way.

On the bridge, two guards in uniform march. One to the left. One to the right. And back again. Over and over again. Guns in the crook of their arms. Each looking out to his left. So both sides of the bridge are covered. The one walking to the left can see me. I hunker down. Try to be invisible. Then they turn. Now the other can see me. No escape.

An hour and a half to wait. It seems to have got colder. He looks up the track. Towards where he has come from. Back there, a whole world waits. Another tank scatters a confetti of birds. He turns towards its growl. Follows its muffled snicker with his eyes. Downstream, another world, where someone lies in a warm bed. Also waiting. But he doesn’t know this. Doesn’t know who. He just lounges there. Ready to take whatever comes. Straight down the tracks. Leading him astray.

When he could have crossed them this once. Run into the forest. Dragged himself through the quicksand. Outrun the hounds. Thrown himself against the fence. And begged for mercy. If it weren’t for the guns. Stalking the bridge. Too close for comfort.

Comfort is the straight line. At the end of which are other kinds of death.