The White Rose

The White Rose

Tuesday, April 26, 2011

Memories V

The train whistle blew, the shrieking note piercing the air, drowning out even my mother’s loud sobbing.  Sophie and I stood on the train platform together, our numerous bags surrounding us, as well as various sobbing family members. I had been dreaming about this moment for years. Sophie and I were attending Munich University together, both majoring in philosophy, though Sophie had added on biology at the last moment, staying true to her perfectionist, hardworking character. I grimaced as my mother draped her arms around me for the umpteenth time, patting my hair, my cheeks, my arms, all the while sobbing
“My baby! Oh how you’ve grown! My baby! Gone to college!” I rolled my eyes over her shoulder at Sophie, who was also busy consoling a sobbing mother. Mrs. Scholl, poor, sweet lady that she was looked like the loss of her fourth child to college would finish her off.  Mr. Scholl, the robust, heavyset man that he was couldn’t control the solitary tear of pride that coursed down his cheek as he watched his daughter board the train. Saying my last farewells, I grabbed my thick brown suitcase and stepped on the train. Over the years that Sophie and I had been friends, we had grown and changed in many different ways. Still the silent, ponderous one, Sophie had turned to philosophy and poetry to escape the reality of the wartime we were living in. I had turned to my looks. My blonde hair and big blue eyes were my best assets, and I admit to being quite vain sometimes. Sophie’s hair had grown darker, though she still kept it meticulously groomed, and she was still petite.  Sophie darted ahead of me, scouting out our seats on the train. Finding them, she turned triumphantly to me, and brandished her ticket, waving it in the air.
“And so we are off… off to our new life, to new beginnings. This is the start of something amazing. I can just feel it!” she breathed as she settled down on the thick red seat opposite of mine. I smiled indulgently as she spouted off inspirational poetry that she felt supplemented the moment. I put my suitcases on the rack above my head, shook out my skirts, and settled back in my seat, enjoying the moment of rest while it lasted. Losing myself in the luxury of the soft chairs, I drifted off.

A sharp twinge in my leg awoke me. I started up, and realized the pain had been administered by Sophie’s impatient hand, jostling me awake.
“Are we there?” I gulped, jumping up from my seat, and banging my head painfully on the luggage rack. Sophie sighed and settled back down into her seat.
“No, we’re not leaving, I just wanted to know if you could edit this a bit…” and she opened her battered brown journal, the one she wrote all her thoughts, poems, ideas, etc. in. Clearing her throat, she read,
Just as I can’t see a clear brook without at least stopping to dangle my feet in it, I can’t see a meadow in May and simply pass by. There is nothing more pleasant than such a fragrant earth, the blossoms of clover swaying above it like lace, and the petal bedecked branches of the fruit trees reaching upwards, as if they wanted to rescue themselves from this tranquil sea. No, I have to turn from the path and immerse myself in this richness…” She trailed off, glancing at my face for approval. I nodded thoughtfully, and then put in my two cents.
“Maybe change pleasant to seductive…” Sophie interrupted me with a snort.
“You are such a romantic. It could just be pleasant, but no, you have to make it something sensual,” she teased, but nonetheless put her pen to paper again, and began scratching away. I cleared my throat and continued.
“The only other thing I’d change is the ‘clover swaying above it like a light foam’ it sounds more poetic.” Sophie nodded without looking up, and finished her editing with her tongue between her teeth.

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