A Train Ride to Queens by June Wolfman

A Train Ride to Queens by June Wolfman

Edith Hoffman tugged the lapels of her grey worsted wool coat tightly around her and tapped her floppy goulashes, depositing some New York City slush on the subway floor. She shook her gray hair, depositing snow on the train floor. She sat down in the subway, glad to get a seat. The train to Queens lumbered along from Manhattan, nearly putting Edith to sleep, taking her farther from her job at the hospital and closer to her son at home. She thought about her son. His serious expression and his wire-rimmed glasses. He would be studying now, still. To her great pride, he went to a special science high school. A fancy one. He took a test to get in. Her baby. She felt something like revenge thinking of her son. She had managed to live, and give life.

Every seat in the train was occupied, and several riders clung to straps along the rail at the top of the compartment. A boy next to her scribbled his homework in a binder. She wondered if he was commuting from one of the special high schools. She shot him an approving glance.

The train jolted, hissed, and came to a jerky stop, and a loudspeaker announced “Jackson Heights.” Train doors popped then slid open, and Helen Himner boarded the train, brushing snow from her shoulders and her grey worsted wool coat and her straight gray hair curled just at the very ends. She stood absolutely straight. Her eyes sparkled with a steely focus.

Just at that moment, the kid who had been doing his homework next to Edith jumped up and sprinted out of the subway doors, and Helen Himner quickly grabbed his seat, hungrily, like a starving person. Her shoulder pad compressed Edith’s shoulder pad. Her feet crowded Edith’s feet.

Helen pulled her gray worsted wool coat around her tighter and stomped her goulashes on the subway floor. The two women glanced at one another with side-eye looks, noticing that they were wearing nearly identical clothing and had nearly identical hair. They were of the same height. Helen looked down. She never spoke to anyone she did not know. They we all unknowns. They could be dangerous, she knew.

And then it happened. The women locked eyes with Edith. Each recognized the other. For Edith, it was such a shock that she was not only speechless, but she stopped breathing. Helen was a guard at the concentration camp where Edith nearly perished. She would never forget Helen’s eyes or the downturn of her lips. She couldn’t stop staring at Helen. She stuttered and mumbled to herself.

Finally, Edith spoke. “I know who you are,” Edith said in a thick Hungarian accent.

“Who I am? I do not know you!” Helen said as casually as she could in a perceptible German accent, and she turned in her seat, nearly pushing Edith off her seat.

Edith knew people were looking for the likes of Helen. Should she follow her home so she could report her whereabouts? Would anyone believe her? She couldn’t think straight. The train shook with a jolt. Her arm brushed against Helen’s arm, and Edith felt revulsion and rage. To touch this person?! She wanted to scream out to everyone on the train. She wanted to get a police officer. But she felt helpless. She would just be the crazy lady to everyone.

Helen scanned the subway car. There was nowhere to go. It was packed. She remembered this Edith from the concentration camp — Edith who was much the same age as herself. Edith was difficult to forget; she was always organizing this and that. She had such presence, not unlike a German. She carried herself like a German. She defied all the odds. Many were killed, somehow Edith always made herself indispensable to someone. She survived.

Helen continued to reflect defensively. I told no one that Edith was behind all the meetings and birthday gatherings, she thought proudly. I was only half alive in those days. I spent hours missing university and my boyfriend. We all knew Germany was losing. Helen had wondered if they would kill the remaining prisoners before being overtaken. She had hoped not.

Edith thought of Helen and the way she strutted around the camp like she owned the place and the people in it. She was always telling them to hurry or to be quiet. Friday prayers were forbidden, and Helen saw to the enforcement of that rule — ruthlessly. Once she slapped me, Edith recalled, and she threatened to tell the men I was an organizer. That was threatening to kill me!

The train to Queens jolted back and forth. Edith said again, “I know who you are, you murderer!!”

People began to look at Edith. A few young people moved away.

Helen panicked. This Edith could report her. All she wanted was to forget the war. It was such hell. She was so young. If she had not obeyed orders, it would be she who would be killed. Nobody understood that. Nobody understood that the eyes of the loyal followers were always upon people like Helen. She always feared of showing any weakness. Helen remembered the day she shaved Edith’s hair, just following orders. It had been such lovely, long, brown hair. Luscious hair. All the women were eventually bald anyway. Edith had cried – so weak.

“You are imagining things,” Helen said to Edith. “You are mistaken. I do not know you.”

“You think you can be another person here?” said Edith. “You think your past is just forgotten now?” Edith continued.

The train shook and the lights in the compartment went out. The train doors opened and closed in the darkness.

When the lights finally came on, and the doors opened, only one gray-clad lady sat there, slumped over with a knitting needle plunged in her heart.

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright June Wolfman 2025

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