Destination

People died. We did what we could. Dabbed their lips with wet rags, stroked their hair, told them they were going to a better place.

Later we’d open the car door and throw them out. I’d take the shoulders, Joseph the feet. Swing them a couple times for momentum, counting, one, two, three. As if they were small children and we were playing at the beach.

Of course some were small children.

I don’t know I always took the shoulders. Maybe I didn’t. My memory is of Joseph having them by the ankles. Until it was Joseph we were tossing out. Then it was Michael holding the feet.

When the train stopped and we were at the end of our journey we got out, stretched our legs and held a thanksgiving prayer. We remembered those we lost. We pooled our stores and made a feast.

After a few days the merriment turned to hope.

Within a month hope became resignation.

More died, but the days of throwing bodies from a boxcar were behind us.