The Way to LA
James Rada, Jr.
1: The Woman on the Platform
The black iron steam engine eased its persistent chug as it approached the Western Maryland Railway station in Thurmont from the east. When the wheels finally stilled, a riot of screeches and groans emanated from the trucks as they reluctantly slid along the cold, hard iron rails—a heavy, relentless push provided by the weight of four Pullman cars and two baggage cars. Every passenger felt one last gentle jolt, a tremor that spoke of the journey’s end, as the train shuddered to a complete stop in front of the station.
The air was thick with the pungent aroma of smoke mingled with the rich, earthy smell of coal and the biting scent of burned metal. A crowd had gathered along the platform, some eagerly waiting their turn to board, while others scanned the throng in search of familiar faces. Gradually, they began to disperse in search of their loved ones, and some wandered into the station’s dim interior to use the washroom and prepare to re-board before the train resumed its westward course.
As the bustling platform slowly cleared, a lone woman remained standing, her presence marked by a quiet solitude. With an expression tinged with mild confusion, she carefully surveyed her surroundings, as though trying to decipher a puzzle in the echo of the departing train.
Then, in a piercing interruption, the train whistle sounded—sharp, shrill, and slicing through the still air. The conductor called out, “All aboard!” His voice carried over the silence as he paused for a moment, fixated on the solitary woman as he arched an eyebrow in silent inquiry. She returned a small, enigmatic smile, yet made no move toward the train. Eyeing the platform for any sign of hurried movement, the conductor checked his watch before confidently stepping aboard as the whistle sounded once more. The train slowly edged forward, its pace picking up as it began to roll away into the distance.
The woman watched, her eyes tracing the receding form of the train until it was nothing more than a memory etched against the sky. After a lingering moment of contemplation, she ambled over to an old, weathered bench at the foot of the station, seeking solace in its quiet familiarity.
Not far off, Henry Walcott, the station agent, emerged from the shelter of his cramped office for a quick smoke. The mingled aroma of tobacco and fresh smoke was a rare comfort amidst the austere reminders of war, as at least for now, tobacco was not yet rationed. His routine was interrupted when his gaze fell upon the attractive woman with brunette hair seated alone on the bench—a surprising discovery, for it was unusual for someone to linger without any indication of an expected arrival, and she had no suitcase, no purse, nothing to anchor her presence.
“Hello, ma’am,” he called out, approaching with cautious curiosity.
The woman turned and offered a gentle smile. Her eyes sparked with caution and hesitation.
“Is there anything I can help you with?” Henry asked, his voice carrying both warmth and the uncertainty of the unexpected.
“Je ne parle pas anglais,” she replied in measured French, the syllables lingering in the crisp air.
Henry’s eyebrows leaped in surprise, the foreign cadence of her words leaving him momentarily perplexed. Unsure how to proceed, he hesitated until his nephew, Bill Freeze, stepped onto the platform, carrying a paper bag that rustled with promise. Bill cheerfully announced, “Mom sent over your lunch, Unc.”
Henry’s sister, Rosemary, always fretted over whether her younger brother, a solitary man with little time for tending his humble victory garden, was nourishing himself properly. “Put it on my desk,” Henry instructed, as Bill disappeared into the station’s shadowy interior.
Emerging soon after, Bill proclaimed, “Mom sent over pickles and fried chicken,” his voice laced with affectionate familiarity.
“Thank her for me. I love your mother’s pickles,” Henry replied with a nostalgic smile.
“But isn’t the eastbound train still hours away?” Bill inquired, his eyes darting back to the quiet platform.
“It will be here about six o’clock,” Henry answered, his tone thoughtful.
Then, lowering his voice, Bill asked, “So why is that woman sitting out there? There won’t be any trains coming by for her to watch.” She was about his age, and train-watching wasn’t something young women his age did.
“I have no idea who she is. She speaks like a foreigner,” Henry murmured, recalling her earlier response.
“What language does she speak?” Bill pressed, his tone a mix of curiosity and mild concern.
“She said something—I couldn’t make out all of it—it sounded like ‘parlay’ and ‘anglaze’,” Henry added, shaking his head at the names as Bill winced at the garbled pronunciation, his mind searching for familiar words amidst the confusion.
He approached the mysterious woman with a tentative “Hello.” Her response was calm and measured: “Je ne parle pas anglais.” Recognizing the language from his high school French classes, Bill smiled and replied confidently, “Je parle français.”
The woman’s face lit up, and soon she began speaking rapidly, her words tumbling out in a melodic French cadence. Bill had to concentrate hard to catch every nuance, his ears straining as he gleaned the essence of her message. Politely, he mentioned that his French was far from perfect and requested she speak a bit slower, so he could understand her clearly. In response, she smiled at his halting pronunciation, a gentle acknowledgment of his effort.
“My name is Bill Freeze,” he said, extending his hand in introduction.
“My name is Celine Winfrey. I am waiting for my husband’s family,” she replied softly in French, her voice carrying a hint of longing and uncertainty.
Bill, aware of a slight gap in his hearing due to an old accident—a punctured eardrum from when he was ten—gestured for her to speak a little louder on his side. “Can you speak a bit more to this side? I’m deaf in the other ear.”
Apologetically, she repeated herself, “I said I am waiting for my husband’s family.”
Curiosity piqued, Bill inquired, “What is their name? Maybe I can send a car to their house or even take you there myself, just in case they forgot you were arriving.”
“My husband is Nathan Winfrey,” Celine replied, her tone gentle but carrying a silent note of urgency.
Bill frowned, realizing that he did not recognize the name, which was unusual in a tight-knit town of fewer than 1,100 residents, all of whose family names he knew by heart. “I’m sorry,” he admitted. “I don’t recognize that name. Do you have an address or a phone number?”
Celine reached into her handbag and produced a neatly addressed envelope. Bill unfolded it carefully as his eyes widened upon reading the address. “This address is in Los Angeles,” he stated, a mix of disbelief and concern in his voice.
She nodded slowly, confirming, “Yes.”
Pointing at the sign suspended above the station reading “Thurmont,” Bill explained, “You’re in Thurmont. This is on the opposite side of the nation from Los Angeles.”
Celine’s eyes widened as she digested his words. She turned to gaze at the now distant train, her voice quiet with dismay. “All my things were on the train. Did they unload them when the train stopped?”
“Not if they were marked to be sent to Los Angeles.”
Celine got a panicked look on her face. Bill raised his hands in a placating gesture. “We’ll figure out how to get you to your husband’s family. I suppose you can’t read English either,” he added gently.
Celine nodded, her expression a blend of relief and lingering worry. “How long have you been in the United States?” she asked, her French accent softening her inquiry.
Bill recalled neighborhoods where European languages were still spoken, but from what he’d encountered, people usually had a better command of English. “I arrived yesterday,” he answered.
“From France?” She nodded once more. “Nathan and I were married two weeks by an Army chaplain just outside of Paris.”
“And Nathan is an American,” Bill ventured.
“Yes, he is a soldier,” she confirmed.
Bill’s memories stirred as he recalled the war brides—soldiers in Europe falling in love, marrying local women, and subsequently sending them to America where safety, or so it was believed, awaited. “So your husband was sending you to stay with his family in Los Angeles?” he asked, a note of gentle incredulity in his voice.
Celine nodded again. That answered one question, but only deepened the mystery of how to transfer her from this small, unexpected town to Los Angeles. “Do you still have your ticket? My uncle is the stationmaster here. I’m sure he’d honor it,” Bill suggested hopefully.
With trembling fingers, Celine lifted her handbag and began rummaging through its depths before handing it over to Bill. But instead of a ticket for the Western Maryland Railway, he found it was something else entirely—a stark reminder that the conductor had likely pulled her off the train, or perhaps she had mistakenly alighted at the wrong stop altogether.
“Why did you get off here?” Bill asked, his tone patient yet puzzled.
“The conductor pointed here for me to disembark. I truly thought it was Los Angeles,” she murmured, her confusion evident.
Bill shook his head slowly. “You were on the wrong railroad. He kicked you off the train.”
“I did not know,” Celine replied, her voice a fragile mixture of disbelief and resignation.
“Do you have money to purchase a ticket to Los Angeles?” Bill inquired, scanning her expectant face.
She rifled through her handbag again, revealing only a handful of francs. Bill’s eyes softened with sympathy as he shook his head. “American money here would be essential. A trip to Los Angeles will cost you at least fifty dollars,” he explained.
She responded with a quiet shake of her head, and Bill sighed, running a hand over his forehead. “We can write your in-laws, and perhaps they can wire you the money. It might take a little while,” he offered thoughtfully.
“What do I do until then?” she asked, her voice tinged with worry and uncertainty.
“I’m not sure,” Bill admitted after a brief pause. Then, brightening with a sudden idea, he added, “Let’s go talk to my parents. We have an extra room in the house. Maybe they’d be willing to let you stay with us.”
“Are you sure?” Celine asked, hope glimmering in her eyes.
“No, but I think so. Let’s talk to them. They run the restaurant next door,” Bill replied as they walked off the platform, the autumn air filled with the rustling of leaves and whispered promises of temporary refuge.
They made their way up the street to the Railroad Diner—a quaint, small restaurant tucked away on the ground floor of an imposing house capable of seating about three dozen patrons. The building belonged to the Freeze family, with their home occupying the second and third floors above the diner. Inside, Bill counted only half a dozen diners at the tables, their meals punctuating an atmosphere that merged everyday life with the quiet hum of distant stories.
“There’s the slacker,” came a playful remark from Jack Harbaugh as he nibbled on a salad, the greens freshly plucked from Bill’s mother’s vibrant victory garden.
Jack’s misbehavior was met with a swift retort as Helen Freeze playfully smacked him upside the head with a dish towel. “Hey!” he exclaimed, grasping his head as Rosemary admonished him, “I warned you about that.”
Jack, sheepish yet unbowed, responded, “It’s true. It’s not. He didn’t choose not to join unlike you,” to which Rosemary retorted with feigned indignation, “I haven’t been drafted yet.”
“Well, nothing is stopping you from joining,” Jack murmured, and with that, he returned to his meal. Bill, burdened by the label of 4F due to his partial deafness—but still plagued by whispers of cowardice for not having gone to Europe—approached his mother with his customary gentle enthusiasm.
“Mom, this is Celine. She’s a war bride, stranded here for a few days until she can get enough money to head to Los Angeles. She needs a place to stay until then,” Bill explained.
Rosemary extended her hand with a kind smile, remarking warmly, “I’m Rosemary Freeze.” She paused and added, “You’re a pretty young thing.”
Bill quickly translated for Celine, letting her know in French, “My mother says you are pretty,” before turning back to his mother and adding, “That’s the other thing—she’s French and doesn’t speak English.”
“Well, she came to the wrong place then,” Rosemary commented lightly.
“She didn’t mean to. Her husband’s family is in Los Angeles, but somehow everything got mixed up, and she wound up here while her luggage is on its way to the coast,” Bill explained, his tone filled with sympathy.
Rosemary laid a comforting hand on Celine’s arm. “I’m so sorry, my dear. Of course, you can stay here. We have an extra room,” she assured her, her voice filled with genuine concern.
Sensing the kindness extended to her, Celine managed a small smile, although her face bore the quiet sorrow of loss. Bill translated his mother’s heartfelt offer, and Celine replied softly, “I won’t accept charity. I want to do something to repay your kindness.”
“You don’t have to,” Rosemary gently insisted, “but we can figure something out. The first thing we must do is write your in-laws and let them know what is happening. We’ll get you home as quickly as we can.”
Celine sighed deeply, a sound heavy with memories and regret. “My home is gone. My family is gone. Nathan and his family are all that I have left.” In that moment, amid the comforting clatter of the diner and gentle familial chatter, a fragile hope began to take root—a promise of new beginnings even amid unexpected setbacks.
