Stellina

Reflection in Broken Glass

Luka Fuhrmann hated trains.

He'd started hating them ever since he'd been informed of his mother's death while on the express train to Mainz. Yet now, as he leaned his head against the velvet seat on the night train to Marseilles, filth streaked on his cheeks, he tried to remain optimistic. For although he was running away from his worst nightmare, he prayed that Marseilles could be his escape. Maybe here, he could find what he most desired. Maybe here, people would look at him as a human, not an inferior Jew, and he could finally keep a job. He already had a piano performance lined up in a couple of days, after all, at a place called Capuciana Cafe.

Eyes fluttering shut, Luka tried not to think back on the nightmare he was escaping. Yet his mind kept coming back to it, kept coming back to the night before.

Luka could still taste the evening on his tongue. The lavish dinner laid out before him, plates of veal and roasted vegetables and decadent desserts of all sorts. His rich patron, who had hired him as an accountant for his insurance company just last month, insisted Luka attend. And why should he say anything to the contrary? It was the first decent meal he'd had in years.

Yet it had all ended in shambles, just like every other job.

Pressing his cheek against the window, he sighed. Snow flurries danced across the train tracks. The earth buzzed past him in one swift motion. The train chugged along sluggishly, huffing and puffing like a runner toward the end of his race.

Luka glanced around, his stomach growling despite the elaborate meal he had just consumed. Tension sizzled in the air, which smelled faintly of sweet cologne. He ran his fingers through his dark, mocha hair, then surveyed his surroundings. In front of him sat a girl with hair the color of autumn leaves, shoulders slouched in despair. Beside her, a woman with posture like iron whispered urgently in her ear, though Luka couldn't help but feel it was somehow about him.

Luka closed his eyes again, ignoring the rustling of movement as the passenger behind him shifted. A few heartbeats later, the man on his left harshly tapped his shoulder. "Excusez-moi, but my wife was just inquiring as to where you are from. You don't seem to be from around here." The man frowned.

Luka cringed. Sleep deprivation slurred his words. "Ja, I am from Germany. I'm here for work," he said in his awkward French.

The train stumbled on. A girl broke out into screams two rows behind him, prompting Luka to flinch.

The man rubbed the stubble on his chin. "Ah, I see," he murmured. "They didn't want you over there anymore, I suppose."

Filled with desperation, Luka bit his lip and nodded slowly, pride disappearing with each bob of his head. For the truth could not be denied. The man turned away, suddenly uninterested. Luka leaned back, swallowing the words that haunted his mind. Reaching in his pocket, he fingered the single photograph that was nestled in the wool fabric. It was the only photograph he had of the priceless necklace, the item that he'd come here to find. He was vaguely aware of a hardy woman in front of him, who was sitting next to the girl with music in her eyes, craning her neck and glaring at the crumpled mess he was. It wasn't long before he felt himself drifting into a world of piano, with singing notes that brushed against his fingers.

And so it was that he vaguely noted the woman murmuring something under her breath.

Juif. Juif. Juif.

• • •

The filth was long gone from Luka's cheeks now. He had vigorously scrubbed it off as soon as he'd exited the train several days ago. As he sat on the piano bench at Capuciana Cafe, hands folded neatly in his lap, he gazed out at the collection of empty tables before him. He could still picture her sitting there, her auburn hair pulled neatly in a bun, a soft smile on her lips as she watched him play a couple of nights ago at his first concert in Marseilles. Her gaze never left him the entire time, at least as far as he could tell in his peripheral vision, and it had haunted him ever since. Glancing over at his boss, bent over behind the pastry counter, he tried to clear the girl that had somehow enchanted him from his mind.