The Station Master

Vysehrad railway station, a ghost station with a crumbling art nouveau facade and boarded up windows. Plagued with rats and pigeons, trains stopped stopping here years ago. But despite the empty, cobwebbed ticket hall and the deserted, oily station buffet, a light shines brightly from the platform as the trains whistle by. Wenceslas has been closely observing trains from the door of the station master’s office for nigh on twenty years. Every he day makes sure his uniform is pristine, then he comes to work, boils a kettle on the brassiere and salutes the trains as they make their way west towards Plzen or east back to the sanctuary of the main station. He can’t remember why he’s still there, he sometimes wonders if the railway company remembers he’s still there but he is still there, watching the trains. 

Station master Wenceslas looked out on the feast of Stephen, it was warm for the time of year, no snow to be seen. He was waiting for the 10.42 to Beroun, it should have been through the station by now. He walked down the decaying  platform to see if he could see what the problem was. The commuter train had stopped just  behind the bend.  Wenceslas could immediately see the problem  as smoke  bellowed out of one of the carriages, white and thick and even. Passengers were jumping down off the train onto the track. Shit thought Wenceslas, they were jumping out of the frying pan into the fire, or more literally out of the fire into the path of the International Express coming from Munich. It was due in two minutes and, if one thing was for sure, the Deutsche Bahn train would not be late.  There was no time to lose, he ran down the track like a wailing banshee, waving his arms and crying at the top of his voice. He knew the express train appeared from nowhere and rattled through at a rate of knots. The passengers looked confused as the poor man came in sight but soon got the message clearing the tracks just in time for the German loco and its carriages to shriek by them leaving them shaken but not stirred.

The problem with being a hero is that you draw attention to yourself. Exactly 1 month after the incident Wenceslas was rewarded with a medal for bravery from the president himself. And one month after that ceremony, he received a letter stating that that the Station Master’s office in Vysehrad train station was being closed and thus his post was made redundant.