Emigration

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Chapter One

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I.

Regardless of what had happened, the town didn't change. In all, it stayed the same. The dark, brooding and gloomy walk ways continued to scare little children and the skies still muted the light of the sun. The bricks were still layered with a thick ash and lie in broken patters, which would switch into different directions little by little. The buildings still all lay in broken lines and dulled the atmosphere of the place.

The news reports that had been issued at the shop on the corner hadn't been what the town was listening to. Couples of all sorts would walk into the shop, order what they needed to, place it on their tab and walk out until the end of the month. The shop owners would bite their nails, talk to one another and begin to discuss how business had been going down. The nearing winter months meant little or no healthy crops, and it meant snow. Even if the radio had been placed on that day and sat on the corner of the counter, it was still ignored and its words drowned out.

Of course, a few had listened to the reports. The children of sorts would begin to ask their parents want a “front” meant and if the man on the radio had been referring to the front of their mother's shirt, which needed to be sewn once more. And these questions would continue for some time, before the orders to have their mouths sewn shut would be commanded. Randall Korsch, however, never had the chance to live the boring days before the war sprung upon them. The radio was on during the time his students worked, which many would complain about the noise.

Randall, however, listened intently. The front was seemingly closer to Moskau with every report, which began to worry him. The deep circles of lacking sleep would appear below his eyes as his forehead crinkled while he stayed in deep thought. It had been after school when he finally decided he was to return to his home, to become a citizen of his country once more and stay there, a small hint of loyalty still lie in his soul, regardless of what had happened.

He sat at his desk, going through the papers that had been due that day, and looked up to find a girl still left in his classroom. The sight of a girl wasn't abnormal, and that wasn't what surprised him, it was who was left which surprised him. It wasn't that she was his least favorite student, it was more he was her least favorite teacher. “Miss Scarro,” he spoke, the thick accent on his voice bouncing off the walls. It caught her attention and she looked to him. “It's past dismissal, should you not be heading home?”

It wasn't his sort of attitude to be politically correct, yet avoiding a lawsuit was something he liked to do, and he awaited her answer, trying to look as friendly as possible. Regardless of his efforts, she still frowned and placed her feet on the ground, grabbed her bag and slung it onto her back. “I was waiting for you to be finished. I had questions about the homework.”

The static from the radio was beginning to disappear and he knew a report was to go on once more, which caused him to take a sharp intake of breath and his eyes to grow wide. She looked at him, standing on the other side of his desk and waited for his answer. He realized he was holding his breath and let it go, giving her a soft, wavering smile. “Is it the equations?”

“I don't understand density.”

Her tone was cold and Randall nodded, moving his chair back a moment before lightly touching a drawer. “The meaning of it,” he looked up at her. “Or the reason we need it?”

“All of it. My life has nothing to do with water. I am to be a farmer.”

“Are you?” he asked, as he looked through the drawer he had opened, a smile still placed on his face. The voice on the radio began to speak, going on about the weather of the nearby provinces. He ignored it and found a container, taking it out before looking through another drawer for a thin sheet of metal. “Isn't the crop season soon?”

“For turnips, yes. But I grow corn. That is it.”

“That'll do you some good, Miss Scarro.” He stood, wincing as he grabbed his cane and hobbled over to the sink before switching it on. He watched the water fall into the glass and it circled, finally filling half way. “Grab the metal, please.” He placed the cup onto the desk and sat down, looking to her. “You know,” he said. “Density is an important concept that everyone ought to figure out,” he began to say as she grabbed the thin sheet of metal and he continued to half listen to the voice on the radio. He grabbed the metal train from the desk and smiled at her. “Watch.”

She did so as he dropped the train into the water, it sunk easily and the water splashed up and she cocked her head to the side and he grabbed the thin sheet of metal, beginning to carefully fold it. “I am sure you wish to feed the rest of the world, correct? Make a profit off your corn?”

She looked at him as if wondering what that had to do with density, and he just continued to smile. He placed the bent piece of metal onto the water and it floated, which made her look at him. “You're near an ocean, the boat you place your corn on will have to float in order to gain profit.” His left eye dropped in a wink and she looked at him.

“How does it do that...” she looked at him.

“Disregarding the bad example,” he said, almost kicking himself. “It has to do with density. Of course, metal will always be metal, no?” he asked her and she nodded, placing her bag down. “But someone figured, if you could change metal, maybe it could float. That does sound absurd, doesn't it? But it worked-- it changed the way the ship--”

“...the front has grown closer, the rumored “camps” are beginning to form on the outskirts of Moskau.” Randall's speech silenced at that point, the girl looking to him oddly. He looked to the radio in horror and she placed her hands on the desk, her lips parting as she began to speak to him, trying to snap him out of the trance.

He ignored the rest of the reports, looking to the girl and smiling, his face had gone instantly pale, which surprised her. Miss Scarro figured the man before her could get no more colorless than he already was, but he did and her face twisted into a look of worry. Of course ,to Randall, it was nothing more than confusion, for he wouldn't be able to read what she had felt for him then, until years later. He placed his hand on hers, which had crossed and supported her.

“...remember your question,” he said. “I am sure the next teacher who comes here... would love to help you as much as I wanted to.”