| Lock the Door “Make sure that you lock the door to your sleeper compartment, like this.” The young Hungarian, an attendant on the long-distance Eurorail train car, twisted the small knob on the inside of my compartment door. As it turned, two stainless steel dead bolts, each about a half inch in diameter, shot out of the small door frame without finding the latch end because the door was halfway open. He wanted to make sure that I understood. I thought the lock was exceptionally rugged looking for such a small door on a very old train, which was preparing to leave Prague for Hungary. We would leave just after midnight and would travel all night, arriving in Budapest in the morning at 7:35 AM. |
He repeated again, quite seriously, for such a young and weary-looking man, “Make sure you lock this door
after I leave, and do not open it unless you see me or the police through this peephole.” He made direct eye
contact with me as he repeated these instructions, , for the second time, putting his finger on the small glass fish-
eye on the inside of my door. I nodded that I fully understood. As he began to move away toward the next
compartment, I leaned slightly out into the hallway where he stood, and I quietly asked, “Where is the toilet? And
if I want to buy some water or food—”
Brusquely, he interrupted. “The toilet is down at that end, and I’m down there too in the last compartment.
There is water and some food that you can buy with euros. Remember to lock the door. Good night.”
“Good night,” I replied, slowly closing the door to my sleeper compartment. I turned the knob, and the double
bolt easily slid into place with a metallic clack. I gave the door, with its shiny linoleum wood-grain veneer, a
sturdy shake; it didn’t budge, and there was no play in the lock at all. I stared through the peephole. It distorted
my view into something like the reflection off the back side of a spoon, but at least I could see partway down the
hall in either direction. As I peered out into the hallway, I began imagining Czech, Slovakian, or Hungarian
border police standing outside my door. I tried to remember whether their uniforms would be army
after I leave, and do not open it unless you see me or the police through this peephole.” He made direct eye
contact with me as he repeated these instructions, , for the second time, putting his finger on the small glass fish-
eye on the inside of my door. I nodded that I fully understood. As he began to move away toward the next
compartment, I leaned slightly out into the hallway where he stood, and I quietly asked, “Where is the toilet? And
if I want to buy some water or food—”
Brusquely, he interrupted. “The toilet is down at that end, and I’m down there too in the last compartment.
There is water and some food that you can buy with euros. Remember to lock the door. Good night.”
“Good night,” I replied, slowly closing the door to my sleeper compartment. I turned the knob, and the double
bolt easily slid into place with a metallic clack. I gave the door, with its shiny linoleum wood-grain veneer, a
sturdy shake; it didn’t budge, and there was no play in the lock at all. I stared through the peephole. It distorted
my view into something like the reflection off the back side of a spoon, but at least I could see partway down the
hall in either direction. As I peered out into the hallway, I began imagining Czech, Slovakian, or Hungarian
border police standing outside my door. I tried to remember whether their uniforms would be army
| Gypsies on the Train By Michael Domino Copyright 2007 Michael Domino |
“Will you be taking my passport,” I asked. It was common
practice on many European night trains for passengers to
give their passports to the attendant and then be given them
back in the morning, shortly before the train arrived at the
final destination in another country.
“No, keep your passport, but have it ready to show the
border police. There will be three passport checks tonight,” he
said. The blond attendant looked tired, with puffy red eyes.
Though he busily prepared his car for the new group of
passengers, it was apparent from the exhausted look on his
face that he had not just boarded the train at Prague’s Hlavní
Nádraží station, unlike me. He had a long, sleepless working
journey ahead of him, all the way through eastern Europe.
practice on many European night trains for passengers to
give their passports to the attendant and then be given them
back in the morning, shortly before the train arrived at the
final destination in another country.
“No, keep your passport, but have it ready to show the
border police. There will be three passport checks tonight,” he
said. The blond attendant looked tired, with puffy red eyes.
Though he busily prepared his car for the new group of
passengers, it was apparent from the exhausted look on his
face that he had not just boarded the train at Prague’s Hlavní
Nádraží station, unlike me. He had a long, sleepless working
journey ahead of him, all the way through eastern Europe.
