| Budapest, as all cities make much better first impressions under bright skies instead of gray clouds or rain. I reclined into my lower bunk with my feet toward the window. I must have been very tired, because I fell back to sleep on the as it swayed farther into eastern Europe. I checked my watch—3:10 AM—when I heard the first loud voices and a big commotion in the hallway. I assumed that another passport check was going on. This time, I would be prepared when the flashlight began so rudely beating against my door, but the anticipated pounding never arrived. I looked through my peephole, and to my surprise, I didn’t see any police or the car attendant. I did hear different frantic voices coming from both ends of the train car and even from outside the train. I realized then that the train was stopped; I gathered that we were at a small station in a village somewhere in Slovakia. I took a step back from the door and sidestepped over to the window side of my dark compartment. I shoved the red curtain aside to see if who was outside and what was going on. Before I could see, the knock on my door finally came and a powerful voice on the other side boomed, “Stay in your compartment. Keep your door locked; do not come out. There is a problem on the train!” A problem on the train? A shock wave coursed though my body. What the hell is happening? I thought. Where the hell am I? What could possibly be wrong? A fire? A crash? I’d felt nothing that would have indicated a crash, and I’d smelled no smoke. It must be a mechanical problem. This thought gave me a momentary feeling of comfort, but at the same time, I became acutely aware of sweat breaking out along my hairline and on my forehead. I was nervous, breathing fast. “Misses, misses—stay inside your compartment. Everything will be all right. Don’t worry.” I recognized the Hungarian attendant’s voice barking orders midway down the train car in the direction of the front of the train and toward his quarters. Movement outside the train suddenly caught my attention. A man in street clothes ran past my window. Another large man in uniform followed directly behind him, and then another uniformed man running with a black baton swinging in his right hand. They were shouting in a language I didn’t know, not German or English but words completely unfamiliar to me. But I knew they were shouting, “Stop!” or “Halt!” The racers were gone in a flash from beneath my window, so I bounced back to the small door and pressed my face hard against it, my wide eye covering the peephole. I could see police in the aisles now; they were in front of the compartment to my left, where the man and woman were—my neighbors with too much luggage. I dared not open my door, but I craved information to put my fears to rest. My only connection to the outside world was the big window and my small peephole, which I took full advantage of as I tried to comprehend what in the world was happening on the train. The attendant was there. He had keys in his hand, and he was struggling with the neighbors’ lock. Two Slovakian police officers with high black polished boots and in dark navy uniforms like those worn by SWAT teams were standing impatiently behind the attendant as he called to the occupants in English, “Hallo, hallo. Are you okay? Do you hear me? Hallo, hallo.” Then he switched to Slovakian or Hungarian. At last the knob turned, and all three men, the attendant and the two tough-looking officers, pushed their way into the tiny cramped compartment barely big enough for two. Now there were five stuffed in my neighbors’ compartment. The cold sweat on my forehead had now spread to the back of my neck as I craned to see through the peephole what was happening. |
| Gypsies on the Train (continued) |