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We arrived at the station in good time for our departure. The fine weather had succumbed to cloud as the morning progressed and by noon the sky hung menacingly low, a tapestry of hysterical grays that forebode storms to come. Already the wind was beginning to strengthen, callously swirling dust before us and I found myself longing for rain to dampen the ground once more. In this, at least, I was not to be disappointed.
On arrival Mama took receipt of the travel documents from the Station Master’s office. I briefly considered challenging her earlier story, that they were to have been delivered to our home that morning, but decided against it. From recent experience I knew such queries would only cause friction between us.
I glanced at the papers as they exchanged hands, but they were written in German and meant nothing to me. The Station Master made clear we must first take the train to Bucharest, our once proud capital.
I lay our trunk on the ground beside the rail track to form a seat for Mama, but she preferred to stand, so I sat down with Nicolae to try and occupy him. This one valise contained all our worldly belongings beyond the clothes we wore. All that we possessed of our past, to see us into the unknown future. It was a sobering thought, for I remembered how we had taken three such trunks on our holiday to Constanta for what had only been a few days away from home.
But these melancholy deliberations were quickly dismissed as Nicolae’s excited cries brought my mind back into focus. Keen eyes and ears, undimmed by events that had dulled the senses of his elders, had identified a flume of steam in the distance and, even above the developing storm, the unmistakable sound of an approaching locomotive.
“Do not allow yourself to become too excited, Nicolae,” I cautioned him gently. “It may not be the train we are waiting for.”
“But it is, Anca. I know it is.” My brother was determined in his supposition. His voice bubbled excitedly, “Look! Can you see it! Mama, I can see the smoke!”
“Steam, Nicolae, steam,” I corrected him, almost without thinking. It was an unimportant point, but Papa always said that lax use of language was the sign of an indolent mind. As with so many things Papa had told me, his words somehow assumed new significance once he was gone.
By now, to my brother’s delight, the locomotive was upon us, screeching wheels and hissing steam deafening as the engine passed us by, trailed by a snake of grime-ridden carriages until, at last, the cumbersome procession shuddered to a noisy, grinding halt. Little Nicolae was utterly enthralled by the sight, his eyes wide, his mouth open, desperately trying to count the carriages that passed us.
As the steam dissipated the carriages suddenly burst into activity, doors opening and slamming shut, people mounting or disembarking according to their need. I felt Mama tugging my arm, urging me to follow her.
Grabbing our trunk and pushing Nicolae before me, I hurried to match Mama’s steps as she made her way to the most distant part of the train and opened the door for us to board. I heaved our case onto the step, lifting Nicolae on behind it, urging him to quickly find a seat.
The only other passengers this far back were a family of Jews, instantly identified as such by the yellow star they were obliged to wear sewn to their clothes. They huddled together in the far end of the carriage from us, studying our embarkation with suspicious eyes.
Mama appeared not to notice them, or if she did she gave no indication, and directed us to the opposite end of the carriage where she elected to sit with her back to her fellow travellers. Nicolae and I sat opposite her, by chance affording ourselves a clear view of the huddled family, although out of politeness I tried to appear disinterested.