The Choice

presence. At the train station I leave Béla and Marianne on a secluded
bench and go alone to buy three tickets for Vienna and an armful of
sandwiches. Who knows when we will eat again?
We still have forty-ĕve minutes to wait for the next train. Forty-ĕve
more minutes for Béla’s empty cell to be discovered. Of course they
will send officers to the train station. e train station is where you go
to track down a fugitive, which is what Béla is now. And I’m his
accomplice. I count my breaths to keep from trembling. When I rejoin
my family, Béla is telling Marianne a funny story about a pigeon that
thinks he’s a butterĘy. I try not to look at the clock. I sit on the bench,
Marianne is in Béla’s lap, I lean against them, try to keep Béla’s face
obscured. e minutes tick slowly by. I unwrap a sandwich for
Marianne. I try to eat a bite.
en an announcement that makes my teeth chatter too violently
to eat. “Béla Eger, please report to the information booth,” the
announcer drones. It cuts through the static of ticket transactions, of
parents reprimanding their children, of separations and goodbyes.
“Don’t look,” I whisper. “Whatever you do, don’t look up.”
Béla tickles Marianne, trying to make her laugh. I’m worried they
are making too much noise.
“Béla Eger, come immediately to information,” the announcer calls.
We can hear the urgency mounting.
At last the westbound train pulls into the station.
“Get on the train,” I say. “Hide in the bathroom in case they search
the train.”
I try not to look around for the police officers as we hurry to board.
Béla runs with Marianne on his shoulders. She shrieks delightedly. We
have no luggage, which made sense on the streets, walking here, but
now I’m worried that the absence of luggage will arouse suspicion. It
will take nearly seven hours to reach Vienna. If we manage to get out
of Prešov, there is still the threat that police might board at any stop to