The Choice

search the train. ere was no time to procure fake identiĕcation. We
are who we are.
We ĕnd an empty compartment, and I busy Marianne at the
window, counting all the shoes on the platform. Aer springing Béla
from jail, I can hardly tolerate the idea of his being out of my sight. I
can’t stand for the danger to continue, to mount. Béla kisses me, he
kisses Marianne, and goes to hide in the bathroom. I wait for the train
to start moving. If the train can just leave the station, we are an inch
closer to freedom, a second closer to Béla’s return.
e train won’t move. Mama, Mama, I pray. Help us, Mama Help
us, Papa.
e compartment door folds open and a police officer gives us a
quick glance before shutting the door. I hear his boots as they move
down the aisle, I hear other doors opening and shutting, I hear him
shouting Béla’s name. I chatter at Marianne, I sing, I keep her looking
out the window. And then I fear that we will see Béla in handcuffs,
being pulled from the train. At last I see the conductor li his stool
from the platform and board the train. e car doors close. e train
begins to move. Where is Béla? Is he still on the train? Has he
managed to escape detection? Or is he on his way back to jail, to a
certain beating—or worse? What if every turn of the wheels brings us
farther apart, farther from a life we can make together?
By the time we reach Košice, Marianne is asleep in my arms. ere
is still no sign of Béla. I scan the platform for Klara. Is she here to meet
us? Will Csicsi come? Has she understood the danger we’re in? What
preparations has she made in the hours since we spoke?
Just before the train pulls away from the Košice station, the
compartment door opens, and Béla rushes in, giddy from adrenaline.
“I have a surprise!” he calls before there is time to quiet him. Marianne
opens her eyes, she is disoriented, she fusses. I rock her, side to side, I
reach for my husband. My husband who is safe.