‘They’ll come, won’t they? They will, won’t they, Phillipe?’
‘Can we go home now, Papa?’
‘Where’s the kitten? Hold on to it. The train will be here soon. Just wait.’
‘Check the ticket again! Check it. It’s for today, isn’t it?’
They reached the end of the platform at the opening of the terminus, where Michel could see the endless tracks running out into the night. He sat down with his back against a post, holding his bag tightly to his chest, whilst Bertrand squatted atop his suitcase.
A bee, baffled by all the visitors and early summer heat, rolled on the floor, his tiny wings beating as quickly as Michel’s heart. He held his hand flat so the bee could climb aboard his palm and sit for a while, until it finally felt able to hum away into the night.
Not far down the platform a tall, thin man with a heavy black moustache was arguing with a conductor. ‘We have tickets!’ he screamed. ‘We have them! Where is the train?’
The conductor did not answer, and Michel could see the fear on his face as another voice entered the argument.
‘We all have tickets! All of us. Why do you think we are here?’
‘I’m sorry,’ the conductor mumbled. ‘I am sorry.’
‘No point in apologies. Just tell us when the trains will come!’
‘I don’t know. Soon, I think? Yes, soon. Any minute now.’ The conductor took out his pocket watch as if it would confirm the trains’ arrival. ‘Yes, yes, soon. They’ll all come soon.’
His answer settled the mood slightly, and the moustached man went to sit with his family once more, whilst the conductor pushed past the seething walkway to his office.
The night-time shadows had fallen completely now, so Michel could no longer see the tracks, but the dark was bringing some quiet to the station as voices lowered, and babies ceased their howling. Michel could hear the coo of pigeons nesting in the rafters above him, and every now and then a feather fell with the sound of flapping wings.
Suddenly, from outside, a light stabbed at the now dark blue summer sky, a huge beam that sought its prey.
‘Search planes,’ Bertrand grunted.
Others had noticed and looked to the sky too. Their voices rose again, and Michel heard a woman sobbing.
The moustached man started talking once more, this time to a short gentleman who sat alone but had an abundance of luggage. ‘They’ll be here before the trains arrive,’ the moustached man said.
‘You may be right,’ the short man replied.
‘I left home two days ago. Two days! And we are still waiting. Why is no one helping us? Do they want us to die?’
‘We won’t die,’ the short man said. ‘The Germans will come, but we will not die. We will just have to live different lives – the lives that they want for us.’
The moustached man scoffed and lit a cigarette. ‘You know it all, eh? You know what will happen? I’ve been a solider before. I know what happens in war. I know what the Germans are like.’
The moustached man’s wife began to weep, holding her smallest child to her chest and letting her tears fall onto its golden hair.
The short man shook his head. ‘Maybe you’re right. Maybe. But isn’t it better to hope that we can survive?’
The moustached man turned away, and Michel saw the short man take his flat cap off; underneath he wore a kippah. The short man looked at Michel, smiled, then replaced his cap.
A baby woke and wailed; a high-pitched howl that made Michel want to hold his hands against his ears. Somewhere, a dog barked, and another child started to cry.
As if by magic, Bertrand’s violin appeared in his hands, and he began to play a soft tune. At first, the melody was so quiet that it did not reach the ears of the waiting crowds, but as Bertrand played, the volume increased just enough for it to echo off the glass terminus.
Slowly, people turned to find the source of the music, and although they could not see Bertrand and his small wiry hands moving the bow across the strings with such care, they gradually stopped their worrying chatter.
Michel felt a surge of warmth in his chest as his friend played and soothed everyone’s souls. He leaned his head back against the cool metal of the post and fell into a fitful sleep.
When he awoke, Bertrand was not by his side. Michel stood, yet found it almost impossible to move from his spot as most of the crowd were lying on the platform, trying to sleep. Just as he felt the panic rising in his throat, he caught sight of Bertrand, who was talking to the conductor. He saw the conductor say something; Bertrand nodded and the two shook hands, then the conductor placed his hand in his pocket and smiled at Bertrand.
Michel sat down and waited for his friend to return.
‘Come,’ Bertrand whispered. ‘We are to go.’
‘Where?’
‘Shhh. Keep your voice low and follow me.’
Carefully, Bertrand and Michel stepped over the sleeping bodies, until they reached the end of the platform where the tracks led out into the night.
‘Jump down,’ Bertrand instructed.
Michel jumped the two or so feet down to the tracks, then helped Bertrand.
‘Where are we going?’
‘To find a train. Where else?’
They walked for an hour, in a straight line, until they came to a large junction with tracks shooting off in six different directions.
‘I need to sit,’ Bertrand said, and wiped his brow with a white cotton handkerchief.
Michel guided him towards the side of the tracks to a thicket of bushes and grass. ‘The conductor told you a train would come?’
‘Yes. He did.’
‘Why wouldn’t he tell anyone else?’
‘Because it isn’t really a train for people. And besides, I used to play pétanque with him. He knows me. It is a favour from a friend.’
Michel sat on the damp grass and Bertrand opened his case quickly, then closed it again. He handed Michel a small paper-wrapped bundle. The paper was greasy under Michel’s fingers. He unwrapped it to reveal a butter croissant and bit into it, remembering he had not eaten since the morning before.
‘It will be light soon,’ Bertrand said.
‘Where is your food?’
‘I am not hungry.’ Bertrand waved his hand in the air then took a cigarette from his pocket and lit it, the smoke curling upwards into the ever-lightening sky. ‘Will you miss Paris, Michel?’
He rubbed the crumbs from his lips and balled the paper in his hand. ‘I think so. The horses, most definitely. Your apartment. Odette’s café. But I think I’d quite like to see more of the countryside. Maman came from the country and she always told me how beautiful it was to walk through fields for hours, to see sunflowers growing wild, to play in the river with her friends.’
‘That’s good.’ Bertrand smiled then clapped Michel on his back. ‘Give me the paper, I’ll put it away.’
Michel handed Bertrand the ball of paper and Bertrand opened his case to put it inside. He tried to close the case quickly, yet was too slow. ‘Why is your case empty?’ Michel leaned over his friend and lifted the lid, revealing nothing more than the wrapper from his croissant and the silver flask.
‘Ah…’ Bertrand said.
‘Bertrand—’ As Michel spoke, he felt a rumble underneath him, and heard a clatter in the distance as a train approached.