It was a cocktail party with notables\u2014
\nprofessors and their mates\u2014sipping
\nMuscadet, drinking Lowenbrau, even
\na gin and tonic\u2014and others, a physician
\nfrom the college clinic and me, a spouse
\nof a graduate student, awkward, out
\nof place. The physician took pity on me
\nand told me about the train, the one
\nhe was supposed to take, the last
\none to leave an occupied city where
\nJews were being rounded up, street
\nby street, yellow triangle by yellow
\ntriangle. He and his wife had tickets
\nand knew if they got out on that train,
\nby three pm, the iron rail would take
\nthem to freedom. But their car broke
\ndown. They had to walk, run suitcase
\nin hand, miles to the station. They arrived
\nto the grind of iron on iron, the whistle,
\nthe train gone. He bartered\u2014it cost him\u2014
\nfor tickets on the last train, a night train,
\nthat, hours later with no guarantee,
\nthey rode across a valley through
\nthe pass into the mountains to freedom.
\nThe train he was to take had been
\nstopped before the border. He stopped
\ntoo, eyed me, checking if I had heard him\u2014
\nthis elegant man who smoked a pipe,
\nwho wore a beret and dressed in
\na sporty Wooster suit\u2014making sure
\nI had followed him from the car to
\nthe disappointment to the train.
\nAnd I had. Then he began again to
\ntell me about the train he\u2019d planned
\nto take, how it was halted by
\nGestapo and all the Jews, passport
\nby passport, yellow triangle by yellow
\ntriangle, were herded off the train,
\nmarched to a hillside, mere shadows
\nin the evening light yet clearly visible
\nto those left on the train, and shot.
\n\u201cHe said, \u201cFate is fickle, no?\u201d
\nI said, \u201cYou were lucky,\u201d and touched
\nhis jacket which was soft and smooth.
\n\u201cNo. Not luck,\u201d he said. \u201cFate. It was destined.\u201d
\nA week later, I heard he was in his office,
\nand stood to go to greet a patient
\nwhen he had a heart attack and fell,
\nhis body at such an angle between the desk
\nand the door to make a perfect doorstop.
\nThe door not budging, no one could
\nget in as he cried out, \u201cHelp. Help,\u201d
\nuntil a custodian unhinged the door.
\nBy then, the good doctor was dead. Witnesses
\nsaid, \u201cWhat bad luck to die that way.\u201d
\nI wanted to say\u2014but didn\u2019t, \u201cNot luck\u201d\u2014
\nthose wraiths on the hill\u2014\u201cIt was destiny.\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
It was a cocktail party with notables\u2014 professors and their mates\u2014sipping Muscadet, drinking Lowenbrau, even a gin and tonic\u2014and others, a physician from the college clinic and me, a spouse of a graduate student, awkward, out of place. The physician took pity on me and told me about the train, the one he was supposed…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":138,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"issue":[9],"coauthors":[],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\n