With whistle and steam the train came alive, lurched, and began moving away from Paris, from the Gare de l’Est, away from the crowds and noise and bustle and fear and rush and smoke and anomie of October 1918. Soon it would be trudging through fields and mists and rain and trees and farms and steeples of Aube, or Champagne, taking everybody home. All the strangers going home.

The train grew stronger, surging out of the city, and the speed increased the clicking of the wheels and swaying of the cars. Guy was not content with his bench or the compartment or the people in it, and got up slowly, painfully, and grabbed his sack from overhead, and slid the door open, as they all watched, and went out into the corridor. There was a window down, and the chill wind was flowing in, filled with the smell of the train smoke, but with a hint of hay now and then. Further ahead another window was open and a man was smoking, and blowing the smoke out the window into the mist and fumes rushing by. The tobacco smoke came in the window in front of Guy in tiny wafts. He stood there for a minute or two, and moved down the corridor, going towards the back of the train, looking into the compartments further along.

There was one, with only three people. He slid the door open, nodded his head, with “M’sieur, —dames.” An old couple nodded, and watched, as he put his sack up above his head and sat down on the bench where there was only one person, across from the bench where there were two. He looked at them. They looked at him. The two persons across from him were an withered like apples on the ground, dressed all in black. The old woman looked weary, and wore the wrinkles of sadness around her eyes. There was no more light in her eyes. She looked at him as though he were some old photograph, squinting at him, sighing. The old man looked back out the window, and shut his eyes. Between them was a sack of clothing, but well could have been the sack they carried potatoes in from the shed to the house.

The person on the bench with him, next to the window, who had not looked at him when he came in and put his sack up above his head, was a young woman dressed against the chill, with a large hat, black plumes, lace, and a shawl; and it was hard to see what she looked like. Guy sat, straight, then slumped and slid towards the edge of the seat, and put his legs out straight, careful not to be anywhere near the legs across from him. The old woman pulled her legs closer to the bench anyway.

The train made its clacking and creaking noises, and swayed just a little, and Guy dozed off. When he awoke, rain was streaking the window, and it seemed almost twilight because of the grey skies roiling so close to the trees and the rain dragging the light down into the ground with it. As he opened his eyes he realized his head had fallen to his right, and he was staring out the window; but in the corner of his eye he saw the young woman looking intently at him. As soon as he opened his eyes, though, she turned away. ‘She has been watching me as I slept,’ he thought, and wondered if he had done anything while asleep to worry about. Sometimes he did. Sometimes he said things.

In that brief glimpse, he saw her eyes. Now he closed his eyes again and tried to recapture her eyes in the moment before she turned away. They were beautiful. He tried to remember them. They were enchanting. He opened his eyes again, and she was looking at him again. Yes, her eyes were astoundingly beautiful. And now he could see her face, round, surrounded by plumes and shawl and hat and hair. She was beautiful. She was the most beautiful woman Guy had ever seen in all his twenty years. She offered a hint of a smile, as a sort of ‘hello,’ and then turned toward the window again.

Guy stared, and as he stared out the window into the grey rain and countryside, he could sometimes see her reflection, as something very dark would pass by outside making a mirror effect. He stared without worrying about anyone saying something about how rude it is to stare. He didn’t care. There were so many things now that he didn’t care about. And more people stared at him now than he had ever stared at in all his life. He stared at the young woman’s cloak, and shawl, and hat, and hat pin, and dress, and little purse, and gloved hands, petite.

His neck hurt, so he turned back straight and unbuttoned the top button of his uniform. He looked down at his puttees, with his legs stretched straight out again, and quickly put his left ankle over his right ankle, covering a stain that had not come out with washing. Washing and washing.

His head drooped, and before his chin touched his chest he was asleep again. So tired. So tired. He slept long and deep.

He dreamed. He dreamed of this and that, things that made sense and things that might have made sense. He dreamed of the pleasant feel of a woman’s skin, a woman’s hand touching his. It was such a warm dream.

He awoke, but didn’t open his eyes. He didn’t move. No one knew he was awake now. But he was awake, and yet he was still feeling that beautiful feeling of the warmth of a woman’s hand on his hand. On his right hand. Was he awake? Yes, he was awake. He felt the train. He heard the train. And he felt a hand on his right hand, and it moved ever so slightly, moving on his hand to cover his hand better. He did not move. He dared not move. He didn’t open his eyes. The young woman had her hand, without her glove, on his hand. She squeezed his hand so very gently. He did not move.

“Pauvre enfant,” he heard the old woman across from him say in a whisper, with some missing teeth.

The young woman’s hand was warm, and tighter now. He opened his eyes. He saw her hand. He felt her hand. He slowly turned to her, not moving anything but his head and his eyes. He looked into her eyes. She smiled, and squeezed his hand.

It had grown darker outside, and the rain was still streaking across the window of the train, jostling through the fields and forests, heading home.

Who was she? Why was she doing this? He dared not speak for fear of breaking the spell. She still clung to his hand, and smiled, a bit of a sad smile, really. He looked at her. She was so beautiful. He looked at the window behind her, and saw his reflection. ‘How could she be holding my hand?’ he thought. ‘Look at me. Inhuman. Ghastly. Half a face. A gruesome wreck of what used to be me. How can she look at me, and hold my hand?’

But she did. He felt the warmth of her soft hand. He felt her skin, her care, her kindness. It was such a comfort. He didn’t say anything. He closed his eyes again; but did not sleep.