Hugo Hamilton - Disguise

In the waiting room of the train station they looked for available spaces to settle themselves for the night, for a few hours of sleep. Because they had lost everything and had no homes to go back to, they had an instinct for finding the best places away from the doors. These were occupied first, as though they had a value. Even if they would inevitably forsake their places in order to move on again, they settled into them with a touch of permanence, laying out their coats, packing a pillow out of some garment, making sure they were out of the draught, as though this could replace the idea of home. There was some pride in having found a place by the wall. Those who came later had to sleep right in the middle of the floor where they were vulnerable, where their belongings were not as safe. Those close to the doors complained about being stepped over as they slept, even though they had the advantage of being the first up and out if a train came.

Some people talked all evening, comparing the journey so far, telling each other the terrible stories they had witnessed or heard along the way. There were rumours of worse to come, at the mercy of the enemy now as much they were at the mercy of their own beliefs. There was a man who had left his house in Silesia with nothing, only his camera and a few rolls of film with which he had preserved every part of the house, every corner, every picture on the wall, every piece of furniture. He had even photographed the contents of the drawers and the storage space under the stairs. Captured the view from each window, even from the attic skylight. Later he would settle down somewhere and recreate his entire life and belongings and family history. No matter what happened to his house, he would have everything intact in an album. He kept his bag firmly by his side, patting it as though it was full of money, or food, things he would fight to the death over.

There was some comfort in numbers. Mostly they talked about their loved ones and about where it might be possible to get some food. Some of them took off their shoes and talked about the terrible state of their feet, asking for nail scissors, asking what should be done with an ingrown toenail. Some began sewing and repairing clothes, looking at what other people wore and exchanging items that were more suitable. They reappraised the value of everything against the background of their chances. Out of despair came ingenuity and invention, self-help and self-analysis. People began to correct each other on tiny details, a brutal trade of criticism and counter-criticism in which they established a code of survival and self-surrender. Rational thought suppressed the emotional. They elevated themselves above their misery with intelligence, with frugality, by being hard on themselves, by biting back pain, by having no sympathy for weakness. It was the start of a new contest of correctness. Some of them argued about the correct time, saying the clock on the platform was slow. Some said it was a mistake to leave your coat on at night. Some blamed themselves for not seeing all this coming.

Gregor’s mother did not talk very much about herself. Though they asked her questions, she remained silent, under instruction from her father not to reveal anything.

Some people became worried, weighing up their chances and suddenly deciding to leave, giving up precious space in the corner. Even though they were giving up the best place in the whole station and might never get such a good spot again, it was better to move on and get a bit further west while the roads were less congested. And what if a train came, those who remained behind said, just after they had set out on the road? Then they would be sorry not to have been more patient.

The door squeaked every time it opened. A tiny whistle in the hinges that became so familiar that she could not settle down to sleep. She sat with Gregor on her knees, twisting and turning all night with his bad ear. She imagined her father in the doorway with his great smile, telling her it was time to go. All the envious glances of other people around her who wished they had a father like that coming to rescue them.

By midnight she was in despair. The room was packed and the air was stuffy. The people around her were talking up a storm of fatalism. Some of them tried to remain positive, but they were outnumbered by the others, imagining a terrible outcome to their lives, forecasting obscene and cruel endings for themselves and everyone else. Their skills of pessimism allowed them to form friendships and allegiances, it gave them sympathy, even advantage and power. The more they spoke of doom, the more respect they gained. A talent passed down to them over centuries. They had an eye for disaster. They outdid each other preparing for the worst. Glorious, operatic forms of doom which helped them to overcome their own fear. One woman said she was sure that she would not live through this night. Another woman said it was certain that she would never see her husband again. And maybe this, too, was part of the great skill of emotional survival, to accept the worst of all possible so that something better will emerge.

There was no chance of a train. They knew that. It was too late. Nobody had any faith in the timetable in any case, and they looked out into the rain, knowing what was ahead: another long trek on the roads the next day and maybe nothing more than the shelter of a cold railway station at the end of it all, with a place that was even less comfortable than what they had. Their doomed forecast was the only certainty left.

She tried to get Gregor to sleep with his bad ear down on her lap. The boy was whimpering and sucking on the button of his jumper. She spoke to him, or spoke to herself really, because she was in a confused state, wondering if she should go and search for her father. It was the boy who brought her back to earth and made her think more rationally. She could not watch him suffering any more and began to beg people once more for some oil to put in his ear in order to soothe the pain.

She tried to make him eat some bread. But he refused. He only wanted to suck the button at the top of his jumper. Would not let it go. She could see that the button was hanging on a loose thread, but still she could not get him to let it go.

‘Come on, Gregor,’ she kept saying to him. ‘Give it to me. I’m afraid you might choke on it.’

He was almost deaf with the ear infection and she had no language with which to persuade the boy. In the damp air of the train station that night, she got him to stretch his feet out on the bench and lean his head against her. The button had come off and he had it in his mouth, hiding it at the back of his teeth and refusing to let go. She tried to force him. Tried to take it from him, but the boy put up a huge struggle and screamed with his mouth shut.

‘Gregor, if you don’t give me that button you’ll swallow it in your sleep and then you’ll die,’ she said.

Older women around her advised her not to try it by force. They told her to let him fall asleep first. And then she sat watching him until his eyes finally closed over in exhaustion, but still resisting sleep. In his mouth, his only possession. When he began to drift off, she tried once more to slip her finger into his mouth and dislodge it, but he woke up every time and shook his head from side to side. His lips held tight.

‘Come on, Gregor,’ she said, ‘please give Mama the button.’

She made all the gestures she could in order to explain it to him. She tried to reassure him with smiles, but he returned a look of suspicion. And it was only when she decided to forget about the button and hum a song in his good ear that she eventually won him over. Or maybe it was the other way round. The boy had won her over. It was the great surrender. He pushed the button forward to the tip of his lips.