The Midnight Train

The Midnight Train

Based on a true story

ROME, 1944

The air raid sirens sounded like Satan’s screams. Not that they were unusual anymore. They howled in the mornings. They howled in the evenings. They howled during afternoon tea. Maybe it was bravery or maybe it was exhaustion, but no one seemed to mind them very much anymore, if they minded them at all. People simply stepped over the rubble—the recent casualties of stone and mortar—as they continued on their way. These buildings had stood longer than their lifetimes or their grandparent’s lifetimes. Now they surrendered to the street and knelt in the dust, scattering stones around blasted craters. As more and more buildings fell and stone angels were blasted off their plinths and churches toppled like trees, the citizens of Rome silently wondered how much longer the eternal city would last.

Cold rain spilled onto the bridge like black ink, enveloping the city in a shroud of dark mist. Curfew had cleared the street and snuffed out the lights; thin curtains had been pulled tight against broken windows to keep guttering candles from leaking any light outside. There was not a single soul on the street. Except for one. With an umbrella in one hand and a briefcase in the other, a rather small and skinny man trudged onwards, neither looking both ways or even a few steps in front of his feet. He wore a fine trench coat that had gradually frayed and a suit that was self-consciously patched in places; the kind of clothes whose owner had become rather addicted to expensive fashion that he could not perhaps afford. It was a strange look in a war zone. Compared to the Nazi soldiers in swastikas and the crippled beggars marching and crawling on the streets during the day, this man seemed particularly out of place.

The sirens began to wail again, howling like wolves closing in for a kill. The man broke into a nervous run, splashing through puddles and clutching his suitcase close. Somewhere in the distance, bombs exploded in the sky, turning the rain briefly red before the light died again. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. The angels down the via praetoria seemed to glare at him as he sprinted through their shadows. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. Finally, the man seemed to find his destination, collapsing against a shadowy alcove of a cathedral and dissolving into anxious little gasps. The night seemed even darker than before after the bright explosions of shrapnel. “Alan Greenwich, you must be mad,” the man whispered to himself as the last explosion died away. “You’re not a spy, you’re an Oxford don who’s a long way from home.” And wishing he was back there, he thought ruefully as he took out a silk handkerchief that had been darned in several places and dabbed at his sweaty forehead. His hair was so pale it was nearly transparent, and his fingers so delicate they seemed capable of doing nothing other than turning old pages in old books. Carefully putting the handkerchief away, he continued to tremble, like a small dog forgotten in the snow.

War was a time either for the brave or the foolish. Alan never considered himself to be either. That had always been Lorenzo. Lorenzo had been the one to stand up on a stool in a crowded pub and challenge anyone to a drink or a dare. Lorenzo had been the one to climb over dormitory walls and sneak into open windows, even though it was long past visiting hours. Lorenzo had been the one to first unbutton his shirt, with that calm and courageous smile.

The blush on Alan’s face looked like a blotchy rash as he looked around—as if worried he had accidentally spoken the memory out loud.

Courageous? Or crazy? Alan had never been able to decide, and perhaps that’s why he had never been able to look away. “What are you so afraid of, little mouse?” Lorenzo had teased him, years and years ago. “Everything,” Alan had attempted to stammer back: he had been scared of everything ever since he could remember, and even at sixteen, his childhood stutter hadn’t completely gone away. “I don’t believe it,” Lorenzo leaned closer towards him, until Alan could count each freckle on his suntanned face. “I believe there’s a lion there inside you, if you’re brave enough to release it.” Then, Lorenzo had kissed him on the lips.

Alan was so distracted that he had not even noticed the sound of stilettos on the stone. He took a shuddering breath, recomposing the emotion out of his face as he looked up. The woman had dark eyes and curled hair that had been bobbed underneath her hat. “Io intendo scultura quella che si fa per forza di levare?” She asked in Italian; a question.

He knew the answer. “Quella che si fa per via di porre è simile alla pittura.”

 “So. You’re Alan.” After looking him up and down, she stood against the wall next to him, lighting an unfiltered cigarette. The blue ribbons of smoke wreathed around her face like a halo of light—a Madonna on an altar filled with smoky incense. “You don’t look like I expected,” she said unexpectedly and without ceremony.

Alan nervously cleared his throat and nodded. “I beg your pardon, Madam,” the British gentleman said in flawless Italian; a souvenir from is many years of studying Renaissance art in Florence and Milan. “But you haven’t introduced yourself?”

“Probably better that you don’t know. It’ll keep us both safer.” She responded in Italian also and took a deep drag of her cigarette. Then she tapped the suitcase with her stiletto. “Here they are. We only barely managed to get them out of the Vatican. Those Nazi bastards have been mutilating all the stone statues in there, censoring them for public consumption. These were all we could save. If we get them out of here, just maybe, we could fix them … once this bloody war is over.” Alan nodded as she passed him a thick manilla envelope. “These will get you to Switzerland, under the false name you chose. Remember: the last train leaves at Midnight. Then the borders will close.”

Alan took the passport with trembling hands and carefully stowed it in his pocket.

“It would be very, very bad if you missed that train.” Her appearance to the Madonna was even more striking as she gazed thoughtfully at him, as if trying to catch him in a lie. “You understand, don’t you? You know that you’ll be in terrible trouble if they catch you, right?”

How could he forget it? Alan himself had said the same thing to Lorenzo, writing and begging him to get out of Italy and return to Oxford, to come to sleepy Pembroke college and teach freshmen about Renaissance art that they might never see. Lorenzo had refused. They had found his body five days later, disposed of by soldiers who had found him smuggling works of art out of occupied Italy. “Sometimes,” Alan replied quietly, “There are things that are more important than safety.”

“Lorenzo used to say that,” she whispered.

They stared at each other for a long moment.

“Why,” Alan asked before he could stop himself, “Did you say that I wasn’t … like you expected?”

Her smile was sweet and sad. “Because Lorenzo said that you were the bravest man he ever met. More courageous than a lion, he told me.” The smoke from her cigarette escaped from her lips again, silhouetting her face in a shimmering cloud of blue. “Guess we shouldn’t judge on first appearances, should we?”

Alan stared at the suitcase as he spoke. “Lorenzo … told you about me?”

“Of course he did. I am …” she cleared her throat. “I was his sister.”

Somewhere a long way away, the clock struck half past eleven. She stood up and stepped on her cigarette with her stilettos. “Go. Go! You’ll barely have enough time as it is. Good luck.” Without another word, she spun on her heel and disappeared into the shadowy street. Somewhere, much closer this time, a bomb shattered the silence. Not even bothering to get out his umbrella, Alan broke into a run, disappearing down the stairs like a rat scurrying into the sewer.

Soldiers were busy barricading the train station with barbed wire as the tiny British gentleman ran through one of the last remaining entrances. His hat had flown off long ago, and he hadn’t even noticed as he staggered up to the ticket counter. Here it was. The last checkpoint. “I have a ticket to Geneva,” Alan Greenwich gasped in Italian to the guard in a black uniform, passing him the packet of papers.

The guard accepted it and tore open the envelope, his eyes quickly scanning through the documents. The pink typewritten copy of his false certification to teach in Zurich. The yellow faded paper that detailed his incorrect address. Then, most importantly, the white paper with his fake name and identity. The border guard scrutinized this page for several agonizing seconds, and Alan could read nothing behind his dark eyes and precise mustache. “Dr. Livingstone?”

“You presume?” the feeble joke died on Alan’s lips after a pitiful attempt to smile. He cleared his throat and answered, very formally, “Yes, my name is Dr. Heinrich Livingstone.”

 “Pass your bag for inspection.” Alan brought it up onto the counter, and the guard opened the clasps on the suitcase. Now it was the guard’s turn to pretend to smile. “You are a fan of handkerchiefs?” he asked sardonically. Every corner of the suitcase had been stuffed with fine Italian silk pocket squares, in every color anyone could imagine. Alan’s attempt to smile looked more like a bad toothache as the guard fingered through the scarves, tucking one or two in his own pocket. Not that Alan cared. He could take every single scarf in that suitcase if that would get him out of here. Then, the guard’s fingers stopped at the suitcase’s fake leather lining, examining the badly sewn seam holding it together.

The guard neatly ripped the backing off its case.

Alan’s stomach felt like it had dropped to his toes.

Hiding behind the false backing of the suitcases in a hidden compartment, as Alan knew there would be, there were dozens and dozens of finely carved marble phalluses. Each stone penis had been castrated at the shaft and preserved to the tips, removed from some of the most famous statues in the world. Alan felt his face burn bright red as he and the guard made eye contact.

One minute passed. Then two …  

“My mistake,” the guard told him cheerfully, with a smile that did not meet his eyes. “Everything looks to be in order here.”

Alan wasn’t sure his hearing was working correctly as the guard carefully resealed the suitcase and handed it back to him. It had to be, though, because he could hear the train whistle shriek. Steam began to seep from underneath the great iron black wheels; the conductor began to call for the last passengers to get on board. Flustered, Alan attempted to stammer his thanks as he took back the suitcase and shakily boarded the scarlet train.

The guard formally stood at the door and folded up the steps, standing at attention as final inspections were made and bells began to clang. “Bon voyage. Have a nice trip to Geneva, Dr. Livingstone.” He winked.

Then, the train door slammed shut with a sharp snap.