COLUMN: Alone on a Crowded Train

From Sonja Stumacher's "Fragments of the Sun," Fall '95 From Sonja Stumacher's "Fragments of the Sun," Fall '95We crammed ourselves into the smoke-filled train like rows of tightly packed sardines, overflowing into passageways between cars and bursting out of open windows into the chilly night. This wasn't the first time I'd spent an endless ride pressed against strangers, it happened all the time in Italy. My friend and I had spent a cloudless day wandering in Florence and barely caught the six o'clock line headed north to Venice. We should have waited for a later train. Clutching our crumpled tickets, we hoisted our small packs and lifted ourselves aboard. I led the way as we passed a cluster of people lining the passageway between cars and blowing curling smoke into the still air. We decided to stay between cars where we could at least rest our backs against the wall for support. From where I stood I could see out the train door into the station where people sat on benches or double-checked schedules. Then I saw a very small man reeling toward the door. I couldn't tell if he stumbled in a drunken stupor or from a physical handicap. As he heaved himself up the iron stairs, I could see it was a combination of both. He must have sensed something conspicuously foreign about the two of us huddled in the corner because he smiled a crazy grin in our direction. I nudged my friend. He began to weave a looping path toward our cramped area, knocking his feet into one another and grabbing at random people for support. Nobody moved or said anything. I smelled liquor. The doors clanged shut and the train began to roll. We were on our way back to Venice. I hated that I felt as though I had to avoid eye contact with people. You sensed that to look someone squarely in the face was to ask for trouble, especially if the person was a man and you were a woman. It seemed like such a double standard: Everyone stared at you so openly yet if you stared back they'd get the wrong impression. I only felt this way during moments of extreme frustration. The rest of the time I told myself I was just over-reacting in a typically repressed, American manner to a more sexually open and physically expressive culture which was probably partly true. But you couldn't ignore the instinct to keep your eyes down, to wear sunglasses, to avoid looking at groups of guys gathered in the street. The limping man shuffled a little nearer. He started to sing, loudly. We tried not to pay attention to him. He was looking right at me and belting out the word amore in one long, shrieking note. For some reason I started to see some humor in this situation. I muffled a smile but still felt uncomfortable. Nobody moved or said anything. Suddenly he lunged toward my friend. She screamed and knocked into me, pushing me into the older gentleman next to me. I stood, pinned, with my face mashed into his arm while my friend yelled and the drunk man inched closer to her. The older man glanced down at me and continued smoking his cigarette. Somehow we managed to edge around our little singing friend and stumble out of the corner into one of the cars. The seats were still filled so we stood against the wall in the corridor with our hearts pounding. I knew we were making a bigger deal out of this than was necessary; we didn't have to run away and make things worse. But I was too exhausted this time and just didn't feel like exerting the energy required for a more mature reaction to the harassment. I began to feel like we were playing some sort of insane game. The door swung open into the narrow corridor and our little friend tripped in. He pawed his way through the jammed crowd until he stood in front of us. In a way I felt bad for him. He was very small and thin, probably about five feet tall or so, barely shorter than me and he was definitely struggling with some type of physical handicap. But he was also bombed out of his mind and couldn't even see straight as he tried to move closer to us. This was getting beyond annoying. We dodged him again, making our way back into the passageway where we'd started. He followed us back. He was singing again. Nobody moved or said anything. I found a spot against the wall to rest my back and my friend moved past me, farther away from our pursuer. He stumbled closer toward me, singing with increased volume. I was too aggravated to dodge him again. I lost fear as I gained anger. I wasn't going to move. He kept moving toward me, shrieking all the while. Nobody moved or said anything. Suddenly he was so close to my face I thought his nose was going to touch mine. I put my arm out to block him. Basta! Enough! Leave me alone! The next thing I knew he was lying flat on his back on the floor with his legs sticking straight up in the air, like a cartoon character. I realized I must have knocked him down when I put out my arm. I had barely even touched him! I felt horrible. Still nobody moved or said anything. We helped him up, my friend and I. I thought he was going to scream at me or spit in my face or something. He just walked away. The rest of the trip was uneventful, nobody said a word about what had happened. As time passed and I thought about the little limping man who'd harassed us, I felt sad for him. I wondered what his story was. I wondered if he woke up the next morning and remembered how he'd chased two American girls around a train the night before. And I also wondered why nobody in the train moved or said anything. The passageway where we'd stood could not have been more crowded. It baffled me to think someone could be in the midst of so many and yet still feel so alone. I wondered what would have happened if a person were seriously violated or harmed. Would anybody help? I'd like to think that if the same thing had happened to me here in the United States, someone would have at least said something. But I haven't found myself in a similar predicament here, so I am unable to guess how strangers would respond. Maybe others could speak to that better than I. That train ride does not loom in my mind as a horrible experience abroad; the anger and fear it stirred have dissipated. What lingers instead is the memory of the pity I felt for the drunken man and the clear understanding that we were alone in our struggle. Helping others is a basic element of being human or at least it should be. If you're ever in my shoes and I'm the stranger, I promise I'll help.