As I was moving away from the fair-haired scribbling man, he suddenly pushed something between the handle of my bag and my hand. Then I remembered how curiously he had looked at me and had then written in his book and torn the page out. I thought I felt a scrap of paper in my palm, but I went on quickly from carriage to carriage, each more crowded than the other, between human bodies, boxes, trunks, baskets. I was pushed about, handled roughly, and sworn at. Whenever anybody looked at me I felt as if my face were being skinned. Why did they all look at me so familiarly as if they had seen me before? Why had I not got a face like everybody else? I pushed on. Suddenly I could go no further, I had come to the end of the train, to the last carriage. There was an empty place near a broken window; all the sparks of the engine were blown into it by the wind, so nobody wanted it. I withdrew into that corner and covered my face with a handkerchief; it protected me and hid me. Nobody paid any attention to me so I opened the little paper in my hand. A sentence was written on it in irregular halting lines. I remember every word: “A warrant against you, with your portrait, is circulating here. Escape. If caught they will do for you.” Was it death, or was it just fear I felt then? I carefully tore the paper into little bits and threw them out of the window. Everything was in a haze; there were people in the compartment, I could hear voices, but everything seemed remote.... I was alone with myself. About an hour may have passed, perhaps more: I liked to think that time was flying, I liked my little corner, although the wind blew through it and cut my face like a knife. My limbs ached on the hard seat and I was ravenously hungry: since last night I had had nothing but a cup of tea. Suddenly everything became dark, and soot-laden smoke filled the compartment. Before I grasped what it was the chance had passed. A tunnel.... If I had thought of it earlier I might have.... Nonsense, I should have broken my neck. The train stopped: we were on the open track. There was a deep ditch along the embankment—I might get off here. The passengers crowded to the windows and someone shouted from outside: “It’s not likely that the train will be allowed to enter Balassagyarmat. The Czechs are shelling the station.” I made myself as small as possible in my corner. It was nonsense, all nonsense.... Then there was another station. Red soldiers everywhere. I saw the man in the short fur coat again; he was running about the station, then stopped and stared towards the place where we had pulled up in the open. He shook his head and seemed to be swearing. Was he looking for me? At all events he jumped back into the train. Night was now falling and we had to wait a long time in the station, for the engine-driver had gone to an inn for his supper. A passenger said that they had sent for him but that he had replied: “Let them get up steam themselves.”