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SEIZE THE DAY!

The train rattled north through the darkened towns and countryside, emitting the occasional blast from its steam whistle. Soldiers littered the narrow corridor, their kit-bags, rifles and greatcoats, strewn carelessly along its length. They'd let the civilians have the compartments and they strolled aimlessly back and forth, smoking and laughing. A family of seven occupied the last compartment, eastern Europeans, perhaps, poorly dressed, edgy, frightened, darting eyes, their life's possessions stuffed into a series of battered suitcases, now piled high on the luggage rack. No one cast them a second glance, the war had brought wave upon wave of such refugees into the country.

The boy took ill somewhere north of Peterborough. He uttered a long groan, clutched his stomach and slid silently to the floor of the compartment. The family gathered around him, pleading, panicking, jabbering in their alien tongue. They watched in horror, in the dimly lit carriage as his eyes closed, he shook violently and he slipped into unconsciousness.

At Grantham, Papa leaped onto the blacked-out platform, deep in uniforms and kit-bags, waving his arms wildly. He grabbed a passing porter and begged, “Please, you help, my boy, is sick!”
The stationmaster soon appeared, glanced at the lad, felt his forehead, turned and ordered the porter, “Ambulance Harry and sharpish!”
“No, no sir,” pleaded Papa in a panic. “We go Glasgow, we meet boat for New York, all family go.”
“You can go with the boy to the hospital, sir.” the porter said soothingly.
“No, no,” he persisted, “boat, she leave at 6 o'clock,” and he turned to the eldest girl and snapped a question. She replied in English, “Tomorrow, the word is tomorrow!”
“Ja, ja, tomorrow, we meet boat tomorrow, is last boat, all family go New York, we no wait!”
“The lad goes to hospital, or he dies. One of you must stay with him”. The stationmaster ordered.

The girl, late teens, dark and calm, translated. The family broke into a near panic, Mama threw back her head and wailed. Papa fell to one knee and pleaded, the youngsters clung to each other, whimpered and wept. Suddenly, the peal of a bell grew louder and heralded the imminent arrival of the ambulance. The stationmaster, anxious for the train to depart on time, said firmly, “One of you must stay with the boy.” But it brought only another bout of cries and anguish.

“I will stay Papa!” announced the stern faced girl. Another wail of anguish echoed across the platform. She spoke softly then to her father, she pointed to the train, then to the family and to the arrival of the ambulance men and their stretcher. Papa wept and put his hands to his mouth, the girl stroked his back and soothed him. Then she turned to Mama, hugged her briefly then ushered them all onto the train, briefly kissing them all in turn. Papa wiped his face, dug into his pocket and thrust a handful of bank notes at her. She smiled, turned to the stationmaster and nodded, he touched his cap thankfully, blew his whistle, waved his flag and the train began to move slowly forward. Seconds later, all that remained was a lingering whiff of smoke in the cold and dark night air.

She sat quietly in the back of the ambulance. It had been a long journey across the plains of central Europe, the beginning of an epic migration which would eventually take them to uncle Milo's small farm, deep in the plains of Idaho. It was arranged that the family would live in a small cabin on the edge of the farm and become potato growers. The girl would stay at home and help Momma with the children and the chores, in keeping with family tradition. When the youngest child had gone, then, perhaps, if she could find a man, she would be free to marry.

Now there would be no farm in Idaho, she would stay in England, she would find a job and a room and maybe train as a nurse. She leaned towards her brother, stroked his face and whispered, “Bravo tovarich, bravo, a superb performance, Charlie Chaplin couldn’t have played the part any better!”