On a train from Gare D'Austerlitz

by Jessica Orchard (Australia)

A leap into the unknown France

“Do not let your right hand know what your left hand is doing” was a saying my mother often spoke of. I did not understand this until I caught my first train in France from Gare D’Austerlitz. I ran for the train because everybody else ran. I sensed they knew something I did not. At the time, I was unaware that all French trains leave almost immediately after they arrive at the platform. This fleeting window to board meant lugging a thirty kilo suitcase up the tiny train steps onto the coach in order to not miss departure. I was flustered and consequently boarded the wrong coach. However, had I not gotten on the wrong coach, I would have never met a woman who taught me the true meaning of humility. She was standing in the coach out of the place. She was African and had a baby cocooned in material tied to her front and three young children silently leaning against her. She had one heavy-looking suitcase. They were all standing. She was crying loudly. She was impossible to ignore. Yet, no one looked at her. She walked down the middle aisle begging in English for money as she needed a little more to buy a train ticket. She did not exist. The choice to be kind to strangers is not instinctual or easy. I fought not to succumb to the pressure of the bystander effect. I fought not to join the ranks of the indifferent. I needed her to believe she was not invisible to me. I called out in English and her relief yielded immediate reply, “They told me I could buy a ticket on the train”. No one was helpful. She did not speak any French. The ticket inspector dismissed her story and issued her a fine of ninety two euros. He would not let them sit in seats because they were not valid passengers. They were destined for ejection at the next stop. I spoke with the ticket inspector in broken French. He stated she had enough for a train ticket bought online prior to boarding but not an on-board ticket. She was clearly confused and distressed. He would not accept payment for the online price in spite of her situation. I asked if I could pay the difference of the on-board ticket because I felt her need. Most of his response was lost in translation but his demeanour spoke louder, “There are many like her. They come onto the train all the time. You must not help her. But you are so young and pretty and naive”. His words felt patronising. A veiled compliment insinuating because I was those qualities implicitly I did not know any better about beggars and understanding the rules. Instantaneously, I remembered the immigration checkpoint between Dover and Calais. Migrants detained behind barbed wire fencing. Vehicles scoured by officials. People determined still to squeeze and twist their bodies into crevices of trucks to hide and cross the border. Anything is possible for the promise of safety. I leapt out of my seat. I took the money she needed for the ticket and fine – fifty euros and went back to her. How long before the next station? I began to see life from her side – the impenetrable walls. I realised how hard asking for help is. Desperation in the face of indifference makes one feel embarrassed, ashamed, and hopeless. But, this woman was more than a rule-breaker. She was far more than what any ticket inspector or train commuters chose only to see her for. She was a mother in great need. She reached out into the great and often cruel unknown for kindness. I slipped the money into her hand. Later, I told my own mother the story of the nameless woman. She answered, “You know my heritage and history. I came to Australia on my own when I was your age with nothing but a suitcase in hand. I had the equivalent amount of money you gave that poor woman. You gave her more than money. You gave her some hope”. Like a train, life has a funny way of coming round full circle.