9. Robbery
Finally, my train arrives. Relieved that I can continue, I step on board. Petru accompanies me, shoots a conductor before I realise it, and slips him a pack of cigarettes, specially provided for this purpose by Ileana. He asks the conductor to keep an eye on me as I’m traveling alone.
The first compartment at the entrance is empty and meant for me. “Take this one. At least no one is here,” says Petru. A large bearded man – fur hat, quilted military jacket – addresses him in the aisle. From Petru’s reaction, I gather he’s saying that I’m from Holland. I pay no attention to it. Suddenly, Petru is in front of me, saying it’s time to say goodbye. He hugs me, asks once again to please come back. And he steps out, reassured by my promise.
The train sets in motion and I sink back. Ready to surrender to processing all the impressions of the past hours. Before I know it, the same bearded military jacket from earlier enters the compartment. For a moment, I think I’m getting a travel companion, until he presses me into the seat with his left hand and full weight, using his other hand to dive into the inner pocket of my jacket. I try to resist, but he must weigh at least eighty kilos. I can’t move. I curse and swear as loudly as I can.
My cries for help lead to commotion in the adjacent area. As the train gains speed, my assailant – empty-handed – rushes to the exit and leaps into the darkness. I hope he meets a terrible fate.
Startled, I later recount the incident to a head-shaking conductor. Two Albanian boys who came to help promptly invite me into their compartment. They’re even angrier than I am, cursing everything Romanian. Their anger escalates when the conductor and his colleague return later to check reservations. They clumsily try to get some money out of them. One of the boys points to the torn upholstery, the garbage on the floor, the shoddy repairs. “We’re already more than sixteen hours behind, man. Look around you. This is the Sing Sing Express. You won’t get a dime!”
The conductors retreat, the boys grumble after them. Gradually, my anger subsides, making room for a few questions. Why was Petru so enthusiastic? Because I was from the Netherlands and could talk to Puka? That didn’t seem logical to me. She hadn’t said anything particularly remarkable. Or was that not even important? Had I been subtly lulled to sleep and made an easy target by that Romanian? Because what exactly had he said to the bearded man?
As the questions strung together, I slowly drifted off. One thing was certain though. I would never set foot in Romania again.