The people on the streets are shrouded by the thick, gray smoke that smothers the city. As she walks with haste towards the station, the woman imagines the coldness of the pistol against her temples, her heart thumping along with their footsteps against the cold marble floor. Then the cold sensation leaves and the world around her reshapes into bright, vivid images. A little boy's paper airplane stabs her finger as it glides through the sea of people until it eventually falls to the floor. She shudders at its touch, reminding her of the touch of the pistol. It is a miracle she escaped.
  "Papers, mademoiselle." The voice startles her. She suppresses the shivers that creep up her spine, sending a pounding headache to her head. The woman looks into his eyes that are the color of Café Fluvial's once famous coffee; she looks for sympathy or humanity in his eyes that are speckled with gold flakes. There is none. "Papers." His words reek impatience and anger. His boots remind her of the night sky before it was full of gray smoke from the rumble and bombs that besieged the city. The woman's hand trembles as she opens her purse. Her pale, spidery fingers rummage through her bag, stopping their fidgeting when they land on the thick, creamy paper. She pulls the papers that have faded to the color of her wallpaper. She never liked that repulsive faded yellow, but she'll never see it again.
  The woman hands him the papers, the trembling in her fingers diminishing into a small shake. His eyes dance over the papers.
"Name?" His words are full of hatred as if he knows what she really is.
"S… Sylvie Favreau." She is no longer Sarah. Sarah Biram doesn't exist anymore. She can feel his eyes on her and suddenly her papers are stuffed back into her hands.
He nods her head towards her. "Bonne journée, mademoiselle." Sylvie closes her eyes and listens to the fading of his footsteps.
Sylvie glances at the watch that is fastened around her wrist. Ten minutes. The smell of bread from the bakery floats through the air, and it reminds her of her mama. No — she doesn't have a mama. The doors to the station are ajar, smoke from the cigarettes of men waiting for the train choking her. The man behind the counter looks up at her as she enters, his beefy hand tapping at his pocket clock that he holds in his hand. He nods towards an empty seat between two men. Sylvie slips in between them, their warmth hugging her tightly, their clothes stinking of their aftershave. The black-booted men from the carousal across the street flood the small station, their loud talking making Sylvie recoil and look down. Outside the tracks that resemble zippers are empty and dead. She looks at her watch again. Five minutes.
Her fingers play with the clasp of the watch until it falls to the floor. A nearby man bends down and hands it to her, a trace of a smile on his lips. He says something, but she shakes her head. The words come out in an incomprehensible jumble of sounds.
"François?" he says in a broken French accent. Sylvie nods her head. He gestures towards the watch and then her. She nods again. The man drops the watch in her hand.
"Merci beaucoup."  He tips his cap and then disappears into the group of black boots. Sylvie fastens it around her wrist more tightly and notices how slim it is. The man next to her grunts and Sylvie follows his gaze; the train is coming. She and the others shuffle out to tracks. The black boots follow them but move to the side where a group of people huddles. Sylvie eludes their gazes of help, remorse flooding her body. She catches a glance at them; their eyes are sunken into their sallow skin. Rags of beggars are worn by people who used to be of high status. In fact, all she is looking at is the living dead, people who should be buried under the ground but aren't. One woman of familiar countenance makes eye contact with Sylvie, her hazel eyes piercing her. The black boots create a barrier around the living dead, but the woman manages to break free, her eyes still glued on Sylvie. She grabs Sylvie's purse from her hand throwing it to the ground and starts digging her claw-like fingers into her flesh, bringing blood to the surface.
"You," she spits out, "you are a traitor. You are supposed to be dead."
The man who picked up Sylvie's watch constrains the woman with his brawny arms. Other black boots come to mollify her wailing limbs. Her shrill cries shatter the peacefulness that once controlled the area. Sylvie falls backward, her hands scraping against the pavement. Another living dead comes to pull the woman away. She makes eye contact with Sylvie; the ice blue eyes recall recognition in Sylvie's mind, but nothing else. The dimpled, elegant Miriam is gone, replaced with a scrawny and swarthy girl. Miriam nods her head and Sylvie sighs; she will not be betrayed. Miriam wraps her arm around the old woman, a woman who used to treat Sylvie to steaming hot chocolates and cinnamon rolls, and brings her back to the crowd. The man who helped Sylvie once before returns to her side.
"Vous êtes bien?" he manages to say after a few stutters. She nods, but bites her lip before she can cry. He smiles and then pulls out a white handkerchief from his pocket, wiping the dots of blood on Sylvie's arm. A stern-looking black boot pulls the man away and whispers something to him. The man shakes his head, quickly glancing back at Sylvie. The stern man seems adamant and walks over to Sylvie. She hopes they didn't understand the woman's words. The stern man sends the man off in another direction.
"Papers, please." Sylvie forgets about the pain coming from her arm and manages to quash the shaking in her fingers. The yellow papers are soon in the man's hand. The train is puffing white smoke that laces the sky like icing on a wedding cake. All the passengers are slowly edging closer to the tracks. The man is scanning Sylvie's paper with great detail.
"Name?" Sylvie takes her eyes off the train; waves of black boots exit it.
"Sylvie Favreau." She mentally pats her back, happy that she didn't stutter.
The man says, "Full name."
"Sylvie Nicolette Favreau." She couldn't stop the crack of her voice on the last word, making her receive a raised eyebrow from the man. There were still black boots exiting the train.
"Why are you in such a rush to make the train? There is always another one."
Sylvie is surprised by how fluent he is in the language. The lines that she was taught replay in her head like a cassette player, repeating again and again and again. "My grandmother is very ill in Switzerland. I am her only blood relative left. The priest of her town contacted me a week ago. I must go now."
"What happened to the rest of your family?"
Sylvie glances over at the train where passengers are now piling in. "My father died in the Great War. My mother shortly after from disease. My neighbors were kind enough to let me live with them. I have been with them ever since."
"How will your presence help your grandmother's well-being?"
Sylvie let slip a giggle, all part of the practiced performance. "She is an obstinate woman who demands my presence. Also, her house will be left to me. She wants to familiarize me with the house herself." She slips another glance at the train. "I must go now."
The man holds up his hand. "One more question and then you can go. Did you know the woman?"
Sylvie resists a glance over to the woman. He apparently didn't understand her words. "No. She is just a filthy Jew." The words are like poison in her mouth. There are no more passengers on the platform. The conductor is scanning the crowd, looking for late passengers. The man gives Sylvie her papers. She runs over to the train.
"Mademoiselle?"
Sylvie slowly turns on her heels. "Yes."
"Sorry for the delay. She will be punished."
She nods and gives a brief smile. Inside the train is crowded with people. She stays in the middle and looks down, avoiding all gazes. A seat at the end of the carriage is empty, and she scoots all the way to the window. Miriam is staring at her, her grandmother in her arms. Sylvie watches as the black boots tear her away from Miriam's arm and throw her to the ground. She turns away before she can see the scene play out, but the sound of the bullet that smashes the silence makes her shiver. Sylvie watches the blood spread on the platform. The train starts moving, the image blurring. Soon the city skyline diminishes into smudges of gray and green takes its place.
Somewhere in the gray smudges is Miriam with her grandmother's dead body. Somewhere in the dark, hidden from the black boots, is her little brother hiding. Somewhere under the ground are the bloody bodies of her parents. And somewhere out there are Jews being slaughtered one by one. But she isn’t a Jew. She isn’t really anyone anymore. Not really.