But the train and Philadelphia and what all happened that winter was what I meant to write on. Folks was in the worst way. The Army was everywhere, not just soldiers but tanks and other things of the kind. My daddy said they were there to protect us from the jumps, but to me they were just big men with guns, most of them white, and my daddy had always told me to look on the bright side, Ida, but not to trust the white man-that’s how he said it, like they was all one man-though of course that seems funny now, folks all blended together like they are. Probably whoever is reading this doesn’t even know what I’m talking about. We knew a fellow from up the way got himself shot, just for trying to catch a dog. I suppose he thought eating a dog was better than nothing. But the Army shot him and strung him up on a light post on Olney Avenue with a sign pinned to his chest that said “looter.” Don’t know what he was trying to loot except maybe a dog that was half starved and going to die anyway.

Then one night we heard the loudest boom and then another and another and planes screaming over our heads, and my daddy told me they’d blown the bridges, and all the next day we saw more planes and smelled fire and smoke, and we knew the jumps was close. Whole parts of the city were on fire. I went to bed and woke up later to the sounds of a set-to. Our place was just four rooms and voices had a way of carrying, you couldn’t sneeze in one room without somebody in another saying bless you. I heard my mama crying and crying, and my father saying to her, you can’t, we have to, you be strong, Anita, things of the kind, and then the door to my room swung open and I saw my daddy standing there. He was holding a candle and I’d never in my life seen him with such a look upon his face. Like he’d seen a ghost, and the ghost was his own self. He dressed me quick for the cold and said, be good now, Ida, and go say goodbye to your mother, and when I did she held me a long, long time, crying so hard it makes me hurt to think of it, even now, all these years gone by. I saw the little suitcase by the door and said, are we going somewhere, Mama? We leaving? But she didn’t answer me, she just went on crying and crying and holding me like she did, until my daddy made her let go. Then we left, my daddy and me. Just the two of us.

It wasn’t till we were outside that I realized it was still the middle of the night. It was cold and blowing. Flakes were falling and I thought it was snow but when I licked one off my hand I realized it was ashes. You could smell the smoke and it was stinging my eyes and throat. We had to walk a long way, most of the night. The only things moving on the streets were the Army trucks, some of them with horns on top and voices coming out of them, telling people not to steal, stay calm, about the evacuation. There were some folks about but not many, though we saw more and more the farther we went, until the streets were thick with people, no one saying a word, all walking the same direction as us, carrying they things. I don’t think I’d even figured it out in my mind that it was just the Littles who were going.

It was still dark when we got to the station. I’ve already said a thing or two about that. My father told me we’d got there early so as to avoid the lines, he always hated lines, but it was like half the city had the same idea. We waited a long time, but things were turning ugly, you could feel it. Like a storm was coming, the air whizzing and cracking with it. Folks was too afraid. The fires were going out, the jumps were coming, that’s what people were saying. We could hear great booms in the distance, like thunder, and planes flying overhead, fast and low. And each time you saw one your ears would pop and you’d hear a boom a second after, and the ground would shake below your feet. Some folks had Littles with them but not all. My father held my hand tight. There was an opening in the fence where the soldiers were letting people in and that’s what we had to get through. It was so tight with the people pressed together I could hardly take a breath. Some of the soldiers had dogs. Whatever happens, you hold on to me, Ida, my daddy said. Just hold on.

We got close enough that we could see the train, down below us. We were on a bridge, the rails running under it. I tried to follow its length with my eyes but I couldn’t, that’s how long it was. It seemed to stretch forever, a hundred cars long. It didn’t look like any train I ever saw. The cars didn’t have no windows, and long poles stuck out from the sides with nets hanging from them, like the wings of a bird. On the roof there were soldiers with big guns in metal cages, like something you’d put a canary in. At least I supposed they were soldiers, on account of they were wearing shiny silver suits, to protect them from the fires.

I don’t remember what happened to my father. Certain things you can’t remember because your mind won’t take them up once they’re done and gone. I remember a woman who had a cat in a box and a soldier saying, lady, what do you think you’re doing with that cat, and then something happened quick and believe it or not that soldier shot her, right there. And then there was more shooting, and folks tearing about and pushing and screaming, and my daddy and me got separated in all of it. When I reached for my daddy his hand wasn’t there no more. The crowd was moving like a river, dragging me along with it. It was a horrible thing. People was yelling that the train wasn’t full but it was leaving anyway. If you can imagine I’d lost my suitcase and that’s what I was thinking of, I’ve lost my suitcase and my daddy’s going to be hopping mad at me for that. He was always saying, look after your things, Ida, don’t be careless. We work hard to have the things we do, so don’t go treating them like nothing. So I had just about figured I was in the worst trouble of my life all on account of the suitcase when something knocked me to the ground and when I got up I saw all the dead folks around me. And one was a boy I thought I knew from school. Vincent Gum, that’s what we always called him, Vincent Gum, both names together, and wouldn’t you know, that boy was always getting in trouble on account of he liked to chew gum and always had a piece in his mouth at school. But now he had a hole in him right in the center of his chest and he was lying on his back on the ground in a puddle of blood. There was more blood coming out of the hole in his chest in little bubbles, like soap in a bath. I remember thinking, that’s Vincent Gum, lying dead right there. A bullet went through his body and killed him. He’s never going to move or talk or chew his gum or do nothing at all, and he’ll be right there in that spot forever with that forgetful look on his face.

I was still on the bridge over the train, and folks was starting to leap down to it. Everyone was screaming. A lot of the soldiers were shooting at them, like somebody had told them to just shoot anything no matter what it was. I looked over the edge and saw the bodies piled up there like logs on a fire and blood everywhere, so much blood you’d think the world had sprung a leak.

Somebody picked me up then. I thought it was my daddy, he’d come to find me after all, but it wasn’t, it was just a man. A big fat white man with a beard. He snatched me up by the waist and ran to the other side of the bridge, where there was a kind of pathway down through some weeds. We were at the top of a wall above the tracks and the man held me by the hands and lowered me down and I thought, he’s going to drop me and I’m going to die like Vincent Gum did. I was looking right at that man and I’ll never forget his eyes. They were the eyes of a person who knew he was good as dead. When you have that look, you’re not young or old, or black or white, or even a man or a woman. You’re gone from all those things. He was yelling, somebody take her, somebody take this girl here. And then somebody grabbed my legs from below and lifted me down and the next thing I knew I was on the train and it was moving. And somewhere in there I came to think I’d never be seeing any of them again, not my mama or daddy or anybody I had known in my life to that day.