By afternoon of the next day Lipiczany, dawdling, his head reeling, understood that he had gone the wrong way. For by then the resettlement shuttle would have had to pass him on its journey back. There was nothing to do but turn around. This he did, reaching the place where he had made his error at midnight. He slept in the same shed from which he had taken the beets. Many trains passed; he slept through them. His skin was now hot to his own touch. At daybreak he started tramping again, on the east-west track. Two hours later the train with the blue carriages caught him by surprise, blowing its whistle close behind him. It rumbled by. The windows were closed off as usual, but Nisel, lying flat by the roadbed, saw a single hand clutching a single shade.

When he came to the next spot where the tracks diverged—the two rails suddenly becoming four, crossing and crisscrossing each other—the boy sat down, clutching his knees with his arms. The next day the black locomotive with the three blue cars returned. Nisel saw that he must bear to the left. It was the afternoon of December 11.

There is no need to retell each of Nisel’s adventures. Many did not remain clear in his own mind. One day passed into another. A light snow fell, the sun shone, once it rained. A boar, or so he thought it must be, chased him with its tusks. He slept in barns, in ditches, in open fields. He drank from wells, from potholes filled with rain. One time, grinding his teeth, he stole a chicken. Unflinchingly he wrung its neck. His black hair grew over his eyes.

The reason this trip, not a long one in terms of distance, took so much time was that at every new switch Nisel had to wait for the shuttle, full or empty, to go by. He came to know each detail of the train. He memorized the serial numbers on every carriage. He knew where a certain window was cracked. Sometimes he could see the men in the cab of the engine throwing things into a purple fire.

Only once did this familiar sight change. Between the first two and the last two passenger cars there was suddenly a flat-bedded wagon. Warriors stood there, holding guns. Nisel saw this late in the day. He was in a plowed field, covered by stubble and frost. No place to hide. The black locomotive, its yellow light burning, was practically upon him. Lipiczany hurled himself down and buried his head under his collar. From the moving machine he must have looked like a dead horse. No one fired a gun. Huddled there, beneath his sorrel skin, Nisel kept counting the cars: four now! Four! More Baluters than ever! He remained there; he fell asleep. During the night he woke himself with the sound of his weeping. You have to remember that this wild Jew was just a boy of fourteen.