At Stettiner Bahnhof the doors have closed but the train is not moving.
The tall young man who is holding his violin case in front of his chest has been pinned, his Loden coat sticking out at the back. His face is flushed and he is panting. A minute passes, passengers begin to make noises of impatience, as the Berliner’s proverbial wicked sense of humour has given way to frayed nerves. Finally, the doors open once more, release him and he and the coat move safely into the car.
In the seat in front of him a woman nervously strokes a shoe box that has been securely tied with strands of knitting wool in orange and green. A long, solid box, the kind winter boots used to come in. Rough cuts have been made in the lid, and her hands keep going over the top, down the sides.
“Polly’s nine years old anyway,” she now says to no one in particular, “and she’s had a good life. He says there’s nothing really wrong with her barfing up the stuff all the time. Probably can’t take cabbage and that…”
“Try rice?” says a woman, her eyes on the ceiling.
“She likes fish!”
“Smoked or pickled?” But there’s no hilarity in the air.
The man with the violin sees a small paw attempting to reach his muffler dangling in front of the box.
“Herbert used to take the bike out to the lake, go fishing on weekends, but his leg is such a mess now, he hasn’t caught anything for a while. Can’t go now.”
Polly has a voice. “Meeeeeooww,” just loud enough to be heard above the rattle of the cars. “We never let her out. The big dogs next door. So, she never had any kittens. But the kids used to play with her. From the garage. Grown up now.”
She strokes the box. Sucks in her cheeks. Crosses and uncrosses her legs.
“Anyway, the doctor says she won’t feel a thing. Just like that. And —”
The train slows down as they approach Potsdamer Platz. Passengers crowd towards the exits, pushing, avoiding eye contact. As the station master blows the whistle the tall young man with the violin case grabs Polly’s box, crams it under his free arm and dashes out the closing door.
Those left behind peer out the dirty windows as he races along the platform in long flying leaps and up the stairs, two at a time, into the cold winter day.