A strong arm shakes me out of my slumber. It is bright and cold in the compartment. I am bundled up in my Loden, to no avail. The upholstery smells of other travelers. I notice that I have drooled on the scratchy red velvet. Fall 1977, a couple of miles before the Italian border, on a business trip to Milano and Urbino. “Your passport!” shouts a seven-foot-tall peasant in police uniform. He uses the familiar “thou.” I fumble through the pockets of my jacket and my coat, half awake. “Faster!” shouts the seven-foot-tall peasant in blue, and leans toward me. He stares at me unabashedly, and I stare back at him with concealed contempt. It must be after midnight. His uniform is bursting at the seams. I hand the accursed passport to him and shout: “Here!” My voice frightens me. The giant looks through the passport and gives it back to me without a word. He shuts the door with a slam and stalks into the next compartment: “Your passport!” Only after the train pulls out of Trieste do I try to fall asleep again, but I cannot contain my thoughts. My thoughts frighten me.