I'm on a train between Florence and Rome, in an open-plan car. In a four-seat compartment with a table in the middle sit a man in his forties and his son, about fifteen, who is handicapped. The other two seats are empty. The boy is in great distress, slapping himself repeatedly. His face bears deep scratch marks, treated with mercurochrome, giving him a strange appearance. Every three minutes he lets out a long, anguished cry—difficult to bear. His father tends to him with great tenderness, but in his eyes you can see both pain and exhaustion.
As the train speeds through the night, we pass through Arezzo and Chiusi. In the rhythm of wheels on rails and the boy's piercing wail, I find myself asking the ancient question, the question Job himself asked: "Why? Why all this suffering in the life of an innocent boy, and this anguish in his father's heart?"
We arrive at Orvieto. Four sailors board with their duffel bags and settle into a nearby compartment. They chat among themselves, happy to be together again.
The boy has quieted for a moment, but then his anguished cry starts up once more. The sailors stop talking. Then something extraordinary happens.
A small sailor stands up without asking anyone, walks over and sits across from the boy, takes his hands in his own—a gesture both friendly and authoritative—looks him in the eye, and suddenly something passes between them. It happens without words; I don't think the boy could manage them, but he finds trust in this young man in uniform, who treats him with kindness and respect.
Perhaps the young sailor is a medical student. Perhaps he's a trained educator, or perhaps he has a brother with a handicap. I'll never know. I can only witness his gentleness, his skill, and his discretion. He stays with the boy until Rome, giving the father a chance to rest, and the father watches him with gratitude. When the train stops, the two men shake hands for a long time, still without speaking. Then the sailor picks up his bag and disappears with his companions into the crowd.
Young sailor, my brother, I'll probably never see you again. I don't know who you are or what you think. But for an hour, you were a sign to me. You knew how to leave your friends to bring relief to two troubled souls, offering them your skill and your friendship without fanfare, simply because they stood in your path.
- C.B., 1993 - O e L, n. 22