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bench. When she did look up at me finally I saw dark smudges under her eyes and tear lines down her face. I put a hand on her shoulder and smiled with what I hoped was reassurance. She kept both arms firmly around the child. Her husband remained a little distance away.
    I was trying to remember what I’d learned about newborns, for the child looked very new. A boy, his mother told me, her voice croaky. He’d been sick with a fever for three days and they’d come to Paris but there were no doctors available because of the war so they were going back home. The night before, the boy had gone completely rigid—they’d thought he was dying—and then he’d slept. He’d been asleep all night now. The woman’s voice shook with emotion. I kept my own voice as even as I could. “Is he on the breast?” I asked matter-of-factly. He was. “Was the fever very high?” She nodded, yes. The boy had had a seizure, I surmised, brought on by the fever, no bad thing but not really relevant to the underlying condition. “I’ll need to have a look at him,” I said. She brought the child down to cradle him in her arms. I felt his forehead. “The fever’s broken,” I said. “That’s good.” Gently, I peeled back the shawl and a blanket. I checked glands, no swelling; pupils, normal as far as I could tell; belly, no distension.
    â€œHe has a rash,” his mother said.
    â€œShow me,” I said. There were serious illnesses that started with fevers and moved to pox. The mother cradled the child in her left arm and lifted the nightdress with her right hand. I pulled up a little vest. The skin was red with raised white papules, all around the child’s torso. It wasn’t chickenpox, which came out everywhere, nor shingles in a newborn. Nor measles; the spots were too small. And then I knew it. It was false measles. A high fever resolves into a rash like this that spreads. Roseola was the name. It used to be confused with measles, thus the common name of false measles.
    â€œI’m pretty sure it’s harmless,” I said. “The fever has worn him out. Exhausted, needs fluid.” I was talking more to myself now. The little boy’s lips were as dry as his mother’s. “And so do you. You must look after yourself to keep your milk. Have you expressed?” I didn’t know the word and made a pumping action with my hand on my own breast. The girl smiled for the first time and she was beautiful suddenly. She had, she said. “Good. He’ll wake soon, I hope, and be ravenous. Feed him as often as he likes. The rash should move out from his middle before fading in a day or so. If it does anything differently, you should find a doctor.” The girl looked worried again. “I’m a nurse,” I said, “not a doctor.”
    The other nurse I’d noticed when I’d arrived at the station earlier was talking to the little porter. I wondered if I should ask her advice. I caught snatches of the conversation. The porter was rocking from the balls of his feet to his heels as she spoke. I’m sorry, madam, he said in French, then, there are no sleeping cars on account of the war. You will have to sit up like everyone else. The journey is not long. Oh for God’s sake, man, she replied, can’t you speak English? She made a pillow of her hands and put her head there in a mock sleep. She even snored gently. The porter told her again that there were no berths because the journey was too short. She wouldn’t need sleep. Her cheeks were flushed with exasperation. She looked straight at me then and called over. “Can you help me?” she said. “He doesn’t seem to understand.”
    â€œMattresses,” I said in French to the porter. “She has mattresses she wants you to put on the train.”
    â€œ
Oui
,” said the little porter. “Of course. Why didn’t she say so?”