The train is about to depart. Eleni stands by the window and looks outside. Or rather, she must stand and look. It’s her first time traveling in a boxcar. She is wearing a pink nightgown with lace. She bought it on sale at the supermarket. Her own ones faded after repeated washes in the neighborhood’s automatic washing machine. You can’t travel in a boxcar wearing a faded nightgown! Next to her stands Eugenios. He borrowed his pajamas from Manos, who is twice his size. Eleni pinned up the pants at the back with a safety pin, but the jacket hangs pathetically on him.

– Don’t look so worn out, advises Eleni. You must be scared. Something is happening outside on the platform and you’re trying to guess. Eugenios gets angry:

– Cut the directing. Look at yourself instead, with that candy-colored nightgown! Outside the train window stands a man in a dark suit, a wide-brimmed fedora, and black glasses. He is the director. Who knows why he dresses like that. The train of horror. A blockbuster. Four main actors and two hundred fifty extras are playing. Among the extras: Eleni, Eugenios, Panos, Anna, and Stefanos. Eighty francs a day and filming for at least five days. Four hundred francs! None of them have a work permit.

But the third director arranged it, who is a friend of Stefanos. He is a leftist and knows everything about Greece. About the dictatorship of the “colonels,” the political refugees, the exiles. Even much earlier, the Occupation and the civil war. The train of horror scene – shot – take. The carriage sways in place. Eleni and Eugenios look terrified at Stefanos and Panos who, handcuffed hand in hand, jump off the train to escape.