I was a very young child from the Midwest traveling with my mother by train to Detroit in the 1940’s. There was an African American couple on the train with a wonderfully packed picnic basket.
As a very gregarious child I was eager to explore the car. My mother told me it was okay to go visiting unless the man was there alone, because he would slit my throat with a razor.
I didn’t even know what that meant, but I knew I should be afraid.