She has not been outside the walls of the sanatorium— she prefers not to call it a hospital— for four months
It has rained all night, the rain of October in Vienna — starting as a drizzle, and then becoming louder, as if the drops are narrating a tragic opera.
But when Hannah and Ernst climb into the carriage on Sunday morning, the newborn sun shines off of the cobblestones, turning black into gold. The leather seats in the carriage are cracked, and Hannah can not keep her fingers away from the tear, up and down, worrying it like a child.
At the train station, Ernst ushers Hannah into the gentlemen’s waiting room while he purchases their tickets. Hannah stares through the glass windows at the vast, black-painted shining carriages, gold letters on the side.
The platform is filled with people. Another train is leaving soon, to Budapest, and Hannah notices the women’s dresses: narrow sleeves, large bows and ruffles on the back of the women’s skirts. Her own gown is green, stiff, with tiny buttons down the front to mimic a jacket. Her skirt is empty of embellishment. Prague is not fashionable. It’s one of the things she likes about the city she now calls home. Though those skirts, perhaps just for Shabbos, would be a delight.
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