He remembered rain, and Budapest as a dim gray shape beyond his view, the rooftops in the distance hidden by a dense wet fog. His leather suitcase on the bed, open and full to bursting, its brown straps frayed and brittle. His brother’s on the floor, the straps tightly closed. Rain splattered the windows. That day was a miserable, cold spring; not a good one for traveling. His parents were preparing one last meal for them all, and then they’d say goodbye to the only world they’d ever known.
He held his tallis, its cotton smooth, with knotted corners that had barely been handled in the reverie of prayer, a gift from his grandfather, who also gave one to his brother Shmuel. Should he leave it behind? He stared at his brother’s suitcase, not knowing if his was in there.
He folded the tallis gently, placing it atop his other belongings. Testing the suitcase to see if it could close, he had fearful visions of it flying open somewhere on their journey.
His tefillin were already at the bottom of his suitcase. He took no chances with this religious article. He’d said his morning prayers early, before the rain, draped in his tallis, his tefillin wrapping his arm and his forehead, so he would be sure to have time to pack them carefully. He didn’t even know if he believed in the rite, but he did it anyway. Maybe in America he’d feel differently.
Just then his mother walked into his room. She stood next to him in silence....
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