Today was like autumn, Andras said, cool and dark and damp. We took the old metro through the city, standing together by the doors, speaking above the noise of the rattling carriage. In the synagogue, I looked up through the blue stained glass and looked out into the burial garden, and Andras talked about what happened to his sisters during the war. When we were finished, we returned to the apartment and stood against the kitchen counter and drank apricot brandy. It was barely lunchtime. I heated food on the porcelain stove, fumbling with the aluminum pots and the lighter and gas knobs.
At the basilica, in the evening, I knelt on the tiles and halfway listened to the familiar cadences and unfamiliar language of the Mass. After, I walked. Budapest could not help but be beautiful tonight: the unexpected cold, the broken indigo clouds, the bridges and palaces orange-gold under lights. I probably don’t believe in God, but I believe in gratitude. So I sat on the crumbling steps leading down to the Danube and listened to the black water moving and tried to give thanks.