The synagogue, an undefined broad facade, had not been for her. With its red brick and inlaid windows and a wrought iron fence it sat like a bad taste, a bad memory of something old. She had walked by it before and had quickened her pace. She had tried not to think of it too much, she did not wonder at the people behind its doors—how many of them were left at all. The lettering above the windows looked frightening: she did not know what it meant, what it said. It could mean anything. She could not read it and it could mean anything. She considered it now again.
