Le Grand Hôtel Vevey becomes a way station between refuge and exile: the Landauers leave the stasis of Zurich for a hotel rather than another home, while Liesel’s letters to and from Hana expose the intimate loss carried into their journey west. Its lake view looks toward France, but the family’s escape will require a train across the continent and, eventually, an ocean crossing.

A temporary refuge on the route west

After Zurich, the family moves to Le Grand Hôtel Vevey, a grand Biedermeier-style building with striped awnings and an expansive terrace where Swiss families gather for lunch. The children are fretful about leaving new friends behind; the adults are hopeful. The hotel offers a pause, but not the promise of permanence: this time, they have a hotel, not a house.

From Liesel’s window, the view has changed from Zurich’s lake to a larger, darker lake, with another country on the far shore. Forest covers the French mountains, and snow on the high peaks hangs above the haze. France seems close across the water, but the family will not cross by boat. Their planned route runs by train from Geneva across France to Bilbao, where the transatlantic liners depart. The view makes the destination visible while the journey’s distance keeps widening.

Letters under interruption

At the hotel, Liesel writes to Hana about their uncertain movements. She has received Hana’s letter numbered eighteen, though number fifteen appears to have gone missing. She gives Hana the hotel’s address only provisionally, says she cannot imagine where they will be a week later, and has arranged for mail to be forwarded. In a place defined by temporary residence, even the address is unsettled.

The concierge calls Liesel back from the desk with a letter on a silver salver. Its flap bears the familiar stamp Geöffnet, and the handwriting is recognizable: the letter comes from the very person to whom Liesel has just written. The returned correspondence makes the distance between the women tangible. Their messages are reaching one another, but only through delay, uncertainty, and inspection.

Departure and the unsent future

As the family prepares to leave, Liesel reads Hana’s letter repeatedly. She remembers Hana’s attentiveness during her own pregnancy, their closeness, and the moment they correctly divined that her child would be a girl with a pendulum. Now Hana writes that she had believed herself unable to have children, but has learned she is pregnant and wants the baby. The news gives Liesel a reason to urge Hana to go ahead with what she wants, even as the family’s departure makes being with her impossible.

A porter arrives to collect the luggage and reports that the cars are ready. Liesel’s suitcases remain in the room, while trunks and packing cases marked Not Wanted on Voyage have already gone ahead. She has time for no more than a postcard. Its picture shows the hotel decked with awnings and flags like an ocean liner, an image that turns the place of departure into a miniature emblem of the voyage still to come. She tells Hana that they are finally going, that she has received letter number nineteen, and that she wants to be with her but cannot; she hopes things work out and promises to write from Bilbao, perhaps.

The threshold of exile

Outside, two Citroëns stand loaded with luggage and people. Katalin and two children are in the rear car; Ottilie is in the front, while Viktor waits impatiently by the door and reminds Liesel that they have a train to catch. Liesel has been pulled from the letter and the hotel into the practical movement of escape. Le Grand Hôtel Vevey marks the brief interval in which family travel plans, refugee uncertainty, and Hana’s private news converge before the journey carries Liesel farther from the life she knows.