Daniela Meisel: Wovon Schwalben träumen.

The Dreams of Swallows
Reading Sample – Chapter 23

There is a new dress suit lying on the bed couch. Lilac-colored and lavender scented. Did her mother leave those potpourri pouches on it overnight? Their scent gives Freda a headache. She is supposed to wear this to Christmas Mass. "Tapered at the waist and with fashionable details," her mother gushes. Two days ago, she approached the wardrobe, pulled out Freda's linen dress on its hanger, and slapped at the material, examining the tattered seam.
"What are Frau Councilor and Frau Director supposed to think when they see this mending? Besides, you are no longer a girl!" She holds up the lilac jacket to Freda and has her slip it on. Like a magic trick, she pulls out a matching hat from her bag. Mother takes two steps back to have a look at her daughter, crinkles her forehead and the bridge of her nose, buttons up the chest, gives the hat a little push—now that's stylish. "A feast for the eyes!" she beams.
Ever since her father has been on the road more frequently, her mother's fondness for fashion has been rekindled. Savings spent on a scarf of coral-red silk, a navy velvet purse, a white cashmere winter dress, a necklace made of shiny salmon-colored beads. Lace gloves, enamel pins, suede belts, and crocheted caps. The more exclusive the wares, the better her mother's mood.
Happiness is expensive, Freda thinks. She's gasping for breath in the tight suit, and sees herself jammed between women and men dressed in their Sunday best in the church pew. Her mother has managed to get them into the third row. Son of a count and marriage, whichever way you look. A bastard is not received with mercy among the spouses of councilmen. Besides, the story is that the girl is apparently seeing a Jewish brat. A few months ago, she was seen after mass running to the city to a prayer house. Why do we need a synagogue around here? The façade is filthy and rundown. If you ask the German Reich, those sorts of things will soon be history. In her mind, Freda squeezes her way out of the pew, the flickering of advent candles in view. She runs down the middle aisle out to the church square, through meadows and fields, tosses her shoes from her feet, grabs the suit's lapel with its fashionable detailing and tears open the jacket. Buttons bounce off into the landscape.

(pages 103-104)

The teacher has not given up on Freda, standing there at the bar in black trousers, hands in his pockets, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he speaks. Whenever he gets closer to her mother behind the wooden structure, his gaze seems to intensify. Freda has retreated to the kitchen, presses herself in the crack between the pantry cupboard and the door and peeks into the dining room. Her mother polishes dishes demonstratively—the glasses used by regulars have never been so spotless.
"You'll be sorry about your child," the teacher sighs.
Her mother takes the next glass from the rack, stuffs in the tip of the dishtowel, presses the material with her thumb and index finger against the glass and rotates it. "Listen, I'm not in that position. My husband hasn't been home in weeks…" she says, and then stops speaking to polish with more fervor, and Freda thinks she can hear the squeaking of the fabric on the glass over the murmur of voices at the inn. It sounds like a suppressed scream.
The teacher seems to be pondering.
At the regulars' table, Franz is singing military songs: "comrade, comrade," he babbles with the tip of his nose in the air, rocking back and forth. When Freda peeks in, he practically falls off his chair.
The teacher lays his hand on the bar, palm facing upward, as if to present the idea that will make all the difference. "Has Freda told you that she would like to become a pilot?"
Her mother puts down the glass firmly. "Flying!" she shouts, and bursts out in a peel of sharp laughter.
"You really have no idea. As a woman, how is she supposed to…? Freda is the daughter of an innkeeper, an illegitimate child, and is not exactly considered beautiful. She'll be lucky if anyone is interested in her at all."
Her mother takes a step behind the bar toward the teacher and looks him in the eyes.
"With all due respect, Herr Doktor Wagner, did they teach you anything at the university?"

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