Trafika Europe 8 - Romanian Holiday

Christopher Kloeble

Anni and the Shape-Shifter

White light stabbed at her eyes. Anni ran across a snow-covered field toward the Moorsee, sinking up to her knees in the snow with every step, a cold headwind whipping her cheeks and tearing at her cloak. When she reached thewooden pier from which, on hot summer days, the two of us had leapt into the water hand in hand, she closed her eyes and held her breath. Now she was alone with her heartbeat. Apart frommy sister, nobody made the hour-long trek to the Moorsee during the winter. She came to the lake as often as possible. It was a nothing-place: no smells, no noises. Cautiously, she lowered herself from the pier onto the frozen surface, dodging

those spots where the ice was shot through with cracks, and rushed on all fours toward the center of the lake, where, wiping the snow and frost aside, she sat observing her reflection. Darkly gleaming curls spilled from under her knit cap, her thirteen-year-old face was full and round; since she’d started eating with gusto again, the number of dimples had doubled. Something moved beneath the ice. Anni let out a shrill scream, shook her head, breathed on her reflection, polished it with her sleeve, and leaned so close that the tip of her nose touched the ice—nothing to see. The lake was as black as if night were hiding down there, waiting out the day.

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