TE20 Migrant Mosaics

Ben Sloan

And although Onkel Georg was no farmer or hunter, but rather a Professor of History, the drinking of Schnapps belonged to a custom, a tradition if you will, so impressed on his tongue, stomach, and taste buds, that when Mrs. Radler—who made her own Schnapps with those sweet fresh plums that she picked from her garden—brought out a bottle during a party, Onkel Georg couldn’t help but allow his usual sober affect and relentless tik- tok fall to the wayside. After a few shots, his eyes softened. His guard slackened. He momentarily allowed his guilt to become distracted—so that now, when a guest probed about his life, he conceded some details. He admitted, through a story or obscure anecdote, that he lived close to this bridge and next to this river, or behind this one mountain well known for hiking. It was during these lapses that Birke learned to pay attention. Because one day these notes would lead her to a place next to a river or behind a mountain where her uncle once lived. But also the home that her mother once lived in. And she would go there and fill in the notes for the main character of her plays that had been missing her entire life. She would go there one day. When she was allowed to. When she allowed herself to. • As Birke descended down the four steep hills that led her to the nearly two hundred year old cabin, a silence engulfed her. The valley was too quiet, she thought. There should be noises. Back home there are noises. Her dad’s apartment in Klagenfurt was directly across the street from the train station. She knew exactly 214