TE20 Migrant Mosaics

Birke

give a generic location, her uncle would explain that he grew up between Feldkirchen and Villach , in a village that you wouldn’t even consider a village . And they, polite but curious, would ask oh but where? I am from around there as well. And her uncle, in a tone that communicated the end of the conversation, gave them one more bit of obscure information just to ensure the end of that topic. Next to a river. Close to a bridge. Surrounded by birch trees. His curt response sounded like a report that Birke used to hear on the TV from the men with suits and ties. She was only halfway listening. She would later learn to listen closely. When she was young—four or five—this man was Onkel Georg . He had no history. He stood stall with a thick mustache and always dressed nicely. He always wore pants that adults wear to work and a velvet vest. She liked his vests. He belonged to family : that weird group of people who had other titles in front of their names like aunt and uncle and grandpa . His existence in her life was something that she became accustomed to, not something that she especially noticed. His adult pants and velvet vests became old frames in the background of her life. He came over for birthday parties or to have a beer with her dad. He talked with her dad and guests. He kissed her on the cheek and smiled that crooked smile with those smoke rotted grey teeth. And then he left. And not many months after she saw that crooked goodbye smile, he came back, wearing the same pants and same vest, fitting himself neatly into the background of her life: a shadow in velvet and khaki.

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