Shorter Days by Anna Katharina Hahn Page B

Schlamper, usually on the way home from St. Anton, he slackens the leash and exchanges a few words with Leonie; despite his general reserve, these platitudes about the weather somehow convey a certain aura of intimacy. Schlamper patiently tolerates Felicia and Lisa’s clumsy caresses and only occasionally lets out a deep breath, which sounds like a sigh.
    Leonie looks for sweets in the cabinet over the refrigerator—some costumed kids are sure to come by. She extracts a bag of chocolate bars from the jumble of open packages of cookies, candy necklaces, and stray gumballs and sets them in easy reach next to the stove.
    The large windows in the building across the street are filled with yellow light. It’s the kind of light that makes one pause during an evening stroll and gaze in, drawn by the foreign warmth, the promise of a kind of privateness one’s own four walls can never offer. Leonie steps back and turns off the overhead light. Then she returns to her post, conscious of doing something embarrassing. A round table with a lobster-red tablecloth stands close against the window. Leonie sees a steaming dish, a breadbasket, deep blue plates, candles, a bouquet of asters, and wonders whether she and Simon even own a tablecloth. Yes, she says to herself, there’s the Christmas tablecloth with the dancing St. Nicholases. Across the table a slim woman with long black hair fills the bowls as they’re passed to her. They’re having soup. “Well, we had soup tonight too,” she thinks, continuing to stare in the neighbors’ window. Two children are sitting at the table—boys Lisa and Felicia’s age. They’re wearing pajamas, and they spoon the soup up with great concentration. The father, blond like his sons, passes around a bowl of salad. The whole family is using cloth napkins that match the tablecloth. Leonie looks at the clock: “They can sit still so long. They haven’t gotten up or knocked anything over or spilled on themselves. And they’re eating salad.” The man is talking about something, and the children listen attentively. A modern lamp with a frosted glass shade hangs over the table; the walls are painted yellow. Tea lights burn on the windowsill alongside large stones and flowers arranged in vases and jars. From this small glimpse, as tiny as the scenes behind the doors of an advent calendar, she can tell that the household across the street is run by a person who spends her whole day at home. In Heumaden most of the mothers had worked, even if only part-time, in order to pay off the little beige houses before they retired. Leonie’s five-day workweek was unusual, but not as exotic as it is in Lehenviertel. There’s a trend toward three-child families at the girls’ kindergarten. Most of the highly-educated full-time mothers seem satisfied with their roles as unpaid cleaning ladies, chefs, and chauffeurs. Simon is proud of his “business babe” and has always been supportive. Sometimes he irons Leonie’s blouses when she’s too tired. Thanks to Ingrid he can cook simple dishes, and he notices when things get dirty or untidy. Recently, this help has become less frequent, though. He comes home later every day. Compared to the man across the street, he’s a macho, a guaranteed absence. The neighbor has broad shoulders, and his good-natured face, which consists mostly of nose, makes him look like Gérard Depardieu’s younger brother. He’s home at the most unlikely times: he regularly returns for lunch, and when it’s the family’s turn, he takes care of sweeping and tidying the sidewalk in front of the building, his sons often tottering behind him with miniature brooms and enameled dustpans.
    When Leonie looks through the window across the street, she feels like she’s opening a picture book in which everything is as it’s meant to be. She indulges in a look at the holy family, as she calls her