Read The Sky is Changing for Free Online

each other in an almost invisible exchange of impulses, noises, movements and touch; a highly developed and complex form of communication.
    â€œShe will fall asleep any minute now,” Anne said, putting her back in the cot. Everyone left the room and for a few moments Claire was alone with the baby. She looked at it closely, intrigued by its perfection. Suddenly she felt pride that her sister had produced this. There it was, the next generation. Maybe it was due to the fact they had the same blood running through their veins that she suddenly felt a strong sense of responsibility.
    â€œIt’s alright, you know,” she whispered. “It doesn’t make sense to you yet, but eventually you will learn the names of things and with that they will get meaning. Just like a puzzle that is slowly being put together and will suddenly make a picture. Do you know why this Alexander Calder mobile that your mummy bought at a museum shop is dangling from the ceiling? It’s because your mummy is an architect and she likes these kind of things and wants to pass it on. That is what parents do. They just pass on who they are. And this is where you are very lucky, Margarethe. You are safe. Your parents are good, intelligent people and you will grow up in a beautiful house in the best area of Hamburg. You really couldn’t have chosen better, you know. So don’t worry. Paddington Bear is sitting on the changing table over there, ready with his little suitcase patiently waiting for you, until you are old enough to take him on a journey.”
    Margarethe was now breathing in a slow rhythm, her chest rising up and down, her eyelids almost transparent, streaked with blueish veins, flickering in her sleep. What does a baby dream of? Does it dream at all? She looked at this tiny sleeping body, defenceless and completely unaware of its whereabouts. It really was as if she had just been dropped from the sky. Claire covered Margarethe with the blanket and, as if the darkness of the room was too much, left the door half open, leaving behind a triangle of light.
    When Claire entered the living room they had settled with drinks on the anthracite-coloured sofa, looking through the floor-to-ceiling windows and out into the garden.
    â€œGet yourself a glass of wine,” Karl pointed to the bottle on the counter of the open-plan kitchen. Claire liked the sleek design, the slate tiles marking a border line between the kitchen and the living room with its floor dark maple. Everything was so carefully thought out. The cupboard doors in the white handleless space opened with the slightest pressure and closed silently. It was so much cleaner then her old wooden kitchen in London, with the knobs that got grubby in no time.
    Leaning over the counter, a glass of Chardonnay in her hand, she followed their conversation. They were talking about Iraq. Karl held a strong opinion – he has always been against Bush but wasn’t one of those who had joined the peace protests in Berlin.
    â€œA lot of the demonstrators were just indulging in outright, dumb anti-Americanism. They are all wearing jeans, drinking Coca Cola and eating at McDonald’s, blissfully unaware of how American and spoilt they actually are. What do they know about what life is like in a dictatorship? Nothing. It’s easy to walk around Berlin or London shouting for peace, because you don’t have to pay for it. In Iraq you would have ended up being tortured.”
    Anne intervened, but Claire could tell that she was just repeating something she had said before and wasn’t really engaged or interested in the subject. She was simply too tired to get excited about politics or anything that went on beyond the walls of her house.
    â€œI really don’t think all 500,000 of those people who gathered in Berlin in the name of peace were halfbaked students who just fancied a big party. Some of my friends went, too, and they actually had very good reasons.”