Excerpt from Almost Autumn : The large birch trees whisper in the wind. The streets seem wider than usual; there is less dust, less litter. There are four words in her head, four words that have popped up out of nowhere, like a chorus, a march: Everything starts this autumn. Everything starts this autumn. One, two, three, four. Everything starts this autumn. Something is waiting for her; someone is waiting for her. The leaves may plummet from the treetops, the earth may become hard and impenetrable, the rain may fall and the wind may tear through the streets, and the war, the stupid war, it can carry on regardless, because she, Ilse Stern, fifteen and a half years old and in her summer dress and lipstick, she is heading for something warm and red that beats strong, and there is nothing that can stop her. People sit chatting in Olaf Ryes Square, some on the grass and others on the green benches positioned in a semicircle around the fountain. Water continues to gurgle and the tall trees cast shadows over the open square where children play tag, running after one another as they laugh and squeal. It seems so long ago that she was one of them, a scruffy little city child with skinny pigtails, darting around in the streets and parks of Grunerlokka. Ilse looks for a slender boy with fair, bristly hair and a gap between his front teeth, a boy with delicate, dry hands and a familiar stroll, a boy who smells like Hermann. He is nowhere to be seen. The wind rustles in the trees. She waits. Excerpted from Almost Autumn by Marianne Kaurin All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
