Divided Heaven [antikvár]

T he city, on the threshold of autumn, basked in the hot sun after long weeks of rain; its breath, coming faster than usual, puffed up through hundreds of factory chimneys into the clear sky, where it hung motionless. The unaccustomed brilliance struck people as incongruous and almost unbearable in those uneasy days. The air weighed heavy, and the water; with its ugly smell of chemicals, tasted bitter. But the earth was still firm and would bear them as long as it remained beneath them. So we returned to our daily work - abandoned for a brief spell while we listened to the impersonal voice of the radio announcer and to the silent voices of imminent dangers, all fatal in that period. We had escaped these dangers this time. A shadow had fallen over the city; now it was warm and alive again, bearing and burying life, giving and taking it away. We took up cortversations again where we had left off - about the wedding, whether it should be at Christmas or in the spring, about new winter coats for the children, about the wife's illness or about the new boss at the works. We learned to sleep soundly again and to live our lives to the full, as if there were an abundance of this strange substance - life - as if it would never be used up.