The Children's Book

“She is his daughter. She came to tell him she had found that out. He—he believes her, you can see. They— they are—you see how they are. I only translate,” she was compelled to add, though she was covertly studying the repeated recording of her thin and pale beauty in the sketch-book. She said

“And you are her brother. Half-brother.”

Wolfgang put his head to one side and considered Griselda. She said “I think you should tell him you know. I think—” I think it is all too intense, she wanted to say, and could not. Wolfgang said

“I am glad you are not my sister.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

Griselda flushed and looked away.

“Will you come with me, to him—?” said Wolfgang.

Anselm Stern, confronted by his son, his sketch-book and a deprecatory Griselda, was briefly taken aback. He had been controlling a story, and one of the actors had taken the strings into his own hands. Wolfgang asked, politely and implacably, whether what Griselda said was true. Then he said that his father must speak to his mother, because people had been saying unkind things. He had always intended to speak to her, Anselm said. He had wanted—time to himself, time to think how best to go on, what to say to his sons. He smiled ruefully at Wolfgang.

“Now you know, there is no further reason to hesitate.”

“I’m sorry,” said Griselda.

“Why?”

“It wasn’t my secret.” A child both spoiled, indulged and neglected, she had never before for so long been simply ancillary to someone else’s drama.

“No, it is good,” said Anselm Stern. “Now I reflect, I must thank you.”

Angela Stern sent hand-decorated cards—with wickedly grinning cherubs—to the Pension Susskind to invite everyone—Joachim, Toby, Karl, Griselda and Dorothy—to supper in the Spiegelgarten. Dorothy looked at the cherubs and said that Frau Stern had a sense of humour. She put her hair up, carefully, for the occasion.

Frau Stern received them standing by the fountain. She was larger than her husband, in every direction, and seemed a little older, solid-featured, with a crown of greying fair hair. She wore a lace-trimmed blouse and a full grey skirt, nothing fancy. She shook everyone’s hand, Dorothy’s no longer than any other. She had one of those faces that in repose looks heavy, but can be transformed by a smile, or an eager sense of interest. When she smiled, she resembled Wolfgang, the same wide grin, the same concentrated glee. She served salmon and cucumber, sour cream and potato salad, accompanied by a choice of beer or Riesling. She said that the carvings on the fountain and the mirrors were her own work. Griselda watched her watching Dorothy, when Dorothy was not looking. Dorothy was sitting next to Leon, who said composedly that he had been talking to his brother and was happy to have his news.

When they had finished eating, Angela Stern invited Dorothy to come into the house and look at her work. Everyone—even, by now, the tutors—understood the importance of this. Anselm Stern brought the figure of a black cat out of his pocket and began to dance it on his knee.

“I shall show you my atelier,” said Angela Stern, who spoke English, in her own way. They climbed steep stairs and went into a large, largely empty room, with an easel set up, and two tables of modelled clay heads, some in progress, some finished.

“These are my sons,” said Angela Stern, pointing to three heads of very newborn babies. “Here Wolfgang, here Leon, here Eckhardt, who did not live. I love my sons, and I love my work, and I’m happy to see you in my house, Fraulein Wellwood.”

“Dorothy?”

“Dorothy.”

“It is kind of you to invite me.”

“I do believe that we should all be free to love when—where—we must—that we should not be constrained. What we believe and what we feel, you will understand, are not always the same. I—I did not know you—you—existed. I met your mother when she was here. She is a beautiful woman, full of life. She was very unhappy, in that time. We tried to comfort her.

“I believe I ought to be happy to see you—Fraulein—Dorothy—and now that I do see you, I believe I shall be happy. Come to see us, often. I shall show you my work. This is the room where I am myself. I should like you to know me—me also. I think I need say no more.”

“You are incredibly kind.”

“If there is any fault, it is not yours. These are my sons, as cherubs, and here, beginning to be young men. This is Anselm. I could not model him without a model in his hand. I have never got his look to my own satisfaction. I also do caricatures, and there I do better, I can make a simplified—how do you say—edge—outline of his look —”

Thinking about this conversation, later, Dorothy thought that the older woman was determined both to behave well, and not to be left out. Later still, she came to see that there were many ways in which Angela Stern resembled Olive Wellwood. “This is the room where I am myself.” Dorothy was at an age where she was still amazed to be able to describe to herself the movements of the minds and feelings of others. If you knew how somebody’s mind worked, did it mean you liked them? She was not a person of fierce affections or spontaneous emotions. All this bubbling up of excitement and delight and fear over her found father perturbed her. Angela Stern’s lovingly modelled heads of her boys were like Olive’s family tales—a form of love, a form of separateness.

Good sense is both a curse and a blessing. Dorothy sat in Munich, and thought everything out. If she was to be a doctor, she must return to Todefright and matriculate. She thought briefly about trying to stay in southern Germany and become a doctor there, but German women had more restricted options for study than the British, at that time. And she realised she had no idea what her new-found family would say if she asked to be taken in. And then she realised that she did not want to stay, not yet, not really. She was homesick even if she was happy. She missed both the Tree House and the convenience of Queen’s College, Harley Street and the lectures in Gower Street. There was also the problem of the tutors. Griselda and Karl knew what was going on and had accepted Wolfgang and Leon as proxy cousins. She made a plan. She asked Griselda to tell Toby Youlgreave, in very strict confidence, what had happened. And she asked Karl to tell Joachim Susskind, in