‘No, they went out to “enjoy themselves”. It’s the same every holiday. They go to a café together and sit there for an hour or two. Papa reads the newspapers and Mama leafs through the magazines and fashion journals. My mother, I must tell you, is even more of a slave to fashion than I am. She’s always nagging me about not being smartly enough dressed, and sending me to the dressmaker or to buy a new hat. When they’ve done with the papers, they begin discussing how to marry me off. It’s their favourite topic of conversation. Finding me a husband is their main aim in life. After that, if the weather’s fine, they go for half an hour’s stroll, and then they come home. If I’m at home when they return, Papa tells me that it’s time for us to have “an important talk”. Always with the same portentous expression on his face, as if it were some historic occasion. He points commandingly to a chair, probably with the same gesture he uses with his clerks in his private office at the bank. My mother is usually present at these sessions too. I sit and wait, and so does my father. After a short silence he asks me, always the same two words: “Well, Lotte?” I pretend I don’t understand. “When are you going to invite us to your wedding …” Me: “I don’t know yet. I haven’t got anyone to marry. Nobody wants me.” “That’s not so, Lotte,” says my father solemnly. And my mother chimes in: “No, it’s not true, Lotte. You’re the one who doesn’t want anybody.” At this, everyone falls silent. After a moment Papa says, as if he’s just been struck by a brilliant idea: “What about Dr Astel, for instance? He wants you.” And he darts a penetrating look in my direction to see how I react. “We’ll have to wait and see,” I say. A pause. After this there are a few more short, stiff questions on the same subject, and the “important talk” is over. The same conversation takes place about once a week, always according to exactly the same formula, and always on Sundays or holidays. On the other days of the week we talk about everything under the sun, but never about that.’

The maid brought in tea and a selection of sweetmeats.

‘How old is your mother, Lotte?’

‘Forty-five.’

‘I’d never have guessed. She looks younger. By six or seven years at least.’