“Hmm,” said my neighbor, and wanted to say something more. But I ignored her and concluded with heavy emphasis:

“And for that reason it is urgently necessary for God to find out what human beings are really like. We should be happy that there are those of us who are able to tell Him.”

But my neighbor was not happy. “And who would that be?”

“Why, quite simply the children, and maybe also anyone who paints, writes poems, and builds—”

“Builds what? Churches?”

“Yes, and other things, whatever—”

My neighbor slowly shook her head. A lot of what I’d said struck her as very odd indeed. We had already passed her house and now slowly turned around. Suddenly she became quite gay and laughed:

“But what nonsense! Of course God is omniscient. He must have known, for example, where the little bird had come from.” She looked at me with an air of triumph. I was a little confused, I must admit. But once I had gotten hold of myself, I succeeded in putting on a very serious face.

“Dear lady,” I lectured her, “in fact that is a story all by itself. But just so you won’t think that’s only an excuse on my part”—naturally at this point she protested strongly—“I will just say briefly: Of course, God has all the attributes. But before He was in a position, as it were, to apply them to the world, they all seemed to Him like one single big power. I don’t know if I’m expressing myself clearly. But in relation to things, His powers became specialized and turned into duties to a certain extent. It was hard for Him to keep track of everything. You see, there are conflicts. (By the way, I’m telling all this only to you, and you are by no means to pass it along to the children.)”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” protested my listener.

“You see, if an angel had flown by and sung, ‘Thou who knowest everything,’ then everything would have been fine.”

“And then there would have been no need for this story.”

“Definitely,” I confirmed. And I prepared to take my leave.

“But are you absolutely sure about all this?”

“Absolutely sure,” I replied almost formally.

“Then I’ll have to tell the children this today!”

“I would love to be able to listen in. Goodbye, then.”

“Goodbye,” she replied. Then she turned back again:

“But why was it this particular angel who—”

“My dear neighbor,” I interrupted her, “I perceive that your two little girls don’t ask so many questions just because they’re children.”

“Then why do they?” asked my neighbor, curious.

“Well, the doctors say there are certain hereditary traits. . . .” My neighbor wagged her finger at me. But all the same we parted good friends.

The next time I ran into my dear neighbor (which was, by the way, a fairly long time later), she was not alone, so I could not find out whether she had told her girls my story or how it had turned out. I was relieved of this uncertainty by a letter that I received shortly thereafter. Since I have not received the permission of the sender to make it public, I will have to confine myself to telling how it ended; this should make it fairly easy to figure out who it came from. It ended with the words: “Me and five other children, since I am one of them.”