The girls are more content to play on the shore, except for Ursula, the indomitable elder. Well, who could blame her? Like her father, like her brother, she’s built on a sturdy frame. Sometimes Elfriede looks at her and wonders where the devil they’re going to find a husband for her. Yes, there’s the stain of bastardy, but it’s more the size of her, the strength of Ursula. Only an unusually large, unusually strong man can cope with her. Or else a smaller man who wants to be coped with? Perhaps. Her younger sisters are more dainty. Blond and pinkish. Of course, the baby’s only eleven months old, so it’s hard to tell for certain. She sits on the edge of her blanket right now, under a new striped umbrella, eating sand in calm handfuls. Poor baby, Charlotte was seven months along with her when Gerhard’s appendix burst. She never saw her father’s face, heard his voice, felt his big hands cradling her as he had the others. These things happen. Life’s uncertain. Charlotte—convinced this tragedy was the retribution of a vengeful God—took to her bed when the peritonitis set in. Didn’t leave it until after Gertrud was born, one month later and four weeks early, and a little life returned to her eyes. Well, who wouldn’t perk up, producing a beautiful baby like that? The Lord giveth and taketh away, Charlotte said, putting the baby to her breast, naming her after her dead father, and Elfriede felt her own grief lifting as she gazed at the small, sad faces in the nursery, who now loved her and needed her more than ever.

Well! But that’s all in the past. Those sad faces are happy again. Children, they’re more resilient than adults, and anyway their memories are fleeting. Even Ursula’s too young to really remember her father clearly, a year after his death, and Johann . . . well, Johann’s like Gerhard and doesn’t wear his emotions like garments. An expert at pretending all’s well, that certain truths don’t exist.