Dorothea does not often mention her father. But one afternoon, seeing a photograph of him wearing a short-sleeved pullover and smiling at the camera, she laughs and says, ‘I used to make fun of my father when I was a little girl. He was so serious, he would gaze into the distance and wave his arms around and explain his schemes. I would build my cities out of bricks and explain that this was a workers’ city where the people – the people were my dolls, lined up to listen – would learn to lead a healthy life. I would lecture them: “No more beds, good dolls sleep on the floor, good dolls say no to cake, they like to eat brown rice, Herr Thomas says so.” Father would laugh and laugh. “Ah, she is so naughty,” he’d say. “I would never dare to make fun of my father like this.” He’d say, “Will you be a great architect, my darling?” and I would answer, “Yes, Vati, or perhaps I will be a great artist like Mutti.”’
‘It sounds very happy.’
‘And so it was. And it was particularly nice when Mark came to supper, as he often did. They would talk about all sorts of things, very freely, and Mark would relax. Living with them was more fun, I suppose, than living with your dull old parents was for you. Poor darling Vati, so many mistakes. . .’
And for a while she does not speak about him again.