The Children's Book (102 page)

Charles/Karl, stiffly, asked Wolfgang and Dorothy if they had news of the Stern family. They said no news had come out of Munich, no trains ran, letters went unanswered.

Charles/Karl said that Leon Stern had been killed in the railway station, fighting for his ideas. Wolfgang bent his head. There was a silence.

Charles/Karl said he had been to the Spiegelgarten of Frau Holle. Anselm Stern and Angela were as well as they could be, though thin and hungry. They thought they would move to Berlin, as Munich was now not a good place for Jews.

It had not occurred to Dorothy to ask whether her father was Jewish and he had not felt a need to tell her. She said, slowly,

“Perhaps, when all this is over, they could come here.”

They could make magical plays for a new generation of children. Angela could work, in London, in Kent, somewhere in peace. The idea seemed both possible and unreal.

•  •  •

They sat, the survivors, quietly round the dinner table, and drank to the memory of Leon. Ghosts occupied their minds, and crowded in the shadows behind them. They all had things they could not speak of and could not free themselves from, stories they survived only by never telling them, although they woke at night, surprised by foul dreams, which returned regularly and always as a new shock.

Katharina lit the candles which had been brought out for the occasion, and stood in silver candlesticks.

Philip sat at the end of a table in a wheelchair that supported his leg. He was next to Dorothy, who was opposite Wolfgang. Charles/Karl was sitting next to Elsie, and their hands touched. Katharina watched her daughter watch Wolfgang Stern. Griselda had become fixed, efficient and almost spinsterly as the war went on. Katharina was almost resigned to seeing her close herself into a college. Now her composed face was discomposed and hungry in a way Katharina had never seen. Katharina asked Wolfgang if he would like more soup, and used the familiar
“Du.”
He smiled, and his grim face was livelier. She gave more soup to her frail and bony son, and to his wife, who watched him fiercely and fearfully. She gave more soup to Hedda, who was tired but almost contented, having worked hard and usefully all day, and to Ann, who had become attached to Hedda. She gave more soup to Dorothy, who gave more to Philip, who said it was delicious. Delicate dumplings lurked beneath the golden surface on which a veil of finely chopped parsley eddied and swayed. Steam rose to meet the fine smoke from the candles, and all their faces seemed softer in their quavering light.

This novel owes a great deal to many people, who have told me about things, shown me things, and shared their knowledge. People always thank their patient partners at the end of their acknowledgements, but I want to thank my husband, Peter Duffy, at the beginning. He has shown me southern England, driven me to odd places, and shared with me his considerable knowledge of the First World War, including his books. He has found things out about distances, modes of transport and buildings, and checked (some of) my mistakes. He has also been patient.

I owe a great deal to Marian Campbell, who showed me the gold and silver in the Victoria and Albert Museum—and understood that I would need the Gloucester Candlestick. She also showed me the basement and its treasure. Reino Liefkes showed me the ceramics department, including works by Palissy, and early Majolica dishes. A pot in the hands is quite different from a pot behind glass. Fiona McCarthy sent me her copy of Anthony Burton’s
Vision and Accident
about the Museum—I saw I needed my own, and bought one. Her work on William Morris has also been hugely helpful. I am grateful to Sir Christopher Frayling, who sent me books about the Royal College of Art and talked to me about it.

My daughter, Antonia Byatt, when director of the English Women’s Library, helped me with the history of women’s suffrage and introduced me to Anne Summers, and to Jennian Geddes, whose generous provision of information about women in medicine at the time of my novel was both fascinating and extraordinarily helpful.

Edmund de Waal invited me to visit his studio, and allowed me to put my hands into a wavering clay pot. He also gave me books and suggested more, and I owe him a great deal. I was also helped by Mary Wondrausch whose book on slipware—apart from being full of interest—was also full of technical information and delectable vocabulary.

My friend and translator Melanie Walz, who lives in Munich, showed me the city and took me to the puppet museum—and everywhere else—and shared her wide knowledge of German and Bavarian art and life, over many years. The book could not have been written without her. I am also grateful to Professor Martin Middeke who took me to the Augsburg puppet museum, and to Deborah Holmes and Ingrid Schram who took me to see the Teschner collection in the Austrian Theatre Museum in Vienna, and to the Museum of Applied Arts
there, where I learned a great deal, with great pleasure, from Dr. Rainald Franz. And I would like to thank Dimitri Psurtsev and Victor Lanchikov for help with things Russian.

Dr. Gillian Sutherland shared her knowledge of the history of women in Cambridge, and of Newnham College in particular—and again sent books. I am very grateful. Professor Max Saunders helped me with the Rossetti anarchists and his work on the period was informative and elegant.

The books I have collected are too many to mention but I should like to acknowledge the pleasure and information I found in David Kynaston’s great history of the City of London. Linda K. Hughes’s
Life of Graham R
. is full of detail, and Professor Hughes herself answered arcane queries with generosity. I am indebted to Peter Chasseaud’s splendid
Rats Alley
, which is a comprehensive description of the trench names of the Western Front. Andrew Ramen at Heywood Hill helped me at the very beginning of this work by collecting and suggesting books on puppetry and other things. I reread Jonathan Gathorne-Hardy’s terrifying book on public schools, which helped, as can be seen.

Dominic Gregory went to look at inns near Dungeness and sent me a pebble with a hole in it.

My American publishers at Knopf have been, and continue to be, encouraging, meticulous and generous. I am grateful for Sonny Mehta’s enthusiasm. I immensely enjoy working with Robin Desser, my editor at Knopf—I am very happy that we have now worked together for a considerable time. Steven Barclay, my American lecture agent, is both a good friend and extraordinarily competent and imperturbable.

My publisher at Chatto and Windus, Alison Samuel, and my editor, Jenny Uglow, to whom this novel is dedicated, have been supportive and imaginative. Patrick Hargadon discussed knotty narrative points beyond the call of duty. My agent in the States, Melanie Jackson, has been both wise about the novel, and precise about practical matters. My British agent Deborah Rogers has looked after me, in more ways than I could have imagined, and I owe a great deal to her and to her assistants, Hannah West-land and Mohsen Shah. Lindsey Andrews was diligent and helpful when she worked as my assistant. And I am as always very grateful for Gill Marsden’s patient and faultless typing, and for her calm interest in the work.

Finally, I was amazed by Stephen Parker’s beautiful cover design, and Gabriele Wilson’s elegant American adaptation of it. They are exactly right and all I could have wished for.

A. S. Byatt is internationally acclaimed as a novelist, short story writer and critic. Her novels include
Possession
, awarded the Booker Prize in 1990; the quartet
The Virgin in the Garden, Still Life, Babel Tower
and
A Whistling Woman; The Game;
and
The Biographer’s Tale
. She has also written two novellas, published together as
Angels and Insects
, and five collections of shorter works, including
The Matisse Stories
and
Little Black Book of Stories
, as well as several works of nonfiction. Educated at Cambridge, she was a senior Lecturer in English and American literature at University College, London. She lives in London.