The Parent Trap

by Erich Kästner

  At this Mrs Körner proudly stood up very straight and replied, ‘I expect she lacks, to use your own words, the intellectual equilibrium to tell tales of other girls!’ And then she hurried away to the office, and had to take a taxi to get there in time. Two marks thirty. Oh, all that money!

  On Saturday morning Mummy suddenly packed a rucksack and said, ‘Put your stout walking shoes on! We’re going to Garmisch and we won’t be back until tomorrow evening!’

  Luise asked, a little anxiously, ‘But Mummy – won’t it be dreadfully expensive?’

  Mrs Körner felt a little pang in her heart. Then she laughed. ‘Well, if the money runs out I’ll sell you on the way!’

  Her daughter danced for joy. ‘Wonderful! And once you have the money for me I’ll run away back to you. Once you’ve sold me three or four times we’ll be so rich that you won’t have to go to work for a whole month!’

  ‘Goodness, are you as expensive as all that?’

  ‘I cost three thousand marks eleven pfennigs, with my mouth-organ thrown in for free!’

  What a weekend that was – as good as raspberries with whipped cream! They walked from Garmisch to the Badersee Lake by way of Grainau. Then they went to the Eibsee Lake, with singing and music on the mouth-organ. Their route went downhill over stock and stone, through tall forests. They found wild strawberries and strange, beautiful flowers, martagon lilies and gentians with many little lilac-coloured blooms, and tiny Alpine violets that smelled so sweet you could hardly believe it.

  In the evening they came to a village called Gries, where they took a room with just one bed in it. And when they had given themselves a lavish supper of things they had brought in the rucksack, they slept together in the bed, with the crickets playing them serenades outside.

  On Sunday morning they went on to Ehrwald and Lermoos. The Zugspitze, the highest peak in the mountains near there, shone silvery white. The local people came out of church wearing their traditional costumes, and cows stood about in the village street as if they were having a good gossip at a coffee morning.

  Then they went to the place called the Little Gateway – what a scramble that was! Beside a paddock of horses, in the middle of millions of wild flowers, they lunched on hardboiled eggs and cheese sandwiches, and after lunch, instead of pudding they had a little nap in the grass.

  Later they climbed down to the Eibsee among raspberry bushes and fluttering butterflies. Cowbells rang the afternoon in. They saw the Zugspitze mountain railway crawling up to the heights. The lake lay in its valley looking tiny.

  ‘As if the Lord God spat in the valley,’ said Luise dreamily.

  Of course they bathed in the lake, and Mummy bought them coffee and cake on the hotel terrace. And then it was high time to hike back to Garmisch.

  They sat in the train back to Munich feeling happy, browned by the sun, and the nice gentleman opposite them said nothing could make him believe that the young girl sitting next to Luise was her mummy, and a professional woman into the bargain!

  At home they fell into bed, worn out. The last thing Luise said was, ‘Mummy, it was so lovely! It was the nicest weekend in the world!’

  Her mother lay awake for a little while longer. To think, she told herself, that it was so easy to make a little girl happy, and she had been keeping that happiness from her little girl until now! Well, it wasn’t too late. They had plenty of time to make up for it.

  Then Mrs Körner fell asleep, and as she dreamed her face wore a smile. It flitted over her face like the breeze blowing over the lake where they had bathed.

  The child had changed, and now the young woman began to change as well.

  Chapter Eight

  Mr Gabele’s windows are too small ·Drinking coffee on the Ringstrasse · Diplomatic conversations ·A father must sometimes be strict · A song in C minor · Wedding plans · Number 43 Kobenzlallee · Miss Gerlach is all ears · Dr Strobl is very worried · The Music Director cuddles a doll

  Lottie’s piano lessons aren’t getting anywhere. It’s not her fault, but these days her father doesn’t have much spare time for giving lessons. Perhaps it is something to do with his work on the children’s opera? That’s one possibility, isn’t it? But little girls can tell when something is wrong. If fathers talk about children’s operas and say nothing about the likes of Miss Gerlach … then like a keen-nosed animal picking up a scent, a little girl can tell where danger threatens.

  Lottie comes out of the Rotenturmstrasse apartment and rings the doorbell of the apartment next to theirs. A painter called Mr Gabele lives on the other side of that door, a nice, friendly gentleman who says he would like to do a drawing of Lottie when she has time.

  Mr Gabele opens the door. ‘Hello, it’s Luise!’

  ‘I do have time today,’ she tells him.

  ‘Just a moment,’ he calls, hurrying into the room where he works. He takes a large scarf off the table and hangs it over a picture on his easel. At the moment he is painting a scene from classical antiquity, and pictures like that aren’t always suitable for children.

  Then he takes the little girl in, sits her down in an armchair, picks up a block of paper and begins sketching. ‘You’re not playing the piano so much these days,’ he says as he goes on with his drawing.

  ‘Did it disturb you?’

  ‘Far from it! Quite the opposite. In fact, I miss it.’

  ‘Daddy doesn’t have much spare time at the moment,’ she says earnestly. ‘He’s composing an opera. It’s going to be for children.’

  Mr Gabele is pleased to hear that. Then he looks cross. ‘Oh, these windows!’ he sighs. ‘You can’t see a thing! I ought to have a proper studio!’

  ‘Then why don’t you rent one, Mr Gabele?’

  ‘Because there aren’t any to be rented! Studio apartments are few and far between.’

  After a pause, Lottie says, ‘Daddy has a studio, with big windows. And a skylight above it.’

  Mr Gabele mutters something.

  ‘On the Ringstrasse,’ adds Lottie. And after another pause, she says, ‘You don’t need as much light for composing as for painting, do you?’

  ‘No,’ replies Mr Gabele.

  Now Lottie cautiously feels her way another step forward. She says thoughtfully, ‘You know, Daddy could swap apartments with you! Then you’d have bigger windows and more light for painting. And Daddy would have his apartment for composing here, right next to his other apartment!’ The idea seems to please her enormously. ‘That would be very practical, don’t you think?’

  Mr Gabele could make all sorts of objections to Lottie’s train of thought. But because it wouldn’t be right to tell her so, he smiles and says, ‘Yes, it would certainly be very practical. The only question is whether your papa thinks so too.’

  Lottie nods. ‘I’ll ask him, as soon as you’ve finished drawing.’

  Mr Palfy is in his studio, and he has a visitor. The visitor is a lady. Miss Irene Gerlach ‘just happened’ to be doing some shopping near the studio, and she said to herself: why don’t I look in and see Ludwig, since I’m passing?

  Ludwig has pushed the pages of the musical score on which he is scribbling to one side, and is talking to Irene. At first he was a little annoyed, because he hates people to drop in unannounced and disturb him while he works. But gradually the pleasure of sitting with such a beautiful lady and stroking her hand, almost as if by accident, gets the better of his annoyance.

  Irene Gerlach knows what she wants. She wants to marry Mr Palfy. He is famous. She likes him. He likes her. So there aren’t too many difficulties standing in the way of what she wants. Of course, he doesn’t yet know how happy he will be. But she will make sure, in good time and breaking it to him gently, that he does know. In the end he will think that he thought of the idea of marriage all by himself.

  However, there is still one obstacle: that foolish child! But once Irene has given Ludwig one or two babies it will all turn out just as she wants. Irene Gerlach will deal with that serious, shy brat!


  The doorbell rings.

  Ludwig opens the door.

  And who should be standing in the doorway but that serious, shy brat! With a bunch of flowers in her hand. She bobs a little curtsy and says, ‘Hello, Daddy! I’ve brought you some fresh flowers!’ Then she walks into the studio, briefly bobs another curtsy to the visitor, finds a vase and disappears into the kitchen.

  Irene smiles maliciously. ‘Anyone seeing you and your daughter would get the impression that you were henpecked!’

  The Music Director smiles awkwardly. ‘She has such a decided way of acting these days, and what’s more, she always does just the right thing – how can anyone object to that?’

  While Miss Gerlach shrugs her pretty shoulders, Lottie reappears. First she puts the fresh flowers down on the table. Then she finds china, and while she puts cups and plates on the table, she tells her Daddy, ‘I’ll just go and make some coffee. We must offer your visitor something to drink.’

  Daddy and his visitor, behind her back, are looking baffled. And I took her for a shy child, thinks Miss Gerlach. My word, how stupid I was!

  Lottie soon comes back with coffee, sugar and cream, pours the coffee – very much the little housewife – asks if anyone would like sugar, pushes the cream over to the visitor, then sits down beside her father and says, with a friendly smile, ‘I’ll have a little coffee as well to keep you company.’

  Papa pours some coffee for her and asks politely, ‘How much cream, madam?’

  Lottie giggles. ‘Half and half, please, sir.’

  ‘By all means, madam!’

  ‘Thank you, sir!’

  They drink coffee in silence. At last Lottie opens the conversation. ‘I’ve just been to see Mr Gabele.’

  ‘Did he draw you?’ asks her father.

  ‘Only for a little while,’ says the child. Another sip of coffee, and then she says, innocently, ‘He doesn’t get enough light in his apartment. Most of all he needs light from above. Like you get in here from the skylight …’

  ‘Then he’d better rent a studio with a skylight,’ says the Music Director, understanding that, but with no idea that he is going exactly the way Lottie wants.

  ‘That’s what I told him,’ she explains, ‘but all the studios like this one are rented already.’

  That wretched child, thinks Miss Gerlach. For as another daughter of Eve, she knows just what the child has in mind. And sure enough …

  ‘You don’t really need light from above for composing, do you, Daddy?’

  ‘No, not really.’

  The child holds her breath, looks intently at her pinafore, and asks, as if this question has only just occurred to her, ‘Suppose you were to change apartments with Mr Gabele, Daddy?’

  Thank goodness, now it’s out! Lottie looks up at her papa from beneath her eyelids. Her eyes are frightened and pleading.

  Her father looks half annoyed, half amused from the little girl to the elegant lady, who just has time to conjure up a gently ironic smile on her face.

  ‘Then Mr Gabele would have a studio,’ says the child, with her voice trembling slightly, ‘and all the light he needs. And you’d be living right beside us. Beside Resi and me.’ Lottie’s eyes, if I may put it this way, are on their knees to her father’s glance. ‘You’d be alone just as you are here. And if you don’t want to be alone you can just cross the corridor to us. You wouldn’t even have to put your hat on. And we can eat lunch at home. We’ll ring your doorbell three times when lunch is ready. And we’ll always cook things you like, even smoked meat and fish. And when you play the piano we could hear it through the wall …’ Lottie’s voice sounds more and more hesitant, and in the end it dies away.

  Miss Gerlach abruptly stands up. She really must go home, she says. How time flies. But what an interesting conversation!

  Music Director Palfy escorts his guest to the door and kisses her fragrant hand. ‘I’ll see you this evening, then,’ he says.

  ‘Oh, but perhaps you won’t have time?’

  ‘Why not, darling?’

  She smiles. ‘Perhaps you’ll be moving house!’

  He laughs.

  ‘Don’t laugh too soon! If I know your daughter, she’s already fixed it with the furniture removers!’ Angrily, the young lady hurries downstairs.

  When the Music Director comes back into the studio, Lottie is busy washing the coffee things. He plays a few notes on the grand piano. He walks up and down the room, taking long strides. He stares at the scribbles on his musical score.

  Lottie tries hard not to clatter the cups and plates. When she has dried everything and put it back in the cupboard, she puts on her hat and goes quietly into the studio.

  ‘Goodbye, Daddy …’

  ‘Goodbye.’

  ‘Will you be home for supper?’

  ‘No, not today.’

  The child nods slowly, and shyly holds out her hand to shake his.

  ‘Listen, Luise – I don’t like other people arranging my life for me, not even my daughter! I know what’s best for me myself.’

  ‘Of course, Daddy,’ she says calmly and quietly. Her hand is still stretched out.

  Finally he shakes it after all, and sees that there are tears clinging to the child’s eyelashes. A father must sometimes be strict. So he pretends not to have noticed anything, and just nods and sits down at the piano.

  Lottie goes quickly to the door, opens it carefully – and disappears.

  The Music Director runs his hand through his hair. A child in tears – that puts the lid on it! And he’s supposed to be composing a children’s opera! This really is the end! There’s no bearing the sight of tears in such a little creature’s eyes! Caught in her long lashes like dewdrops hanging from thin blades of grass …

  His hands strike a few notes. He bows his head and listens to the echo. He plays the sequence of notes again. It is a variation of a happy children’s song in his opera, but in the minor key. He changes the rhythm. He is working.

  The things that a child’s tears can do! Artists like Mr Palfy are well off! In a minute he will take out some music paper and write the notes down. And finally he will lean back, very pleased with himself, rubbing his hands because he has composed such a wonderfully sad song in the key of C minor. (Isn’t there a friendly giant around the place somewhere to smack his bottom for him now and then?)

  Once again weeks have passed by. Miss Irene Gerlach hasn’t forgotten the scene in the studio. She understood the child’s suggestion that her father might exchange his studio on the Ringstrasse for the painter Mr Gabele’s apartment as exactly what it was: a declaration of war! A real woman – and even if Lottie can’t stand her, Irene Gerlach is a real woman – isn’t going to put up with that kind of thing. She knows her weapons. She knows how to use them. She is well aware of their effect. She has shot all her arrows at their twitching target, the Music Director’s artistic heart. They are all now firmly fixed in the heart of the man she loves, who is her enemy. He is at his wits’ end.

  ‘I want you to be my wife,’ he says. It sounds like an angry order.

  She strokes his hair, smiles, and says mockingly, ‘Then I’ll put my best dress on tomorrow, darling, and go to ask your daughter for your hand in marriage.’

  Another arrow lodges itself in his heart. This time the arrow is poisoned.

  Mr Gabele is drawing Lottie. Suddenly he lowers his sketchpad and pencil and says, ‘What’s the matter with you today, Luiserl? You look like a week of rainy Mondays!’

  The child is breathing heavily, as if a load of heavy stones were weighing her down. ‘Oh, it’s nothing.’

  ‘Anything to do with school?’

  She shakes her head. ‘No, that wouldn’t be so bad.’

  Mr Gabele puts his sketchpad away. ‘I tell you what, my little weeping willow! Let’s stop for today!’ He stands up. ‘Go for a little walk. That will cheer you up.’

  ‘Or maybe I’ll play the piano for a bit?’

  ‘Even better!’ he says. ‘Then I can hear yo
u through the wall, and it will cheer me up too.’

  She shakes hands with him, bobs a little curtsy and leaves.

  He looks thoughtfully after her small figure as she disappears. He knows how heavily unhappiness can weigh on a child’s heart. He was a child once himself, and unlike most grown-ups he hasn’t forgotten what it was like.

  When he hears the piano tinkling in the apartment next door he nods approvingly, and begins whistling along with the tune.

  Then he suddenly snatches the scarf off his easel, picks up his palette and his paintbrush, studies his picture with narrowed eyes and sets to work.

  Mr Ludwig Palfy turns into Rotenturmstrasse. The steps up to his apartment seem twice as steep as usual. He hangs his hat and coat on the coat stand in the hall. Is that Luise playing the piano? Well, she’ll have to stop and listen to him for a while. He straightens his jacket, as if he were visiting the Director General of the Opera House. Then he opens the living-room door.

  The child looks up from the keyboard and smiles at him. ‘Daddy! How lovely!’ She jumps off the piano stool. ‘Shall I make you a coffee?’ She wants to get busy in the kitchen, but he stops her.

  ‘No, thank you,’ he says. ‘I have to talk to you. Sit down!’

  She sits in the big armchair where she looks as small as a doll, smooths down her check skirt, and looks expectantly up at him.

  He clears his throat nervously, walks up and down for a few paces, and finally stops in front of the big armchair. ‘Well then, Luiserl,’ he begins, ‘it’s about something very important and serious. Since your mother isn’t … hasn’t been here, I’ve been on my own. For seven years. Not all on my own, of course, because I’ve had you, and I still do.’

  The child is looking at him, wide-eyed.

  What rot I’m talking, thinks the man. He is furious with himself. ‘In short,’ he says, ‘I don’t want to be on my own any more. There’s going to be a change. In my life and so in your life too.’