At lunch, it is very quiet today. Ali and Berti spoon their soup in silence. Dad doesn't speak a word, and Ali looks distraughtly at mother. She tries to be usual self, but her lower lip is trembling, and she doesn't eat. Lela has a vague feeling as if she were guilty, as if she has done something wrong. It was so beautiful, but maybe one doesn't allowed to do it? Maybe it's something similar to the Catholic Church? Silently she goes upstairs and doesn't dare—as Alfred does—to hug her Mum, after Dad has slammed the door behind him.
Lela goes to Laura. Laura is her dove. She sticks her little nose into the wings and kisses Laura on the neck where she has a little black ring of feathers. Laura's red clawed feet clings to her little fingers, Laura's feathers smell so lukewarm and good.
"Laura, I love you so much!" She says softly, and a big tear rolls down on the feathers. Something is written on most of plates.
Lela has a cloth in her hand and a blue apron, and so does Mum, and the whole table is full of silver. Candlesticks that one can screw together and take apart, plates with funny edges. Many, many forks and knives. But Lela shouldn't touch them. She has a silver bread basket in front of her that has a very thin grid all around, so her little fingers can get inside and clean. Something is written on most of the plates. For example, Our dear Meinhardis as a farewell to his regiment, or, First prize in flat racing. Memorial race of Ziethen. And a date. From one Mum reads out, "To my dear Kammerkatze." — "Mum, what does that 'Kammerkatze' mean?"
"Kammerkatze? That was a horse, a very good horse. But Dad sold him."
"Why, Mum?"
"Because Dad can't have that many horses."
"Why can't he have that many horses?"
"Because it costs too much. They eat too much."
"They just eat oats, Mum."
"Oh, little one, you don't understand!" And a deep sigh escapes from Mum's chest.
Lela feels that she should not ask any more questions. Quietly, she cleans the little basket. Then comes something else. "We must open the table," Mum says, and everybody always has to help. There the dining table is grabbed and simply pulled apart in two directions. Lela moves along, and Flink barks. Flink is a brown dog of an indeterminate breed, who likes to have a say when something special is happening, and today is so special; because guests are coming.
Many boards are inserted between the torn apart table parts, they are supported from below, and Lela and Flink crawl under the table where it's dark and check to see if everything's right, and then a green felt blanket comes over it, and then a huge long damask tablecloth.
Mum goes with Lela to the linen cupboard. Lela watches attentively as Mum's hands count the high stacks of napkins. Mum has long, very white fingers; Lela likes her hands so much. When Mum's hand gets lost on my head now and then, she thinks, or between my dress and my neck; it's so good with Mum! Papa does that sometimes too, but it just tickles. It's terrible, Lela continues to think, looking up at her mother from below, that Mum always does her hair so smooth in the morning. When the hair is a little loose and curled, Mum looks much prettier, and then sometimes visitors come, and the visitors see Mum with her tight, tight hairstyle, and it's so bad that Lela hides, as if she herself doesn't have a good haircut. But at the moment, Mum has no time for Lela. Lela has to carry napkins. Now it clinks. Mum is at the sideboard—she takes out one crystal bowl after the other. Lela is allowed to wipe them out, and then Mum opens compote jars, and thick green fruits are poured into the glistening bowls. It doesn't look so funny from above, but from the side, where the glass is cut. And now little yellow plums and red cherries in another one, and black nuts into the next. One at a time, they are placed on the table. Now comes the fruit bowl; Lela is allowed to open the bags. Oranges, grapes, apples, nuts, almonds, dates, just like on Christmas.
"Mum, why do we only have this for guests and never for ourselves?"
"Because we are poor people, child."
Lela is silent. How sad that is, she thinks, that we are poor people. But why are we poor? Dad has horses; poor people don't have horses. Mum has ball gowns; poor women don't have ball gowns. And we also have silver, and many tablecloths, and a butler.
"Mum, do poor people always have a servant?"
"You are a little silly one, my darling. You don't understand."