01 January 1917
There was a cloud caught in the branches of a tree today, outside my parents home.
Or so it appeared.
I got up from the cot and went to tell Ottla, but she was clearing the kitchen, tending to the dishes. So I was radical, unthinking – driven by haste – and told the only one not consumed by labour. I told my father.
“In the trees?” he asked.
I propelled him from his chair, thrusting the papers aside. He followed me, and I could see the surprise on his face.
“Where?” he asked; and I pointed out the window.
“But I see nothing.”
“Oh, you have to lie on the cot.”
“On the cot?”
“And with your head just so.” I pushed him onto it, and he lay, looking sideways.
“But you are right,” he said.
I thought because of the holiday he might be humouring me, but then I saw that his jaw hung open, and his face was astonished.
Does the boy never grow, that he can feel so good to be vindicated by his father?