Annabel Nater

Review I very rarely read biographies, nor autobiographies, very possibly because I hate voyeurs. People getting their vicarious jollies from other peoples life experiences. However, I have the privilege of having met Malve and her family in the early 1970's when they moved to New York and her father became “Ambassador Plenipotentiary” at the United |Nations for the Federal Republic of Germany or West Germany. She came to the Opening Day of the United Nations International School where I was secretary to the High School Director. Having spent a large part of my childhood in Germany and in Vienna, German was a familiar language to me and I spoke it relatively well. I remember her parents, Christa and Wolf Ulrich, tall and elegant and Malve with her lonlg plaits and her shy expression as they walked through the school's front door, the bright sun outside casting their figures in dark relief. And the German they spoke with one another, almost “sotto voce”. I caught their lilting inflections immediately. I can't remember how it was that I got to know them. But what does linger, vividly to this day is silvery, whispy memories that flutter against the insides of my eyelids. A fleeting glimpse of a time that is no longer. I remember once, I was invited to one of their parties where Wolf Uli gave me permission to join the receiving line for the guests and where I shook the hands of many an international dignitary. I was thrilled. Another time, Malve's younger brother, Adrian, took me to a ball. I can't remember what I was wearing but I remember Adrian with his blonde hair , in white tie and tails, twinkling at me with his blue eyes before he bent over my trembling fingers with a “Kuess die Hand”. There are other memories which seem trivial and frivolous now so I will leave them in the past. I am deeply moved by this biography on Christa, made all the more genuine, poignant and intimate having been written by the loving hand of her daughter. In doing so, Malve has permitted me to spend time with her and with her beloved family. I loved the pranks Christa would pull on family guests at Muttrin, particularly the one where she and the cousins put fizzy powder in their chamber pots and her stubborn bravery when faced with the inevitability of her own death. Chronicling the death of ones mother, guarding the slow evolution of this rite of passage is a burden most of us dread but that we shoulder to the best of our ability when the time comes. Malve did this with compassion and great love. In being able to write with such tenderness and attention to detail, she has been able to help me see and feel the monumental, sometimes burdensome and life-changing events which marked her parents life. And her life as well. I greatry admire the courage it has taken to do this and sincerely hope she has found personal peace in doing so. Bravo, Malve.