In memorable images, Peter Henisch recalls the woman who taught him the skill that was to determine the rest of his life: storytelling.
After many years, Paul Spielmann returns to Vienna, his hometown. He rents a flat and restlessly roams the streets. In an antiques shop he sees a piano that reminds him of his grandmother – she used to have exactly the same instrument. She had been delicate, his grandmother, a nurse by profession, and happiness had been rare in her life. Her first husband, a Czech hairdresser, had disappeared before the birth of their child and her Jewish family had disowned her for the mésalliance – which was convenient for husband number two, a postal clerk, since it facilitated the "Aryanization" of his wife. After 1945, on long walks through bomb-shattered Vienna, the grandmother tells the little boy stories that will influence the course of his life. Now, decades later, he takes up the thread, searching for traces of "the very small woman".
More than thirty years after Die kleine Figur meines Vaters, Peter Henisch once more confronts his family history in another book that will remain in the reader's memory.
"The high musicality of his prose makes one think Peter Henisch?s god must be a kind of smiling hippie." (Paul Jandl, Neue Zürcher Zeitung)