Initially, Peppi’s new venture attracted limited interest. London was blessed with a number of well-established shops specialising in European ceramics. In addition, many experienced collectors tended to acquire their pieces at auctions. Peppi, though, had learned to bide his time and could afford to be patient. The modest profit made by the end of the second year of the ceramics venture signalled that he was on the right track. A few months thereafter his enterprise gained further momentum when two adjacent porcelain shops closed down. Peppi acquired the stock-in-trade of both dealers and, as anticipated, their customers turned to his shop.

Peppi benefited from his contact with connoisseurs and from the professional literature available to him. He realised, at the same time, that he had dabbled in porcelain too late in life to acquire a first-class expertise. Lucy, too, remained a dilettante. She was too engrossed in her study of illuminated medieval books to be diverted by a fresh challenge. All the same, father and daughter enjoyed their new pursuit. They attended lectures and exhibitions and made their presence felt at the important porcelain and ceramics auctions. The best pieces they acquired were placed in a show cabinet in Peppi’s own office. Often, at the end of a busy day in the shop, Peppi amused himself by animating the figurines in his mind. He sensed that this trick gave him a special insight into, and an understanding of, the modellers and decorators who had collaborated in the production of his mini sculptures.

It was during that period – shortly after Peppi’s eighty-third birthday – that I (Peter Berger) stumbled into his shop. I did not discover Theophil’s Antiques earler mainly because I was living elsewhere. On my occasional visits to London, I went on shopping sprees in Kensington Church Street. But I looked for nothing but mid-European porcelain. Peppi’s original show windows, with their display of silver, tapestries, a limited number of prints and illuminated books, did not attract me.

The scene had changed when I came over in 1981. I recall walking distraught down Kensington Church Street, lamenting the closure of my two favourite porcelain shops. Then my gaze fell on the new display at Theophil’s Antiques. I stared in disbelief at two fine Meissen figurines and a Ludwigsburg group. When I recovered, I took a deep breath and entered.

The woman in her mid-thirties who came over to greet me was dressed neatly rather than smartly. Her tweed skirt and white blouse were a good match, and her old-fashioned glasses and conservative hairstyle complemented her plain necklace. She appeared ordinary: few men would turn their head as they passed her on the street. My own impression of her, though, was affected by the solemn atmosphere of the discreet shop. She appeared to blend harmoniously into its background – except that her bright keen eyes elevated her a notch above the subdued surroundings.

“Would you like to see the figurines in the show window? I watched how you stood there lost in your thoughts. You admired them.”

“Kändler’s drunken peasant is magnificent. So perhaps I’ll have a closer look just at him.”

“I might as well get all three,” she smiled.

She observed me closely as I concentrated on the fine piece. The peasant’s carefree, derisive, leer and his unsteady movements, which made you fear he might topple over as he swung on his feet waving his mug, portrayed his environment and era. He had spent his meagre takings at the fair and would once again be short of cash needed for fodder and fertilizer. But he had no regrets. For weeks he had craved for his binge, would have another one the next market day, and did not reflect for a moment on his conduct and its wisdom.

“You find him fascinating, don’t you?” she said. I had by then identified her pronounced accent as Bavarian from the Munich area.

“I do,” I conceded, my eyes still fixed on the figurine. “He is the very antithesis of his creator, Kändler – the sober freemason, conscientious and devoted pater familias and the most prolific and accomplished modeller of all time!”

“You must be a University Professor,” she said and, as I turned to answer her, I was startled by the twinkle in her eye.

“As a matter of fact, I am. Sorry for having lectured in this manner.” I let my embarrassment show.

“I enjoyed it,” she hurried to assure me. “But how do you like the other two pieces?”

“The pug is fine, except that I already have two similar ones. The Ludwigsburg group is one of the best I have seen. I like it; but I concentrate on Meissen, Vienna and Frankenthal.”

“Fair enough. Do you have a large collection?”

“Only about two hundred pieces,” I confided.

“Only two hundred?” She seemed amused. “And where amongst them would you rank the peasant?”

“As good as any of my figurines. He is one of Kändler’s masterpieces. Actually, how much is he?”

“Eight hundred pounds,” she smiled.

“Eight hundred?” I let my surprise show.

“Too expensive?”

“You’d get at least twice as much in a Christie’s auction,” I said impulsively.

“We never put pieces in auctions. And don’t worry about the price. We got him cheap.”

“Your supplier must be out of touch with current market prices.”

“He is an old, eccentric gentleman. He brings us pieces from time to time and tells me how much he wants. We never haggle with him. I suspect he doesn’t care too much about the price, as long as we attend to him forthwith.”

“Can I pay by Diners Club card?” I asked.

“I am afraid we don’t accept credit cards. But you can send me a cheque.”

“I don’t have an account in England. I’ll use my credit card to get cash from the bank around the corner. I’d better give you my calling card: please let me know in case you get further pieces like this.”

“I certainly will,” she said with a smile.

When I returned with the banknotes, the saleswoman asked forthrightly: “are you by any chance from Vienna?”

“You guessed from my accent?”

“That too. But your name is Berger.”

“Quite a common Jewish name.”

“I know. But Papa’s best friend in Vienna was a Robert Berger, nicknamed Tommy. And I know he had a son called Peter. It’s a long shot …” Seeing the change in my expression, she stopped mid-sentence.

“Tommy Berger was my father’s name. He died a few years ago,” I stammered. “But he never mentioned a friend by the name of von Stölzenfeld.”

“Have a look at my own card,” she invited.

“Lucy Stölzl, PhD,” I read out mechanically. “Is your father Peppi Stölzl?!” I asked, my heart pounding in my chest.

“Just give me a minute while I tell him you are here,” she said.

Peppi Stölzl was in shirt sleeves. The ravages of time had not corrupted his posture and appearance. He remained as tall and presentable as I had imagined from Dad’s description. True, his hair had turned silver grey, but it had not thinned out; and his bushy mustachio still curled upwards rather rakishly. His skin, too, proclaimed his good health and vigour. Although it reflected his age, it did not have the dry, leathery tinge so noticeable in frail elderly people. The most remarkable feature, though, was the youthful, keen look in his eyes.

“So, you are Peter’le,” he said warmly. His Otakring accent, which I remembered so well from my early childhood, was music to my ears.

“I am,” I said, clasping his extended hand. “Dad never told me you changed your name – or that you had been knighted!”

“Why should he? I’m still Peppi to my friends, old and new alike.” He regarded me keenly, with the expression of one who had found a long lost relative. He then asked: “But which fair wind blew you through the door of our modest enterprise?”

“He is a collector of porcelain,” volunteered Lucy, whose eyes danced with sheer glee.

“A porcelain collector? Tommy never told me. He used to go on about your university posts and your legal consultancies.”

“I didn’t often talk to Dad about my collection. That was, rather, Mother’s department.”

“I remember,” agreed Peppi. “I used to tread carefully in your old flat in the Oberen Donaustrasse for fear of breaking something. And what do you collect, Peter’le?”

“Just Meissen and Vienna and a bit of Frankenthal; and, of course, only 18th century.”

“He told me I was asking too little for our drunken peasant,” volunteered Lucy.

“The piece brought in by Mr X?”

“Quite.” A strange expression crept over Peppi’s face.

“Peter’le,” he asked “what made you come over today? I take it you are in London on a visit. Tommy told me you’re a Professor of Law.”

“I’m in London on business – my first appearance as an expert witness in a banking case. The other party’s expert is in the box today, and their Silk asked that I be absent. I used the morning for a shopping spree. I was really looking for Herr Wolfsohn’s shop. But it’s no longer there.”

“He migrated to Israel some time ago,” said Lucy, whose excited eyes flitted between the two of us.

“What a remarkable coincidence,” I mused. “I looked for another shop and found yours!”

“We must celebrate!” said Peppi, warmly. “Are you free for lunch?”

“I certainly am!”

“I’ll get my jacket.”

Peppi looked grandiose in his fine suit and neat Italian silk tie. “We’ll catch a taxi on the corner,” he said as we made ready to go.

“You’re coming with us, aren’t you?” I asked Lucy.

“No, Cousin Peter,” she said light heartedly. “It’s better if you two boys get acquainted without the burden of female company!”

“But it’s no burden, Cousin Lucy,” I assured her.

“You may as well call me ‘Lucy’. But I’m going to call you ‘Cousin Peter’ to make sure the parameters are well defined from the start. And I won’t come with you today. Papa is going to tell you his stories and I’ve heard them a hundred times. I must also make a few telephone calls. Off you go and have a good time.”

“Are you sure, Lucy?” asked Peppi, concerned. “It’s almost a family reunion.”

“Next time I will,” said Lucy and the exchange of warm glances between them evidenced their strong bond. I realised that these two might occasionally argue hotly, and might even sulk, but, ultimately, they would stand unflinchingly by one another. It was the type of closeness forged only in the midst of a happy family.

The restaurant in Chelsea had an old-world atmosphere, reminiscent of a dining room in the Rathaus [town hall]. Our orders were taken by the chef, who emerged from the kitchen to greet us. Peppi shook hands with him, introduced me as a friend of the family and gossiped with our host for a few minutes.

“How long have you known this place, Peppi?” I asked.

“About five years. It’s quiet here during lunchtime. But it livens up in the evening. Some two years ago, Franz wanted to give up the luncheon business. I managed to stop him.”

“You bought in?”

“I did indeed. Call it an old man’s whim.”

“Not such a whim if you enjoy the food!”

Peppi and I got to know each other during that splendid meal. Peppi had much to tell. I, too, talked. Gently but persistently Peppi steered me through my own story and, from time to time, asked perceptive questions about my career and affiliations.

“What I don’t understand, Peppi, is why Dad never mentioned that you had moved to London.”

“Perhaps he liked to talk about our days in Vienna,” he replied, breaking eye contact for a moment. Sensing that he was prevaricating, I pressed him.

“But Dad moved with the times, Peppi. Believe it or not, he developed a penchant for jazz and rock ‘n’ roll and went to see every new American film! His stories about you, though, ended with that strange affair in Munich. I know you continued to correspond and even rang one another on special occasions. But I don’t think you met again after that day.”

“You’re right there. You see, Peter’le, our ways parted on ‘that day’.”

“Because you decided not to return to Vienna?”

“Partly,” nodded Peppi. “But that was a mere trifle. The main reason was different. But tell me first – what did Tommy tell you about the episode in Munich – the ‘revelation’ as I call it?”

“Everything, I think.”

“Did he tell you who appeared to us?”

“He did. And he said both of you had swigs from that special bottle.”

“Quite so, Peter’le, except that I had … a full cup; Tommy took just three nips and stopped.”

“I don’t understand, Peppi.”

“I went the whole way, Peter’le. Tommy did not. True, he was deeply moved by what he learned that day. He showed his respect and voiced his gratitude. But he did not board the train.”

“I’m not sure I fully understand.”

“Tommy was a conformist at heart. He wanted to remain in the fold. I had no such constraints. I was glad to be freed from a past I wished to put behind me. I have no regrets, Peter’le. Neither did your Dad. Each of us stuck to his decision and followed his own destiny. We remained as close as ever but, all the same, a barrier, or wall, separated our trails.”

“So this is why Dad liked to think of his Peppi of the old days!”

“Just as I stuck to my old Tommy! Well, are you still perplexed?”

“Not at all, Peppi. But tell me, please, is this odd being real? Does Theophil exist?”

“Can you possibly doubt it?”

“Have you seen him again since that day? Has he materialised in front of your eyes?”

“No, Peter’le; I have not seen him since. But I hear him in my head every now and then. On many occasions he has opened my eyes to the truth and has guided my mind in moments of mental strain and indecision. I owe him my good fortune, my inner peace and my ability to persevere!”

“But does what you hear come from outside your own mind? Aren’t you just listening to your own subconscious?”

“Tommy and I saw him on the very same occasion, Peter’le.”

“But, if Dad got it right, you saw him through Dad’s eyes.”

“In a sense I did. I was fast asleep yet wide awake. But, even so, how could Tommy and I experience the same … hallucination?”

“Telepathy has not been scientifically discarded.”

“What an ardent rationalist you are, Peter’le,” smiled Peppi, with only a trace of sarcasm. “With this approach you can safely dispute each and every premise until proved empirically by material evidence! I understand. But, you know, the universe is not a courtroom!”

“True; but I won’t accept a premise unless it is proved to my satisfaction.”

“I see. Yet, you can’t rule it out altogether?”

“Correct,” I agreed. “I keep an open mind.”

“You may get your answer, Peter’le, if Theophil sees fit to provide it.”

I spent a great deal of time with Peppi and Lucy during the remaining days in London. We dined in the Savoy and, one bright evening, walked down to Clarke’s in Kensington Church Street. Initially, Peppi grumbled about the set menu but, when the dishes were served, relished every morsel. When, eventually, my turn came to enter the box as expert witness, Peppi appeared in court and sat through the searching cross-examination.

When I arrived at Theophil’s Antiques the next morning to take my leave, Peppi showed me his study and the cabinet containing his choice porcelain pieces. The sight of them mesmerised me.

“Are they so very special?” asked Peppi, perplexed. “They are not ‘important pieces’ modelled for courts and the nobility.”

“No, they aren’t,” I admitted after recovering. “These pieces are the typical wares and figurines modelled for the connoisseurs of the day. Still, today many of them are so rare that you do not find them in standard literature or in catalogues. How did you get them?”

“Most of them were brought in by a chap we call Mr X. He deals only with Lucy, accepts nothing but cash and lets her have them for a song. She’s tried to pay him more; but he declined.”

I managed to arrange two further flights to London during the remaining months of that year. Thereafter, I came over to London every ten months or so. At the end of our second reunion, Peppi invited me to stay with them.

“It’s no trouble, Peter’le. We have a comfortable guest room. Lucy furnished it for Anna and Otto, but they never come. It will be nice to put it to good use.”

“Do come as often as you can, Cousin Peter,” added Lucy.