My father was a Social Democrat. My mother, my brother and I were communists, based on the general principle that one gives according to one’s ability and receives according to one’s needs. My mother even considered calling me Tito after a journey to what was then Yugoslavia, ruled by the ardent communist and dictator Josip Broz Tito.

My mother had a strained relationship with her own father, which culminated when, in a rage, he smashed her collection of Bertolt Brecht records. On the other side of the family – the Trier side – I particularly cherished the culturally Jewish element, and the pervasive sense of humour. It was a way of being in the world to which I still feel connected. My first wife’s mother was, incidentally – so the story goes – the only person in Denmark who was allowed to convert to Judaism. She was supposedly so insistent that the rabbi eventually gave up and let her do it. We shared an appreciation of Judaism; for example, she had me perform the Hanukkah ritual.

As my mother lay dying, she told me that my father was not my real father. In fact, my father was a Mr Hartmann who had been her boss at the Ministry of Social Affairs. He belonged to a family that included J. P. E. Hartmann, who, together with Niels W. Gade, was one of the central figures of Danish National Romanticism. Hartmann’s death is said to have filled Kongens Nytorv with mourners.

The entire family had apparently known the secret. I asked my mother whether Ulf, whom I had believed to be my real father, knew as well. ‘I don’t know,’ she replied, ‘he never said very much, you know.’ My mother told me I ought to seek out my biological father, that he was a wonderful man, and that we would get on very well together. So after her death, I did just that. The only thing he said when we met was: ‘I obviously assumed your mother was taking precautions. I do not acknowledge you as my child, and any further correspondence must go through my solicitor.’ I promised him I would keep his secret as long as he was alive. After his death, I asked Peter Schepelern to write an article telling the whole story so that my biological half-siblings could seek me out – or not – as they pleased. Thankfully, they did, and they turned out to be wonderfully welcoming.