‘And the Bauhaus.’

‘That’s right. Though I don’t think Ernst Steiner cares a fig for the Bauhaus. Don’t tell Walter we’ve been in here, will you? He doesn’t like people interfering with his stuff.’

‘I won’t.’ Together we pulled the box from the bed, and I checked it over, to see whether there were any tell-tale signs of our meddling; there weren’t. We looked at each other and smiled.

28

Dessau

Like Dresden, Dessau was built on floodplains. There were years in high summer when you couldn’t see the streetcar lines, when there were sandbags lining the shops, and people used makeshift boats to row down the central street. The Mulde could climb twenty feet, the Elbe several more, but it had always been an opportunity for carnival, with the factories in danger of flooding, and everyone taking it as a moment to slack off.

The Elbe today was full of moving shadows though the day was bright on the leftover snow. At the river’s banks the water was starting to ice. Walter and I were on the iron bridge, in our heavy coats and scarves. ‘Dare me to jump?’ Walter said, his eyes shining.

‘You’ll smash your ankles,’ I said. ‘Besides, you can’t swim.’

He leant on the rail. Wrinkles fanned his eyes as he looked into the sun. For some reason I fancied putting my nose into his scarf to see what he might smell like. It struck me as strange that I didn’t know this about my friend; what odour he went around with, day to day.

From the bridge we watched Charlotte and Jenö walk hand in hand towards the mausoleum, which towered over the Georgium pond. This was where men and women spent their leisured hours in the spring and summer, and where the willows trailed their branches on the water’s top. Behind them were the Masters’ houses: white cuboid structures built by the Director for his staff. I had always wondered what it might be like to be inside them: whether it might be cosy, or stark, and whether, for a joke, they might have pastoral scenes on their walls like the ones Walter would touch up tonight in Weimar.

‘You’ve lost some weight,’ I said. Maybe Franz had put him on a diet, although I couldn’t imagine fattish Franz would ever exert limits on Walter.

‘How can you tell under all these clothes?’

‘I can see your cheekbones again.’

He smiled. ‘I’ve found something in the pharmacy which suppresses my appetite.’ He bagged out the sides of his coat. ‘I don’t actually like being this heavy.’

‘What is it? A magic pill?’

‘Just a little thing Ernst picks up for me.’

‘You’ll have to tell Franz. He carries a little extra, doesn’t he?’

‘I think he always has.’

‘He seems a serious man.’

‘He’s a buffoon really. He has the most enormous appetite.’