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Back The Hiding Game
Chapters (64)
  1. Cover
  2. Naomi Wood
  3. Dedication page
  4. Epigraph page
  5. 1
  6. WEIMAR, 1922
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
  16. 11
  17. 12
  18. 13
  19. 14
  20. 15
  21. 16
  22. 17
  23. 18
  24. 19
  25. 20
  26. 21
  27. 22
  28. 23
  29. DESSAU, 1929
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. 27
  34. 28
  35. 29
  36. 30
  37. 31
  38. 32
  39. 33
  40. 34
  41. 35
  42. 36
  43. 37
  44. BERLIN, 1932
  45. 38
  46. 39
  47. 40
  48. 41
  49. 42
  50. 43
  51. 44
  52. 45
  53. 46
  54. 47
  55. 48
  56. 49
  57. 50
  58. 51
  59. 52
  60. 53
  61. Thank you
  62. Praise
  63. The Hiding Game
  64. Also by Naomi Wood

Later we tried on our Metal Ball costumes. Walter insisted that he and I were to go as a pair: we’d wear chains around our necks; as hats, the inner wheel of a bicycle, held around our chins by rope. We had raided the school’s chicken coop for feathers and Walter glued them onto the wheels. We were roadkill, and we thought ourselves very clever.

‘What’s Charlotte going as?’

‘The Statue of Liberty.’

‘Excellent choice, excellent choice!’ He looked at the feathers. ‘Maybe we could use them for her torch? I wonder if we could somehow get it to burn. Wouldn’t it be great if the torch could be on fire! And Jenö?’

‘Jenö’s not really into it. The theme.’

‘It’s his theme! Metal! Can’t Marianne fashion him something?’

I shrugged. It was entirely up to Jenö what he did. I thought of Marianne and Jenö jointly humped over a desk lamp, and I wondered if anything might be going on there.

‘I wish I could come,’ said Oskar.

‘Maybe we could smuggle you in,’ said Walter. ‘You’d have to ditch the uniform, though. It’s not quite Bauhaus, though it’s a smart design.’ Walter moved me to the mirror so that he could fix the wheel to my head. It was lighter than it looked. ‘A touch of beetroot juice here, here and here’ – he touched my cheeks; it felt nice – ‘and we’ll be on the road, so to speak.’

‘Nothing too realistic.’

He pecked me on the cheek. ‘Ah yes. The famous haemophobia. Can’t have you walking around half blind, can we? Don’t worry. We shan’t exploit you.’

As I smoked on the balcony I looked in on the men. The room was in disarray: chicken feathers, bike parts and the residue of our lines. Walter lay on the bed, and Oskar was on the floor, a book on his knees. He actually seemed a sweet man, as much as a Nazi could be.

As I watched them Walter’s finger idly traced the young man’s neck: his Adam’s apple, his jaw, his collarbone. I felt a shiver of excitement, knowing that I couldn’t be seen, though I could see in the reflection my gaze hardening. After a while, Oskar tipped his head onto the bed. Walter’s hand paused, then he propped himself up and kissed him.