BooksBarbecue
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

He walked back to the cafeteria alone. Charlotte brought her hands up and her shoulders shook as she sobbed. I saw her at the bridge again last night, anger streaming from her, seeming much bigger than she was. Now she looked so sad and small.

I moved to go, but the movement must have caught her eye.

‘Paul, for God’s sake, stop spying on me, will you? Will everyone just leave me alone!’

And she tramped through the snow back into the school. Through the gridded glass I saw her on the staircase. I knew where she would end up. And I was right: there she was, on the long glass bridge that connected the residential quarters with the Director’s office. I already knew what she was about to do to Walter. I already knew the manner of her revenge.

35

Dessau

As the snow around the Bauhaus melted, there was no change to Charlotte and Jenö’s separation. It was good to wear lighter clothes, not to feel the snow’s crust on your boots, but I guess we all felt such a heaviness that spring came without much relief.

Even I didn’t feel much to see them broken up. Everything was so withered away; our group of six down to three, and we avoided each other as best we could. There was little left to talk about; little left to say. Charlotte stuck to Anni and Otti in the Weaving Workshop. I saw lots of Josef. Jenö spent most of his time with Marianne. I often saw them in the Metal Workshop, pulling at cords; bevelling lampshades.

Charlotte didn’t talk much to me that term. In fact, she said few words to anybody, and it seemed a kindness to keep away. She had long ago stopped giving me confidences, and beneath the vacant eyes I could never tell what she was thinking. Always now she was concentrated, as if trying hard to understand a pain that was private, unremitting, incomprehensible.

She existed in the school like a woman kidnapped.

She grew thinner; so thin, in fact, that I wondered whether I would find in her room signs of a Weimar fast, for Charlotte always needed her mind clear, especially in the escalation of grief. She went for long walks in the Georgium Park, and hardly spoke. And yet I thought that the moment she opened her mouth so much would stream out unbidden that it was no wonder she didn’t risk it.

image