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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

I stop where the view from the cliff is the best. I search for a patch of sea where there are no swimmers, setting it up in my mind for me to dive into. When I look at my square of pure blue sea I forget the Bauhaus: my love for Charlotte; Walter’s poison; my own sins. For moments I forget everything, until the blue rises up and I am tumbled back into the past by a wave so violent that it moves toward this solitary diver and overwhelms him where he stands.

43

Berlin

In the last weekend of January everyone stayed off the streets. Rumours of an army putsch surrounded Berlin: reports said that von Schleicher had kidnapped Hindenburg, that martial law had been proclaimed; that most of Prussia would secede. We stayed at home. The world outside was as quiet as it had been in November’s strike, and a frost each morning made the streets smoke in the first sun.

We stayed in bed, our bodies warm. Such a sweetness to have Charlotte all to myself. We listened to the radio, drank tea, ate soup with rolls, held hands while we slept. We talked about who our kids would grow up to be. To have this weekend with her – well, the putsch was a blessing. I could have shaken the hand of every general staked out on the city’s perimeter.

‘Do you know when I fell in love with you?’ she said, over lunch and a cheap bottle of red wine.

‘The night after the cinema.’

She shook her head. ‘It wasn’t then.’ Her neck was long with her haircut. ‘It was when you presented me with these sausages.’

I kissed the salt off her mouth. ‘Yesterday?’

‘No. It was when I saw you on Walter’s balcony.’ (She never mentioned Walter; never.) ‘The night he spent with the Nazi. You thought I hadn’t been watching you for long, but I’d been on Jenö’s balcony for a while. You looked so free there; free of worry, of doubt. You looked so sure of yourself. And I thought: I can’t remember feeling like that, not for a long while.’ She took a drink. Her lips were a little dirty with the wine. ‘And I thought: when did I lose Paul Beckermann? I knew it was no one’s fault but my own; that I’d thrown away what we’d had. The truth was that in Weimar I’d been in love with the both of you. But when I watched you that night—’

‘High,’ I interrupted her. ‘Knocked out of your brains.’