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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

‘Of course,’ she said, ‘just an hour left here.’ I saw a sparkle in her eye but she pushed it away. She kissed me on the cheek and walked back inside, with Ernst’s dangerous address in her apron. What we might do for love. Even love that had gone such a long while ago.

‘Thank you, Irmi! Thank you!’

She didn’t turn around, but put up her hand and waved.

45

England

This morning there is a letter on my doormat. I know instantly that it is from a German: it’s the style of handwriting I learnt in school too. For some mad moment I think it is Charlotte writing to me. My grief: I never knew it would be so wormlike, so insistent. My German name is also used: it’s from someone who knew me as Beckermann.

Paul,

I hope you don’t mind me writing to you. I went to Walter’s funeral last week, and afterward Irmi gave me your address. (You were missed, but Irmi explained everything.) I wanted to write because I found a case of Charlotte’s in Walter’s apartment. Franz said her work is inside. I haven’t looked at it yet – can’t quite face it alone – and I thought maybe it’d be right to look at it together, after all this time. In any case, I’d like to see you, since we are countrymen once more. I could be with you next Wednesday. Is this possible?

My best,

Eugene Fielder

I spent so many months trying to find Jenö when I arrived in England, but now it is he who has found me. I looked for him in London art schools, in foundries and forges in Camberwell and New Cross; I looked for him in Uncle König’s gallery, but he had disappeared. I don’t even know why finding him had been important. Comradeship in horror, et cetera. And so here we were: Eugene Fielder and Paul Brickman – two Englishmen with no pasts whatsoever.

I write to Jenö. Though I don’t really want to see him again, and I’d rather not see inside Charlotte’s case, I tell him that Wednesday is fine.

Franz said there’s some of her work inside. This means it’s from the camp, if it is Franz who says so. What if I find another green-chalked portrait? The case could be innumerable portraits of Jenö Fiedler, and I won’t have the strength to tell this narrative revoked: that she never loved me; that it was always Jenö. That Berlin – that our Berlin – was a sham.

46

Berlin