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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

This is my account of what happened to us in the 1920s: a decade of resplendence and tragedy. But if I am to tell this story, then I can’t tell it slant. Now that Walter is dead, I will give an account of him; but I must also give an account of myself. This is my confession. A confession I haven’t yet made to anyone, and one I haven’t even really admitted to myself. For all those years I blamed Walter, there have been as many – more – when I have put aside my knowledge of what I did, and didn’t do, to save Charlotte.

A friend of mine once said that a secret is truly abject when it can never be voiced; its shame buys its silence. All this time, I have kept my silence, but here it is. There was a moment when Charlotte and I were living together in Berlin, when I, too, could have saved her. It was Walter who gave me the choice, and I looked at all the evidence, and then – methodically, carefully – I chose not to act. It was not a fleeting decision over the course of minutes or even hours. I came to my decision over two weeks.

If Walter killed her, then I killed Charlotte too.

WEIMAR, 1922

2

Weimar

Sparkling year! Our first year at the Bauhaus was one to envy. Back then, there were six of us: Walter and Jenö; Kaspar and Irmi; me and Charlotte. Right from the beginning, those were always the pairings. We were eighteen, and Jenö (a Hungarian diminutive of ‘Eugene’ he had won from a favourite uncle) was twenty when we began our preliminary studies, and it was at the Bauhaus that we learnt everything we were later to rely on: about colour and form, texture and materiality. It was here we learnt about an object’s very nature: the paper-essence of paper; the timbery-ness of wood; the strength of rope and string. But most importantly, perhaps, it was here that we learnt to fast, and where we learnt how our fasts might trick from our hungry selves a world of shimmer; havoc; pleasure.

From the first day of the new semester Charlotte was fascinating to me. I met her in the school canteen over lunch. September light tumbled the shadows of the trees onto the long tables and so her skin too was a canvas where the day leapt and swayed. I thought it was a trick of the day’s turbulence that made her gaze so impossible to read; it was reserved but also flamboyant.

I sat at one end of the table with Walter and Jenö: I’d met them in the Director’s introductory class, and immediately liked both of their unabashed desires to be my friend. Charlotte was at the other end with Irmi and Kaspar. Here we were: stalled in light; friendship on the brink of things.