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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

Just then there was a curl of pleasure in my stomach and an odd sensation that I wanted to turn myself outward to reveal more of my nerves to the world. In that quickening moment I had the feeling that I knew everything quite vigorously. I stood at an apex. I knew, then, that I would continue with the fast as long as I could, to see what it would give me. If it was anything like this, a feeling of omniscience, then I wanted more.

Even when the cloud returned, the sun gone in, it didn’t matter, because Charlotte’s hand was still in mine for as long as we lay there. Yes, here it was; not Jerusalem, but paradise itself, discovered, in the scrubland, by the River Ilm.

8

England

In the summer the optics here are almost useless. It’s as if all the day’s light has come through gauze rather than glass. It curves lines meant to be straight, makes pastels of colours intended to chill. The sea air has this softening effect. No more the rinsed light of our apartment in Kreuzberg, where the foundry powdered at the windows. Charlotte always said I was deeply susceptible to the weather, and it’s true: a bright day can open a palace in my heart. It’s just not so good to paint in.

I’ve been in England for so long that I should be used to it by now. Some years I simply leave work to a winter’s pursuit, and in the summers instead I watch the sea and the fishing boats: men reeling in nets sequinned with water, their catches glimmering, and though I am alone, tramping around in my wellingtons, pretending I am nothing more than Paul Brickman, anonymous as any other Englishman, I imagine myself as happy with all this before me: this seafarer’s bounty. It is almost enough.

It’s a scenic picture, not unlike a Steiner painting: all plashing water and oiled sunlight and fattened kids. I have said I am one of the lucky, and I still believe that is true: as a young boy I thought I’d die in French fields; in the thirties, I escaped Germany, because Irmi was able to lend me the money. No, I would not swap my life for any other. Walter, moaning about Goethe, humping a tree; sunshine by the Ilm with Charlotte; drawing lemons with Master Itten. Each memory is a loveliness, and I can’t shake it off; this rebounded optimism.