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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

‘That was in 1937! So much had changed by the time she got there.’

‘I don’t believe the distinction, frankly.’

‘It doesn’t matter what you believe. You weren’t there; you were in England. Both you and Jenö, you don’t know what it was like.’

Pips on the line. I wonder if we are being overheard. Maybe the conversation is commonplace: about who was responsible, about who did what; about how much exiles are allowed to judge. Richtet nicht, damit ihr nicht gerichtet werdet. Judge not, lest ye be judged: this was an embroidered panel my mother made for her Dresden drawing room. And yet I can’t help it; I do judge Walter; I hate Walter, and my hatred makes me feel better.

‘Charlotte was right. She said he was always strategizing against her. Trying to rob her of what she had. Leaving her in the camp: it was his last act. Don’t you see? It was his revenge.’

Irmi sighs. ‘He wasn’t a monster, Paul.’

‘Then why didn’t he do something?’

‘I don’t know. Besides—’

I try to interrupt but she won’t have it.

‘No. Listen to me now. Walter’s dead! There’s nothing left to do, don’t you see? You too could have done more, but you didn’t. And Walter didn’t, and Jenö didn’t, and I didn’t. There comes a time when all this fury is useless against it all.’ There’s a voice in the background; maybe it’s her husband, Teddy. ‘Please,’ Irmi says. ‘Come for me, at least. For us. For old times’ sake; for what we had! I want to see you.’

‘I can’t. I’m sorry.’

‘Go on,’ she says, her voice gentle again. ‘I’m broke. You still owe me for that ticket to Amsterdam. How much is a hundred marks after inflation?’

This is how much she lent me to get me out of Germany. ‘I’ll wire it to you.’

‘Forget it,’ she says, her tone hardening. ‘I don’t care. I don’t want it unless you’re here.’

Because I don’t know what else to say, I hang up and listen to the telephone’s song, watching the beach huts below as people take dips in the sea in the last of the day’s warmth.

It won’t make a difference whether I am in Berlin or not. Walter König can be buried without me.

9

Weimar

We were a week into the fast when I saw something that made me think my eyes were playing tricks on me.