BooksBarbecue
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 felt a lurch of feeling, seeing them there, then I put it away. It might even have been rage: in the time that I had buried my feelings the entrance to the honest state of things was now slender as a keyhole. It made me smile that I had once been obsessed with truth and transparency; now I had a synthetic life with no great passions; and it wasn’t all that bad. I knew I was a little dead. But in a funny way it was the only means I had to stay alive.

We waved up at them. We were both well practised in pretending that we were fine, though Walter occasionally let slip a lash of his tongue, a droplet of poison. Charlotte made a moony face, then turned away, the yellow silk of her hair following. Walter mimicked her expression. Jenö didn’t look like he knew what to do, and so he followed Charlotte back into the workshop. ‘They’re idiots,’ Walter said, ‘but we’re fools. What should I do? Tell me, won’t you, what should I do now?’

He didn’t understand that nothing could be done. We lived in the same stack of bedrooms and balconies: should I crane my neck from my balcony to Charlotte’s room, I could see right inside it. Walter lived on top of me, and he could see my room from his own. In fact, we could all see each other all of the time. There was no escape.

25

Dessau

Given my inauspicious beginnings at the Bauhaus, it was surprising I had become a fixture at the school. I had only really landed my role as a Journeyman due to luck: an apprentice had left when I’d graduated in 1926, and I stepped into the position as Josef Albers’ assistant. Because I knew how it felt to be bottom of the class, I considered myself a good teacher: even to those who showed minimal promise.

It was a week or so after seeing Walter at the watery reeds that I was teaching the foundation year Vorkurs. My class was a good bunch of students, and they reminded me a little of ourselves as first-years: they were that curious mix of optimism as well as fatalism that Germany had been forever ruined by their parents. There was, I suppose, no other way to be; this attitude was the right one.

Josef Albers – Master Itten’s replacement – had taken them for the morning session, and this meant they would work hard for me in the afternoon. Josef could be severe, even with the Bauhaus babies. He was a good-looking man: his hair dense and grey-blond; his sharp nose dominant. Like Walter he was a Westphalian, and always wore a suit.