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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

At the time, Franz didn’t seem a bad guy; just young. His place in history of course is much more ambiguous. Personally, I have never known what to make of him, nor how we should judge him. Blameless, I suppose. And yet; and yet. Had he not found himself in the same camp as Charlotte, I believe I would have forgotten him entirely, or at least remembered him only from photos, since his significance only comes after the fact: he was freed from Buchenwald, and Charlotte wasn’t.

I was surprised when Walter wrote to me, boasting he had sprung Franz from the camp and into a desk job as one of the camp’s architects. The looseness of the handwriting suggested Walter was drunk; the warmer tone, too. He had addressed the letter to Pauli, just as he used to call me. As I’ve said, the rest of his letters were stiff and circumspect.

After Walter had worked his magic, Franz designed the type for the Buchenwald gate: JEDEM DAS SEINE – to each what they are due. Three words thieved from a Bach cantata. Carmine on zinc, and to be read from the inside looking out. After that, I suppose Franz gave them what they wanted: new bunkers, new dorms. I don’t judge him on any of these counts. As Irmi reminds me: I wasn’t there. I wasn’t tested. Or at least my test was never quite so public; my own failings (and they are numerous) are not in the historic record, not like Franz’s thirteen letters.

I often wonder whether Charlotte noticed Franz’s alphabet as she walked under its signage in 1944. The type’s Bauhaus character would have been abundantly clear. I wonder, too, if she would net the six of us in her memory and traverse those woods with us at liberty. That forest; it could give such days – skies of fluffed clouds; days dipped in gold. How we would fly on our bicycles, chasing each other down to Weimar, a city infinite in its prettiness and voluptuous in its charms, dreaming of violence elsewhere.

Now the camp is rubble, and the pain is in its stone. Goethe’s Oak is burnt; a stump. The wind whistles through Franz’s lettering on the gate.

And the trees; they stand witness.

27

Dessau