Free The Girl Behind The Curtain (Hidden Women) by Stella Knightley

as he let me go. He looked at me so intently. His eyes had gone a much darker blue. His gaze made my insides positively liquid.
    And then the policeman was close enough that we could see he was reaching for his whistle.
    ‘Go inside.’ Otto gave me a little shove in the direction of the hotel door. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’
     
    I cannot wait until tomorrow! What a magical night. What a fabulous kiss!
    Forget Cord Von Cord. The beast. Now that I have kissed Otto, I can hardly believe that I was ever interested in such a pompous donkey. My knees never buckled when Cord kissed me goodnight. I never felt my heart beat so hard I thought it might burst out of my chest. Tonight’s kiss was so different from any kiss I’ve had before. It’s a sign that Otto and I are meant to be together. I’m sure of it. I can’t wait to go in to work again!

Chapter 10
    Berlin, last September
    During my first term in Berlin, I would be taking eight students for English lessons. They were mostly postgraduate students, who were writing their theses in English with the hope of applying to work at American or Canadian universities later on. Anna Fischer was soon my favourite. She didn’t need much help when it came to spoken English, but she wanted me to help polish her written work. She was doing her dissertation on Helmut Newton, the German photographer especially famous for his nudes. I knew a little bit about the photographs, but Anna was a fanatic.
    ‘There is always such strength in his models,’ she assured me. ‘I like that. The women in Big Nudes are Amazons. But he also picked women off the street. He chose models that no traditional fashion photographer would use. He could find the beauty in anyone.’
    She showed me a couple of her own pictures. Self-portraits in Newton’s style.
    ‘I try to be like one of Helmut’s models every day. I’m not going to hide. If people don’t like the way I look, that’s their problem.’
    She had blue-dyed hair but as far as I could see, Anna Fischer didn’t have any reason to hide herself away. She was beautiful on anybody’s scale.
    ‘But your exterior reflects your interior,’ she said. ‘You’re happy. You look it. You’re mean. You look that way too. Or so we think. Not looking normal,’ she made inverted commas around the word, ‘can be a life sentence.’
    She packed her photographs away. The bell rang and she was gone.
     
    That evening, I got back to my building on the Hufelandstrasse at around six o’clock. Herr Schmidt had his window open and, as usual, classical music drifted out. Not Chopin this time but Schubert. His piano sonata in D major. A very mournful piece. Anyway, Herr Schmidt must have seen me pass his window on my way to the front door because by the time I let myself into the hall, he’d stopped playing and was coming out of the door to his apartment.
    ‘Good evening, Fräulein Thomson,’ he said.
    ‘Good evening, Herr Schmidt.’ I gave a little nod. Sometimes it was all I could do not to curtsey to my distinguished landlord.
    ‘I am wondering if you are finding your accommodations comfortable?’ he asked, in his curious, mannered English.
    ‘Oh yes,’ I assured him. ‘Everything is just perfect. I’m very happy indeed.’
    ‘I wonder also,’ he asked, looking a little embarrassed this time, ‘if I might ask you for a favour.’
    ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘How can I help you?’
    ‘My Internet does not seem to be working correctly,’ he said. ‘But perhaps it is I who do not know how to make it work correctly. Would you please take a look and see if you know how to restart it?’
    I followed Herr Schmidt into his flat. The smart new laptop his great-nephew had bought for him was on the table in the dining room. I set about checking the laptop’s settings. Everything seemed to be in order. I got down on my hands and knees and looked for the wireless modem hidden beneath the stiff-backed sofa. Of course, there was no dust under there.