Page 20 of The Watchmaker of Dachau

‘Did you get the list?’ Greta asked.

‘He says he doesn’t need anything, that he can do it without.’

Greta stood, ladled soup into a bowl and handed it to Anna. ‘Go outside and eat quickly – see if you can find carrots again. I’ll speak to Herr Becher.’

Anna gladly took the hot soup to the garden and burned her throat as she drank it down, barely chewing the soggy vegetables, until she felt the warmth reach her belly.

When she finished, she looked once more to the shed, the light still burning brightly, the figure of Isaac hunched over his piece of paper, a flutter in her stomach as she thought of his fingers touching hers and the way he studied her face like Piotr had once done – searing it into his memory, he had told her.

She licked the bowl, taking every last smear of soup, and turned away from the shed, from Isaac, from a memory of Piotr that did not belong here.

Chapter 6

Isaac

Isaac could not concentrate after Anna left him. He thought of her watery brown eyes staring dolefully at him, reminding him of the way Hannah would sometimes look at him. Her lip was cracked, revealing a small smear of bright crimson, begging her to lick it or for someone to wipe it away.

‘Silly old man,’ he chastised himself. And yet, he could not settle completely into his task, his ear keen for the sound of her at the shed door once more.

He took his pouch of tools and opened it, laying them in front of him as if he were about to fix a watch. He picked up a tiny screwdriver and held it up to the light, seeing the tiny engravings of his initials on the stem, and then two more letters, H. S. He placed it back down and closed his eyes, letting his forefinger run over the tiny letters, first his and then the others.

It had been a summer day when he had engraved the second set of letters, a day in July when the heat had swamped the village, causing everyone to fling open windows and wedge doors ajar to let any wisp of a breeze cool the inside. He knew he had to be quick that day – Hannah had told him not to be late, not today of all days, yet he had wanted to do this first so he could show her at dinner.

He had hurried home after closing the shop, ignoring the cries from his friends who sat outside the tavern with half-filled tumblers of beer, the pouch of tools in one hand and a small box in the other – a pocket watch his father had given him, and now it was time to give it to someone else.

Before he reached the crossroads, ready to turn left towards his home, he saw a figure running towards him, stirring up the summer dust with their heels, their hands in the air, waving. He stopped, waiting for them to reach him – he knew he had to wait. As they came closer, the pouch of tools and the gift fell from his hands, ready to take them in an embrace.

‘You look deep in thought.’ A voice woke him from his reverie.

He looked up to see Herr Becher, wrapped in a thick black woollen coat, wearing black leather gloves and a hat with the insignia of the Reich – an eagle – glowing in plated gold from the centre.

‘I’m sorry,’ Isaac said at once, standing quickly, assuming that he had done something wrong already.

‘Whatever for? I got your message – you need nothing to fix the clock? I must say, I am impressed so far – I will be more so when you have completed the task.’

Isaac nodded, his eyes darting to the pile of blankets on the floor, hoping that Becher had not seen them and confiscate them.

‘I have another task for you to do today. A small task, but one which will help my wife immeasurably. My son Friedrich has a train set, and the engine is not working. I have tried myself to fix it with him this morning, but it will not run. I have to leave this afternoon and my wife has many things to do, thus the boy needs some entertainment to keep him occupied. I had a thought that you may be able to help?’

‘Of course, Herr Becher.’ Isaac held out his hands, expecting Becher to give him the toy engine.

‘No, no, it is up in the boy’s room. There are bits of the track that need fixing too and I haven’t the time to bring it all to you. I have forewarned my wife that you shall be in the house, and my assistant, Herr Schmidt, will oversee you. Once you are finished, you will leave and come back to the shed immediately – is that understood?’

‘Yes, yes, of course.’

‘Wonderful. Wait here, Herr Schmidt will collect you shortly. I wanted to ask you myself, as it is a personal request, very personal indeed, and I would be disappointed if it were not completed to my son’s satisfaction.’ Becher smiled, and Isaac caught a brief glimpse of his teeth, the incisors long and sharp, the rest of the teeth neatly worn straight so that they looked as though they were not entirely real.

Becher left Isaac for a moment, and Isaac felt fearful suddenly. The smile, the request, there was something about it – a threat perhaps – almost as if Becher were toying with him as a cat plays with a mouse, just before he is to snap its neck.

Schmidt came soon afterwards to collect Isaac, and as he followed Becher’s assistant towards the house, he could hear the swish-swish of Schmidt’s plump thighs chafing as he walked.

‘Up there,’ Schmidt said. ‘I will be in the study and will come to collect you in one hour.’

Isaac climbed the stairs slowly, not daring to use the polished mahogany stair railing to aid him. As he climbed, he noticed family photographs and paintings of distant relatives adorned the wall, as if with each step he were to be reminded whose home this was. He could feel Schmidt’s eyes on his back, and he lowered his gaze to his feet, ignoring the pictures, ignoring the pain as he walked.

A long landing greeted him at the top of the stairs. A rug of scarlet with gold flowers ran the length of it, as closed doors left and right hid the family’s rooms.

‘Second one on the left,’ Schmidt’s voice shouted from below. ‘Don’t touch anything. Be quick. When you’re finished, I’ll get the maid to clean the room again.’