‘Well, all I’m saying, Herr Schmidt, is she won’t be happy…’ the old woman said.
‘Sturmbannführer Becher has asked to see him. I must get back. You know how it is – there is always someone who is not doing as they should. It’s my job to make sure they learn.’ He smiled then turned, humming a tune as he walked away.
The old woman stood in the doorway, watching Schmidt as he left footprints in the slush smattering the ground.
‘Come in, come in.’ She ushered Isaac into the kitchen and closed the door. ‘Sit, sit.’ She pointed at a chair next to the stove. ‘Warm yourself for a minute, you look like death.’
Isaac sat next to the stove, feeling the heat seep through his damp clothes, and finally reaching the skin. He blew into his hands and flexed his fingers, teasing the blood to flow.
‘Take this.’ The woman gave him a tin cup of coffee and some warm bread. ‘Eat quickly now, and don’t tell a soul, eh?’ She tapped the side of her nose conspiratorially. ‘What’s your name?’ she asked, one hand on her hip, the other placed on the kitchen table as if she were propping herself up.
‘Isaac, Isaac Schüller,’ he replied between hungry mouthfuls.
‘I’m Greta. I was brought in from the town to cook and manage this house. I see what’s going on, I see it.’ She looked out of the window as if the camp was right there in the back garden. ‘Now I’ll mind you. But you can’t say anything about the food or that I let you in for the warm, or I’ll find myself where you are. Do you understand?’
Isaac nodded then drank back the coffee.
‘Here, take some more.’ She refilled the cup. ‘They’re still in bed, see, so it’s all right. But you never know, so be quick.’
Isaac drank once more and she handed him another piece of bread, then a bell tinkled in the kitchen.
‘He’s up!’ She took the cup from Isaac and beckoned him to follow her out of the kitchen, down a passageway that led to double oak doors, ornately carved, with brass handles. Isaac wanted to reach out and trace the pattern that a carpenter had made in the wood, imagining the feel of the flowers and curled leaves under his fingertips.
Greta knocked, then waited.
‘Enter!’ a voice boomed from within.
Greta nodded at Isaac then opened the door and let herself in. ‘The man you asked for from the camp is here,’ she said.
‘Good, let him in.’
Greta opened the door wider and again nodded at Isaac for him to enter. As he did, her eyes went to the soft cap on his head and Isaac reached up, took it off and held it in his hands.
She closed the door behind him, and Isaac saw that sitting behind a mahogany desk was the moustached man from the train tracks, Isaac’s leather pouch of tools in front of him.
‘Ah, the watchmaker!’ The moustached man beckoned for Isaac to come closer, but not to sit.
‘I think you are wondering why you are here, are you not?’
Isaac nodded.
‘Do you know who I am? No, I don’t suppose you do,’ the man answered his own question, then smoothed at the hairs under his nose, tracing them to where they ended, just as they reached the corner where his top and bottom lip met.
‘I am Sturmbannführer Becher,’ he said. ‘I have the pleasure of running the camp you now find yourself in. Is it to your liking?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Isaac answered, unsure what game was being played.
‘Good answer – the only one I would want to hear. Well, watchmaker, I have asked for you personally. I very rarely ask for anyone from the camp, but you, when I saw you, when I saw this,’ he held up the leather pouch, ‘I knew you were a man of talent and that I should utilise your talent whilst you stay here. Does that sound agreeable to you?’
‘I – yes, yes, sir,’ Isaac stuttered.
‘You see, I have a grandfather clock, gifted to me by the Führer himself. One of the many treasures that now belong to the Reich. Sadly, it does not chime. Many have tried to fix it, and all have failed. But you, you, good sir, I think may be the man for this very job. Do you think you can fix it?’
‘I can certainly try.’
‘Try? No, no.’ Becher stood. ‘Trying is not doing. You will fix it. Say it.’
‘I will fix it,’ Isaac parroted.
‘And if you do, then perhaps I can find other things for you to fix too. Perhaps it will be a nice job for you to have.’
‘It will.’
‘Good. Very good. Now, I will take you to look at the clock, but you cannot fix it in here. Take a look, let Greta know of any parts you may need, and she will show you to a suitable place in which to work on them. My wife, you see, would not like you to be around the house, so you must find a way to fix it without actually touching it often – is that clear?’
Isaac tried to understand what was being asked of him. He had never before tried to fix anything without it sitting in front of him, so he could look at it, imagine how the parts moved, see where the problem might lie. Yet he simply replied, ‘Yes, sir. It is clear.’
Becher walked out of the study and had Isaac follow. He led him to the hallway where the grandfather clock sat, regal and yet silent.
‘It is rather beautiful,’ Isaac said.
‘Take a look, get closer,’ Becher said. ‘See there in the clock face, tiny gemstones in Roman numerals, and then, see the ornate carvings – a cherub, a vine with grapes. It is a work of art, is it not?’
Isaac nodded, then crouched down to look at the chime that hung still within its glass house, all the cogs and mechanisms on display, a joy to watch if they were all working together, pushing and pulling against each other to make the time pass.
‘May I?’ Isaac asked.
Becher nodded and Isaac opened the glass door, inspecting the sleeping cogs inside.
‘It is magnificent,’ Isaac said as he looked, forgetting where he was for a moment. ‘It is meant to chime the hour, and when it does, a smaller chime should ring out afterwards, sort of like in a music box – a tune that marks midnight and midday. I have heard of such clocks but never seen one before.’
‘What is your suggestion of what ails it?’
‘It could be that the two are not synchronised. The time is ticking, yet the mechanisms stay still. I will have to draw it to take the drawing away with me and inspect it – would that be possible?’
‘Quite!’ Becher smiled and seemed excited at the prospect of getting the Führer’s gift working once more. He bounded into his study and returned with a pencil and paper in one hand, and Isaac’s leather pouch with his tools in the other. ‘You’ll be needing these.’ He handed them to Isaac.
Isaac sketched quickly, trying to be as precise as he could. He could see a worn cog, a spoke missing, which could be the problem, yet there was something else that wasn’t quite right…
‘I think someone has tried to mend it before. They have placed the wrong screws in the cogs – they are too large – and that is perhaps what is hindering it.’
‘Get a list to Greta by the end of the day as to what you may need, and I will see to it that they are brought to you by tomorrow.’
Isaac stood, the sketch, his tools and his cap in his hands. ‘Yes, Herr Becher.’
‘If you go to Greta, she will show you where to work.’ Becher smiled at him once more then returned to his study.
Isaac followed the passageway back to the kitchen, unsure of what had just happened. Becher had been nice to him – or if not nice, cordial – as if Isaac were in his shop once more, and Becher were but a customer.
‘I see you made an impression,’ Greta said to him as he reached the kitchen. ‘Come with me, I’ll show you where to work.’
Greta took him down the wet grass to the dilapidated shed at the edge of the garden.
‘I’m afraid it’s got the gardener’s things in here still, so you’ll have to make a space for yourself.’
Isaac looked about him. The shed was filled with odds and ends – pieces of furniture, planks of wood, gar
dening tools and above, old spider webs that stirred as the air blew through them. In a corner he spied an old chair with three legs and a wooden box – a makeshift workspace perhaps.
‘It’ll get cold in here,’ Greta said, then leaned forward and whispered in his ear, ‘there are some blankets at the back, in the corner. Don’t let anyone see you using them. There’s also a small gas lamp – it will give you some warmth and light.’
With that, Isaac entered, and Greta closed the wooden door behind him with a creak, leaving him in semi-darkness and with only silence for company.
Chapter 5
Anna
In the side garden, Anna tried to forage for carrots in the frozen soil whilst she ate the bread Greta had given her. She was cold, yet glad she did not have to be in the house – Liesl had made the distaste she felt for her clear the previous evening and Anna was only too glad to stay out of her way for the time being.
As she made her way towards the kitchen door, she noticed footprints in the icy mulch leading to the shed at the rear of the garden. She stood and looked, and there in the small window a warm yellow light lit up a figure inside.
The figure turned at the same moment and, through the misted glass, looked at Anna. She turned and hurriedly made her way back to the kitchen, where Greta was filling trays ready to take into the dining room.
‘There’s someone out there,’ Anna told her. ‘In the shed. I saw a light and a figure.’
‘Shhh.’ Greta turned to her. ‘That’s Isaac. New – here to fix that blasted grandfather clock they’re always moaning doesn’t work. Get the butter, will you?’
Anna did as she was told, and helped slice the butter into pats and place them onto a china dish, the toast chestnut-brown and hot.
‘I’ll take this through – can’t have you going in there again just yet.’ Greta lifted the tray, but her hands shook with the weight, the plates rattling. Anna made to help her. ‘Leave it, I can do it. Let’s not start her off in a bad mood. You do the lunch, and for goodness’ sake when you are cleaning today, make sure you make yourself invisible!’
Anna let Greta deliver the breakfast and turned to look out of the window, the glow of the light from the shed beckoning her towards it.
‘Isaac…’ she muttered to herself. Then she wiped the condensation away from the window, looking for a moment at her handprint on the pane.
Anna spent most of the morning doing as Greta had advised, trying to make herself as invisible as possible. Every time she heard the click-clack of Liesl’s heels on the wooden floors, she dipped into another room, polished dust from surfaces and laid fires.
‘Why are you so scared of her?’ Anna whispered to herself. ‘If you weren’t here, you wouldn’t be scared of her, you know, you would—’
‘Who are you talking to?’
Anna turned in shock to see the small boy from dinner standing at the door, a train engine in his hands.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘Why are you sorry?’ he asked, and took a step inside the parlour.
‘I don’t know. Perhaps because I shouldn’t be talking to myself.’
‘I talk to myself,’ the boy offered. ‘Not at school, but here I do.’
Anna knew she shouldn’t speak to him, knew she should leave the room, yet it was the first time anyone had looked at her – not her uniform, not her religion, just her – and seemed interested to hear what she had to say. ‘I used to when I was young, like you. I used to talk to my imaginary friend.’
The boy sat in a chair and leaned forward. ‘What was his name?’
‘He was called Bobo.’ She smiled. ‘I would tell him about my day and about the girls at school who teased me.’
The boy laughed. ‘Bobo! That’s a silly name. But I like it. I don’t have an imaginary friend – I just talk to myself, sort of the same way I speak to my friend Otto. He lives far away, and we can’t see each other at the moment,’ he babbled.
‘Friedrich!’ Liesl was at the door.
Anna saw the fear in Friedrich’s eyes upon hearing his mother call his name, and she knew her face must look just the same.
‘What on earth are you doing in here? Why are you talking to her?’ Liesl’s nose crinkled as if she had smelled something rotten.
‘I was just looking for Father. My train…’ he said limply, and held up the engine to show her.
‘I’ll take you to him. Come with me.’ She held her arm out for Friedrich to take. ‘And you,’ Liesl looked at Anna, ‘do not talk to my son.’
Anna nodded and as soon as Liesl left, she exhaled. She tried to polish the side tables but her hand shook. Would she be punished? If so, she did not dare think what the punishment might be.
She looked out of the window at the gravelled driveway, the slurry mix of melted snow and dirt edging it, and in contrast, the patches of clean, pure snow that covered the lawn. Although the camp was a mere mile away, she felt as though she could be anywhere, perhaps at home, simply looking out of the window, waiting for Piotr to come to take her for dinner, a walk, perhaps even to a dance.
Piotr – he was there, back in her mind once more. She remembered the day he left, a bag slung over his shoulder, with a promise that he would survive, that this was the right choice – he had to do what he could to stop what was happening, he had to resist.
She had wanted to go. Embarrassment surged through her as she recalled the scene when she had begged him on her hands and knees to please take her with him – she could help, she could. But he had kissed her and told her to stay safe, and left her on the floor, tears streaming down her face. It was Elias, her brother, who had picked her up from the floor, Elias who had promised to keep her safe. And now she was alone.
A click-clack of heels on the floor alerted her to Liesl’s presence once more. She turned away from the window and gathered the feather duster, the cloths and the wood polish, and scurried away to seek refuge in the kitchen with Greta.
‘I knew having that boy here was going to cause trouble, I could sense it. Just say – politely to him, mind – that you cannot talk to him and leave the room next time it happens, and mark my words, it will. He barely gets any attention, let alone affection from them, so he’ll seek it out. I’ve seen it before,’ Greta told her.
Anna nodded. ‘Should I take their lunch through?’
Greta shook her head, ‘I’ll manage today, we’ll try again with you tomorrow. For now, go out to see that Isaac fellow. Herr Becher wants some sort of list from him – tools and whatnot; he’s waiting for it. I thought Isaac would bring it to me, but I suppose he realises he shouldn’t really leave the shed. Go and see him, but don’t be too long. And here,’ Greta passed Anna some hot soup in a tin mug, ‘take him this, it will warm him a little.’
Anna made her way towards the shed, feeling the warmth in her hands that the soup offered. She had to chastise herself for wanting to drink it, and hoped that Greta would have saved something for her too.
She knocked gently on the wooden door, then, feeling silly, opened it.
The shed was no longer cluttered. The gardening tools and junk were lined up, as if waiting to be used. The man, Isaac, was wrapped in blankets and old pieces of cloth, and sitting on a chair over a makeshift desk of a few boxes and crates, the lamp settled in the corner.
He did not look up at first from the piece of paper that lay on the desk, his head bent. He was muttering words and making small movements with his hands as if he were fixing something.
‘I’ve brought you soup,’ Anna said.
Isaac looked up, his green eyes bright, white stubble across his chin and above his lip. He did not smile.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘Greta said you had a list for her?’ She placed the cup on the desk and he immediately picked it up and held it in his hands, his face above the rising steam, closing his eyes as if savouring the warmth it provided.
‘Is this it?’ Anna picked up the piece of paper in front of him.
‘No!’ he shouted and grabbed the paper back from her, then placed it back on the desk and smoothed the crease out with one hand whilst still holding the cup with the other. ‘I don’t need anything.’
‘But Greta said…’ She trailed off.
‘Everything I need is already here. I have decided how to fix it, and there’s nothing I need.’
‘What should Greta say to Herr Becher?’
‘She should say that Isaac will fix the clock and that he does not need anything.’
She waited a second, then two, then three. He bent his head to study the paper once more, then picked up a pencil and began to write notes against it.
‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled as he wrote. ‘When I am working, I get stuck inside my head a little. It makes me grumpy – at least that’s what my wife used to say.’
‘I get stuck inside my head too. But not because of work,’ she said.
He looked up at her now, as if she had just walked in. He studied her face, almost as if he were trying to place where he had seen her before.
‘I think of silly things,’ she said, the silence and his stare unnerving her. ‘I think of walking in the woods or of reading a book in an armchair next to the fire.’
‘Memories,’ he said. ‘We are all full of them.’
He was still staring at her, so she looked away from him, towards the neatly lined-up tools. ‘You’ve been busy,’ she said.
Finally, his eyes left her face. ‘I can’t work with clutter. I never could. I like things organised.’ Then, he drank back the soup and held the mug out towards her. ‘You’re waiting for this?’
She nodded and took it from him, his fingers brushing against hers, soft and feathery.
‘I’ll leave you to your work.’ She opened the door.
‘Come back again,’ he said softly – so softly that when Anna turned to look at him and his head was bent over his piece of paper once more, she wondered if she had imagined it.
The Watchmaker of Dachau: An absolutely heartbreaking World War 2 historical novel Page 5
