The Watchmaker of Dachau: An absolutely heartbreaking World War 2 historical novel

by Carly Schabowski

  In the kitchen Greta was sitting next to the oven, staring at her hands.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Anna asked.

  Greta looked up. ‘Fine. My hands are failing me. They saw… they know that I’m not what I used to be.’

  ‘I’ll serve dinner.’

  ‘No. That Liesl will start again.’

  ‘Just let me try. I’ll be quiet.’ Anna crouched down and took Greta’s hands in hers. She could not lose her; she could not risk someone else overseeing her.

  ‘Just make sure you don’t talk to them, don’t look at them. Perhaps…’ Greta’s eyes lit up.

  ‘Perhaps what?’

  ‘What if I ask Herr Becher if you can wear an old maid’s uniform instead of that? That way perhaps Liesl won’t notice you as much?’

  Anna looked down at her dirtied smock dress, the blue stripes dull against the grubby white. ‘We can try.’

  ‘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.’

  Isaac nodded and grasped the weighty brass knob, feeling the cool metal under his hand click as he pushed it open then closed it gently behind him.

  Isaac looked about the room. On the floor was the train set, completed as he was told it would be, the neat rows of red and green trains lined up at the station where tiny figures waited for their journey. Fake trees were dotted about the landscape, then another station, this one with small cars waiting for the new arrivals outside. The picture in front of him made him smile – as if he were here to play and not to work.

  ‘Shhh,’ a voice said.

  Isaac, to his surprise, saw a boy, perhaps ten or eleven years old, sitting cross-legged on his single bed, a book by his side, his golden hair shiny and forming a curtain of a fringe over his bright blue eyes.

  ‘I’m here to fix the train,’ Isaac said.

  ‘Mother told me to go and play outside,’ the boy whispered. ‘But I don’t like the outside in the cold, so I hid under my bed when she checked.’

  ‘I should come back later…’ Isaac walked backwards, his hand feeling for the doorknob.

  ‘No! Don’t!’ The boy jumped off the bed. ‘Please. Mother says you can fix it. Even
Papa said you are going to fix the grandfather clock – he says you can fix anything. Please. It’s just the engine, the red one, it won’t go, and they’ll make me study or practise my music if I’ve nothing else to do. Please?’

  Isaac took his hat a few inches off his shaved head and ran his hand over the stubble. ‘Let me see,’ he said.

  He bent down and picked up the engine. Underneath the chassis he unscrewed the plate that held the engine’s insides in place, then sat on the floor as he tinkered with the parts.

  ‘Do you live in the shed?’ the boy asked him.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where do you live then?’

  ‘With the others,’ he said.

  ‘Which others?’

  Isaac sighed – did the boy really not know? ‘How old are you?’ he asked.

  ‘Eleven. Just.’

  ‘I’ll fix the train and then you can play.’ Perhaps he was too young to realise what was happening around him.

  ‘I came from school yesterday. They closed it and I had to come here. It’s boring here, there’s no one to play with.’

  ‘Quite,’ Isaac muttered, as he concentrated on the tiny mechanisms.

  ‘You have the same clothes as the maid,’ the boy said.

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Her name is Anna, and your name is Isaac – I heard Mother and Father talking. They always think that I cannot hear them – but I think it is because they don’t see me – they forget that I am there.’

  Isaac smiled to himself; he knew what that felt like too.

  ‘Are you a Jew?’

  Isaac nodded.

  ‘I thought so. You’re supposed to have long noses though, and sometimes just one eye, and long teeth and long scratchy nails and—’

  ‘Enough!’ Isaac slammed the engine down hard on the floor. The boy was startled. ‘Do I look like that to you? Look at me,’ Isaac demanded.

  ‘No,’ the boy said in a quiet voice. ‘No, you don’t look like the pictures on the posters.’

  Isaac picked up the locomotive engine once more, his hands shaking again – not with the pain of arthritis, but with anger.

  ‘I’m Friedrich,’ the boy started again. ‘I think you should know my name, because I know yours and that’s polite, isn’t it, to introduce yourself when you meet someone new?’

  ‘It is polite, yes. It is good to meet you, Friedrich.’

  ‘And you, Isaac.’

  ‘Here, I think it is done.’ Isaac placed the engine on the line, then moved the broken slats away and re-joined the tracks together. ‘It will be a little shorter for your train to run, but it will work.’

  Friedrich jumped off his bed where he had been sitting and watched as the engine started to crawl slowly forward, then, picking up speed, it chugged along. Friedrich clapped his hands together in joy and Isaac found himself laughing along with him.

  ‘It works! It really works! You are a magician! Father couldn’t fix it and I couldn’t fix it, and then you come and it’s all fine!’

  Isaac stood and watched Friedrich play for a moment, connecting the carriages to the engines, placing the small figurines of passengers at the station to await their train and their onward journey. He wished he could stay and watch the boy forever, the simple joy of playing with a train and naming the stations, the people, and the conversations they would have as they travelled to a foreign land.

  ‘You’re welcome, Friedrich,’ Isaac said. The boy looked at him and smiled.

  Isaac left the bedroom and walked slowly down the stairs, trying to stretch the minutes before he was once more sent to the cold shed, or even worse, back to the camp.

  The day disappeared quickly beneath the winter sky, plummeting Isaac into a cold darkness in the shed, with only the thin light of the lamp to aid him. He scribbled more notes on the paper, ready to fix the clock when beckoned, but no one came for him.

  He was not used to having no work. He sat and stared at the shed walls, the thin gaps in between each slat that let the icy air creep in so that his warm breath was forever hanging in front of him.

  Work would help – it would keep his mind off the hunger that chimed in his belly each minute, causing a rush of saliva to culminate in his mouth, expecting a meal that would not come. Work would also keep his mind away from the camp, from the life he now found himself in. He chuckled to himself in the quiet – he had been so lucky so far – so very lucky. Years of hiding away in his village, in his work, and no one had come for him, and, just as news reached them about the Americans and the British who were drawing closer each day, he was taken.

  He chewed at a piece of skin next to his thumb as the door was flung open and Schmidt entered.

  ‘Time to go,’ he said, already turning away. Isaac made to stand, his legs feeling wobbly underneath him.

  He turned off the lamp and hobbled after Schmidt, the hunger replaced with nausea as he remembered the high fences, the soldiers with guns, and the cold stares of the guards.

  But then, it all disappeared – Anna exited the house through the kitchen door, smiling weakly at Isaac as she noticed him.

  As Schmidt walked Isaac and Anna back to the camp, Isaac looked behind him at the house, the lamps glaring from the windows, as if the house had sucked in all the light, leaving Isaac in the inky stillness of the night. The sleet from the morning had turned into thick flakes that settled quickly, layering one on top of the other, weighing down branches that creaked and shifted with the load.

  Schmidt walked behind them, humming a tune and smoking his cigar, now and again asking them to stop – Isaac was sure for no other reason than to slow them down and keep them in the cold for as long as possible.

  Isaac’s arm bumped into Anna’s and she flinched.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered to her.

  ‘No. I’m sorry. It’s not you. It’s this place – every time I hear something, or someone touches me, my body just can’t help itself.’

  ‘You have been here long?’

  Anna shook her head. ‘Since September last year. You know, they only opened the women’s block last year – I was one of the first. I often wonder, why me, why now?’

  Isaac chuckled. ‘I have just been wondering the same thing myself. Almost five years of freedom and now here I am.’

  ‘Piotr would have called it fate,’ she said. ‘Kismet. Like we have no choice.’

  ‘Piotr?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘My fiancé. He believed in destiny and even that dreams could tell you things.’

  ‘And you don’t?’

  Anna shrugged, her shoulder now brushing his comfortably, adding a smidgen of warmth to his body. ‘I don’t know what to believe anymore.’

  ‘Hush!’ Schmidt commanded from the rear. ‘You think I can’t hear you two whispering? Do you think I am stupid?’

  ‘No, Herr Schmidt,’ they answered, almost in unison.

  ‘Stop walking. Stand here for a moment, seeing as you are so keen to be in each other’s company.’

  Isaac stopped and Anna moved closer to him, her body trembling with the cold. He wished he could put his arm around her to warm her, but instead he did only what he could and leaned back into her, so that they looked as though they were conjoined twins, both of them feeding heat off each other, both of them calming their fears.

  Chapter 7

  Friedrich

  ‘Eat your food, Friedrich, stop playing with it,’ his mother admonished, as they sat around the shining dinner table for their supper.

  The silverware had been cleaned that day, Friedrich could tell; there was still a lingering scent of polish in the air.

  ‘He fixed it then?’ his mother asked his father.

  ‘He did,’ his father responded, through a mouthful of potato.

  ‘I don’t like him being in the house. What if he hurts us?’

  ‘He won’t, my dear, why would he? Besides, I will have Schmidt watch him tomorrow when he works on the clock. He says that he has figured out the problem and will need only a
few hours.’

  ‘A few hours!’ his mother cried, and Fredrich looked at her, expecting her to have had one of her fainting spells.

  ‘Now, now, Liesl.’ His father stood and poured her a measure of dark liquid into a heavy crystal glass. ‘Drink this and calm your nerves.’

  ‘I can watch him?’ Friedrich offered. ‘I can. I can stand next to him.’

  ‘You’ll go nowhere near that Jew!’ his mother shouted at him. ‘Who knows what diseases he has, or what he likes to do to young boys.’

  ‘He’s not like that—’ Friedrich began.

  ‘And how would you know what he is like?’ his mother asked, narrowing her eyes at him.

  Friedrich stopped himself from saying more, from telling them that he had spoken to Isaac about being a Jew and that perhaps they had got it all wrong. Instead, he cut into his meat and ate.

  ‘You need to understand, Friedrich,’ his father began, ‘that people like that man, and the woman who sometimes serves us, are not like us. They are here to do as we ask them, and it makes them happy – they want to make us happy. So, you don’t talk to them, you just tell them what to do, and if they will not, you tell me or your mother.’

  Friedrich nodded and swallowed the meat.

  ‘Father, can I ask a question?’ he ventured.

  ‘You can. I will decide if I answer.’

  ‘Where does the man live? Does he live in the shed?’

  His mother and father looked at one another, and Friedrich saw his mother shake her head ever so slightly.

  ‘They live in a town,’ his father said. ‘Not far from here. They live all together in a place that keeps them away from us and keeps us all safe.’

  ‘Can I go there?’ Friedrich asked, forgetting to ask if he could, in fact, ask another question.

  A wail escaped his mother and she went limp for a moment in her seat. His father rushed to her side and helped prop her up, her eyes already open and alert once more. He pressed the glass of brown liquid to her lips, which seemed to revive her quickly.