Elias grinned. ‘He never forgave me for that.’
‘I think he would now,’ she told him.
They soon reached the train station, but were not allowed on the platform. Instead, they were herded into a pen of sorts, with a high fence topped with barbed wire. Once they were inside, the gate was locked, and the guards lit cigarettes and talked as if they were not even there.
Anna, Elias and their mother sat on the dusty floor until the sun rose, and were still there when the sun began to set again. They shared what food they had with the others, and water that someone had thought to bring, but soon it was gone, and they still sat in the pen, still not understanding what was happening.
Her mother was ill – her heart, which had plagued her with palpitations for years, was succumbing to the stress, her face pale, and she clutched at her chest, her lips turning a strange blue.
Anna screamed, her own heart racing, her eyes already glazed with tears as she watched her mother struggle for breath. She looked for Elias who was on his feet, running towards the gate, shouting at the guards for help, but they turned to him, then laughed and turned away.
He ran back to Anna, looked at his mother and ran back to the gate once more, this time frantically pulling on it, yelling.
‘We need help!’ he screamed at them. ‘She’s dying!’
Someone in the crowd was a doctor and had come to their aid, trying to breathe life into her, but Anna could see it was too late; her eyes had glassed over, her chest still.
‘Please! Please!’ Elias was still screaming.
Anna looked to him, and saw the guards pointing their guns at him – warning him. She stood, ready to run to him, to tell him to stop, that it was all too late – and then a gun fired.
Anna did not want to remember any more. She did not want to remember how her brother’s body fell, crumpled to the ground after the shot rang out. She did not want to remember how she ran to him, seeing his face still contorted with anguish, save for the small bullet hole in his forehead, so neat and round that she could not take her eyes from it, expecting it to be messy, bigger.
The doctor who had tried to help her mother pulled at her arm, trying to get her away, but she had resisted – lifting his head with her hand, feeling the warm, wet, bloody mess at the back of his skull.
She drew her hand away, looking at the crimson that covered it, the blood dripping into the dust.
‘Come, get up, come with me.’ The doctor had his hands under her armpits, pulling her, then dragging her away as she kicked and screamed and cried.
People were moving; a gate had opened. They were getting on the boxcars.
‘You have to come now,’ the doctor said.
Anna didn’t know how that doctor had got her into the train, how he had helped her to stand and walk. All she knew was that the train began to move, clacking its way away from her home, from her family, her head resting on the doctor’s shoulder as she stared at her brother’s blood on her hands.
Suddenly, Anna felt Nina’s hand on her head, stroking it to soothe her.
‘You’re crying,’ she whispered.
Anna turned to her friend. ‘I remembered – I remembered it all.’
Chapter 10
Friedrich
Friedrich stood in his mother’s bedroom, staring at his reflection in the mirror. He looked at his gangly frame, his brown trousers and green knitted jumper, and tried to see what Anna had been so sad about.
He had liked his mother’s dress on her – it was the same colour as the cap she wore – and he had been about to talk to her, to tell her that she was beautiful, but that was when she had got angry and started to cry, and then he hadn’t known what to say.
‘What are you doing in here?’ His mother was in the doorway, her face flushed, her hands full of bags.
‘I had something in my eye,’ Friedrich said. ‘I was trying to see it.’
She shook her head at him and came into the bedroom. She sat down on the edge of the bed and said, ‘Come here, come see what I bought.’
His mother was happy, her eyes bright. She pulled dress after dress from the bags to show him. Friedrich tried to find nice things to say about them, and each thing he did say made her smile.
‘You are a good boy,’ she said, as she stood and kissed the top of his head.
He wondered whether he should tell her about Anna – whether it would make her happy that he had been a good boy and told her what people had been doing when she was away. ‘Mother, I—’
‘Go now.’ She looked at him. ‘I’m tired. You know how tired I get, and your presence will not help.’ Her voice had become stern again; that angry crease between her eyebrows was back.
He wandered downstairs, not really knowing what he was planning to do. Perhaps, if he was quiet, and only put the volume low, he could listen to the radio or the gramophone.
With quick steps he entered the living room, and there sat Schmidt once more.
‘You again.’ Schmidt turned to him. ‘You’re not allowed in here.’
‘I am.’ Friedrich stood tall, his hands balled into fists at his side as if he were at school and the dormitory bully was in front of him once more, teasing him for his height, his hair, his baby toys.
Schmidt smiled at him and Friedrich was not sure what to do.
‘Come here, Friedrich,’ Schmidt said silkily.
Friedrich did not move.
‘I said, come here!’ Schmidt demanded.
Friedrich walked slowly towards him, his stomach turning over. He stood in front of Schmidt, who sat perched on the edge of the sofa.
Schmidt suddenly grabbed Friedrich’s shoulders, and hissed, ‘I am the boss in this house when your father is not here – do you understand me?’
Schmidt’s eyes were narrowed, his voice different – harsh and guttural – and Friedrich felt like crying.
Suddenly Schmidt began to laugh and sat back into the thick cushions of the sofa. ‘Go and play with your toys now, boy. And do as I say – you hear me?’
Friedrich did not answer, did not look behind him, and ran up the stairs to his room where he shut and latched the door.
He lay on his bed until his breathing calmed and the tears had stopped. He wiped his nose with the cuff of his jumper. He wished he could tell his mother what Schmidt had said, but she would either not believe him or she would say that it had been Friedrich’s fault.
He had thought that Schmidt would have to be nice to him because of his father, but Friedrich realised that his presence in the house was unwelcome for everyone, including Schmidt – no one wanted him here and they were all happy to make that clear to him.
He looked at the spider cracks in the ceiling, then heard his mother cry out downstairs for Greta – she was hungry, she said, and she would like some whiskey. She had had an exhausting day – she’d take it in the living room; Schmidt was hungry too.
Friedrich wondered how it could be so exhausting, buying things. Whenever he had been taken to a bookshop or a toy shop, he had been full of excitement and when he got home, he couldn’t wait to play or read. He wasn’t exhausted.
Downstairs the telephone trilled out and his mother’s quick footsteps ran to answer it, her voice tinkling as she realised his father had called to say goodnight from Munich.
The telephone. It was fixed – Isaac had done it. Friedrich felt his stomach turn with shame at the way he had spoken to the old man. He had seen how sad his eyes had become, as Friedrich had said those words; the same disappointment he had seen when one day he had kicked a dog in the street for a dare – a look that dug deep into him and made him feel ill.
When he had fallen out with Otto in the past, he had always given him a present to make it all OK again. He could do the same for Isaac. He could give him something – but what?
Friedrich sat on the edge of his bed and looked about his room. There was nothing much here that Isaac would want – schoolbooks, postcards, a few toys. He looked out of the window and saw that it was snowing again,
bulbous flakes that promised to change the landscape overnight, whitewashing the grey.
Then, he knew. He knew exactly what Isaac would want.
Chapter 11
Isaac
Elijah was unwell. All night he tossed and turned, the fever grabbing him and making him hot then cold. Isaac did not sleep. He watched Elijah, feeling helpless – he could not even get him water, a cool cloth to calm his forehead.
‘He’ll be dead before morning,’ Jan muttered in the bunk beneath him. ‘If he’s lucky, that is.’
‘Should we tell someone?’ Isaac whispered. ‘Maybe he should go to the infirmary?’
Isaac heard Jan sigh, then there was a scuffle as he got out of bed. Suddenly Jan’s face was in front of Isaac’s. ‘He’s your friend, isn’t he?’
‘Yes.’
‘If you want to help him then I wouldn’t bother asking for anything. The infirmary will kill him quicker than if he stays here the night.’
‘So there’s nothing we can do?’
‘You’ll be the death of me, Isaac, I can tell,’ Jan said, then turned from him and walked quietly down the aisle of sleeping men on their bunks towards the rear of the bunkhouse. Within minutes he was back, and he placed something on Elijah’s forehead, so that he immediately fell silent.
‘What have you done?’ Isaac made to get out of bed.
‘Shhh, stay where you are.’ Jan turned to glare at him, then went back to concentrating on Elijah.
‘What are you doing?’
‘There’s a secret I have at the back – a hiding place under a loose floorboard. I’ve been keeping clean snow in there, in cups, so we have a little extra water. All I’ve done is place some on his head – it is taking the fever down.’
Jan soon climbed back into bed and Isaac lay on his side, his eyes fixed on his friend.
‘Thank you,’ Isaac said.
‘We’ll see if it helps. I gave him a small remedy too.’
‘A remedy?’
‘My father was a chemist. I know plants, what their properties can do. When I am at work each day, I take bits of flowers, weeds, anything that I can make into a salve or a painkiller, anything that may help us. What I’ve given him will either break the fever, or it is too late. We will see how he is in the morning.’
Come morning, Elijah’s face was still pale, but his breathing had become softer. Isaac placed his palm on his forehead, the cool skin underneath signalling that Jan’s remedy had been effective.
‘It worked!’ He turned to smile at Jan who was lacing his shoes.
Jan stood and leaned over the sleeping Elijah, pulling back his eyelids, then placing two fingers on the side of his neck to check his pulse. ‘I’m not surprised. I’m good at what I do, you know.’
‘You were a chemist like your father?’
Jan shook his head. ‘I was studying to become a doctor. But then, things changed.’
Isaac thought of Jan and the hollow-cheeked man – how they had branded him like Adam the Kapo, how he had felt unnerved by them, scared even, and yet now he saw Jan caring for Elijah as if he were a newborn baby, stroking back his lank hair still laden with sweat, how he dipped his finger into the water and ran it over his cracked lips.
‘I’m not what you think I am,’ Isaac said.
Jan looked at him, his large forehead creasing as he thought of his response.
‘They just have me fix things,’ Isaac continued. ‘Watches mostly.’ He held his hands open, palms facing up, as if lifting a prayer or a promise to God.
The crease deepened in Jan’s brow, then disappeared as he relaxed. ‘I believe you, Isaac, I do. The others are suspicious – of course they are. But I believe you.’
‘Is it morning?’ Elijah suddenly croaked. He looked at Isaac and managed a weak grin.
‘It is indeed.’ Isaac returned the smile.
‘You’ll feel weak for a day or so. We’re on the same work detail, building a road. I’ll help you today.’ Jan patted Elijah on his arm. ‘You’ll be fine.’
‘Thank you, Jan,’ Isaac said.
‘We have to look after each other here,’ Jan said.
‘We do,’ Isaac agreed.
Isaac backed away and allowed Jan to take care of Elijah, a knot in his stomach as he thought of the things the others had been saying about him. All of a sudden, it felt as though everyone’s eyes in the bunkhouse were on him, tracking the way he moved, questioning who he really was.
The sun made a rare appearance that afternoon, lightening the chill in the air, the snow yielding to its warmth, its crystals winking in the glow as they melted away.
‘Spring’s not far away,’ Levi said, as he rummaged in the shed to find the shears.
Isaac was glad of Levi’s company. It was his third visit to the house, seemingly only brought here when one of the Bechers noticed something in the garden that was amiss. He liked the way Levi spoke – always about a bird he saw, or the bud of a flower in the ground, trying to push its head out. He made Isaac feel almost normal again – as though he were simply in his own workshop and a friend had dropped in for a quick chat.
Isaac watched Levi fumble about, his hands near the jerry can that marked the spot of the loose floorboard and the bundle hidden beneath. Was it Levi? Isaac thought, thinking of the initials J. A. L. written in the corner.
‘You know, I love spring – the way it all seems new again,’ Levi said.
‘It’s still the middle of winter,’ Isaac replied.
‘February tomorrow. A nice short month, and then we’ll be into spring.’
‘February?’
‘You have lost track of time, haven’t you? That’s what happens here. You’ve been here a week or more.’
Isaac looked at the typewriter in front of him that he had been asked to fix, three others on the floor near his feet. First the train engine, the grandfather clock, the bags of watches that belonged to others, the telephone. A week. A week or more. ‘It feels longer, and yet at the same time, it feels as though it has been only a day or so.’ Isaac shook his head.
‘Like I said, you’ve lost track of time. You will. It’s normal. Ah, here!’ Levi held up the shears and stood. ‘What do you think they would do if I escaped, a pair of shears in my hand, ready to attack?’
‘You’d get shot,’ Isaac said ruefully.
‘Really? I think I’d have a fighting chance. I’ve thought about it, you know, escaping. Especially from here – we’ve got the chance to, they forget we are here.’
‘Apart from the guards at the gate, and then the guards further down the track, and the fact that you are so tired and weak you wouldn’t get far.’
Levi grinned. ‘You’re right. I’ll think of a different way. Shame we are not here overnight. That’s when we could make a break for it!’
‘You talk as if you are a child. As if this is some sort of adventure,’ he scolded, yet he could feel the tug of a smile on his lips.
‘I talk as if I am a man who is trying to survive; you talk like a man who has given up.’
‘I am surviving,’ Isaac responded, then looked at his hands which were dry and chapped, the spidery blue of his veins pulsing against his pale skin.
‘At least we have work to do – good work. You know, when they ask me to come here, I am so happy. Otherwise I do nothing all day.’ Levi set about sharpening the dull blades of the shears whilst Isaac watched.
‘Nothing? I see the others going to work each day.’ Isaac thought of poorly Elijah having to dig a new road near the camp, which led through a clump of trees out into the middle of nowhere.
‘Nothing. There was work to begin with – so much. They worked us day and night. But you’ve heard what’s happening? The Americans are coming, and the guards know it. All they’ll do now is work the sickest until they drop dead doing something mundane. Like I said, I’m glad I have this job.’
Elijah’s pale face accosted Isaac – his friend would be worked to death.
‘You all right?’ Levi was
looking at Isaac, his brows creased together as they did whenever he was being serious.
Isaac nodded.
‘All right. Well, I’ve branches to prune.’ Levi doffed his cap as was his custom. ‘You have yourself a nice day. And, Isaac? Smile and think of good things.’
He left Isaac alone with just the faint tune of him whistling as he worked in the garden. Isaac fiddled with the tool in his hand, trying to do as Levi told him, imagining the Americans arriving, taking him home, where he would sit in his armchair by the fireplace and sink into dreamless sleeps.
‘I hope I’m not interrupting you?’ Becher’s voice came from outside the shed. Isaac quickly stood and opened the door. Becher smiled and waved him outside. ‘Come and enjoy some sun for a moment.’
Isaac did as he was told, and stood with Becher as he watched Anna hang some sheets on the laundry line. Isaac noticed that her stripy camp uniform was gone, and in its place she wore a plain brown dress, the cornflower-blue cap still on her head.
‘It’s a beautiful day, is it not?’ Becher said, his eyes not straying from Anna.
‘It is.’
‘It is a shame,’ Becher turned to face Isaac, ‘that God would give certain women attributes that would be better on others. Take Anna, for example; a beautiful face, a body that is light and yet womanly. But she is stuck here, and throughout the city there are plump, ugly German women, gems around their necks, who would do better to have this beauty so that it would benefit the Reich.’
Isaac did not know how to reply. His fingers balled into his palms, his nails biting into the skin, the pain stopping his brain from understanding what Becher was really trying to say.
‘Now, I have another bag for you. These are a few watches – special pocket watches, in fact – that I was given on one of my trips to Munich. I’d like to gift them to some comrades, yet they need any engravings removed, a polish, a service, before they are ready.’
He handed Isaac the bag, the weight of the watches inside substantially heavier than before.
The Watchmaker of Dachau: An absolutely heartbreaking World War 2 historical novel Page 9
