‘Do you know who touched the gramophone?’ he asked her, cutting into the meat with force so that the knife scraped and squealed against the plate.
‘No, sir,’ she answered.
‘It’s just that I noticed a week or so ago that it had been used and moved slightly from its home. I wondered whether you would know something about that?’
She shook her head and tried to stay still, not shift, not look guilty.
Then he laughed. ‘As if you would even know how to work one!’
He shoved another chunk of meat into his mouth and settled back against the couch cushions to chew it. ‘Probably my darling wife. She would know that it would irk me.’
Suddenly he stood and licked the juice from the meat off his lips, missing some that dripped down his chin. He moved towards her, smiling, and she stood as still as possible, wishing that she could suddenly become completely invisible.
He stood a head or so taller than her, but he bent his knees slightly so that his nose was tip to tip with hers, and she felt his hand find its way underneath her dress to roughly grab her inner thigh and begin to work its way upwards. She pulled back, but his other hand seized her waist and pulled her to him. ‘Now, now, Anna, you’re mine – you know that, don’t you? I own all of you Juden. Whatever I say, you must do.’
She felt his fingers near her underwear and she closed her eyes, smelling the alcohol and meat breath as his lips settled on her cheek, her neck.
He groaned with the pleasure of touching her and it made her open her eyes. She stared beyond him at the oil painting of his wife.
‘Father?’ Friedrich’s voice came from behind her, and suddenly Becher set her free.
She ran from the room, leaving the boy to be shouted at for disturbing his father, for ruining his evening.
Greta took one look at Anna’s face as she ran back into the kitchen and hurried her outside. ‘Go to the shed. Go now to Isaac, and I will fetch Schmidt and tell him to take you both back to the camp as soon as he can.’
‘But they have not said we can go yet.’ Anna began to cry.
‘You leave him to me, all right? You go now.’
Anna did as she was told and ran across the garden to the shed. She found Isaac hunched over another piece of the car engine, his hands shaking as he tried to clean it.
He looked at her as she came in, concern on his face. ‘What happened?’
‘When do you think they will come, Isaac?’ she beseeched him. ‘Please tell me the Americans will be here soon – please tell me this will all be over?’
‘Come here.’ Isaac opened his arms to her.
She went to him, perched on his knee and let him hold her, soothing her until she found some peace.
‘Better now?’ he asked.
She sniffed and nodded, then climbed off his lap and sat on the upturned bucket, her arms wrapped around herself, suddenly feeling cold.
Isaac gave her a blanket, then said, ‘Anna, close your eyes.’
She wiped her face with a corner of the blanket, then did as she was told.
Isaac’s voice was soft, soothing. He began to sing the English words to the music Friedrich had played for them on the gramophone. His voice was surprisingly good and she opened her eyes to look at him. ‘No, close them and listen.’
Anna did as she was told. ‘Now, as I sing, imagine something wonderful, Anna, imagine a happier place.’ Isaac’s voice lifted and fell, his hand tapping the time and beat on the desk.
She imagined herself in the summer. She was in a large house with patio doors in the living room leading out onto a luscious lawn which ran all the way to a lake at the bottom.
The gramophone played Billie Holiday to her as she drank a cocktail standing at the open doors, looking out into the garden. Suddenly there were people on the lawn, small people, children. A boy with a sailor hat on his head being chased by an older sister who wore the blue dress from Liesl’s wardrobe – the dress so like her mother’s. The girl caught up with the boy and grabbed him – they tumbled and fell onto the grass, laughing and rolling over and over.
A man strode towards the pair and lifted the girl high into the air, then did the same with the boy. She knew they were hers; she knew she could join them and spin around on the grass, but something held her back.
Behind her there was someone else.
She turned and saw it was two people, Isaac and her brother, Elias, both sitting on a sofa stuffed with pillows.
‘Come outside,’ she said to them. ‘Come outside where it is warm. See, the sun is shining. Let’s go outside.’
Elias and Isaac shook their heads, and then they were gone. The music had stopped.
Anna opened her eyes, and saw Isaac doubled up coughing.
She went to him, helped him to sip some water until he rested, and some colour returned to his cheeks.
‘Isaac, I’m worried about you.’
He waved his hand in dismissal. ‘Whatever for?’
‘You’re not eating, your cough is getting worse, you have a slight fever.’ Her hand touched his forehead.
‘I haven’t smelled lemons, so I am not dying just yet.’
Anna narrowed her eyes at him – was he delusional?
He laughed at her, and then was gripped by another fit of coughing. When he settled, he sipped at the water. ‘I think I had that expression on my face when Levi said it to me. He said that when you die, you smell lemons in the air, and you know it is time to go.’
‘I think I’d quite like that,’ Anna said. ‘Lemons. Fresh and clean.’
Isaac nodded. ‘Get the papers, will you?’ he asked. ‘Let us see if we can ask our mysterious friend to provide us with some comfort.’
Anna retrieved the papers, this time holding them to herself, then flicking through the pages. ‘Here – this one talks of hope, of love. I shall read this.’
Anna began. ‘Of all the years to have been in love, this is the one – a joke, surely?’
Chapter 26
J. A. L.
September 1944
Of all the years to have been in love, this is the one – a joke, surely?
Of all the years I have lived, which are so few, in this one my heart is both full and broken at the same time.
I imagined that I would find wonderful things in my life that would remind me of you – the smell of a flower, perhaps, one you had tended to with your own hands, or perhaps the warmth of summer heat on my back, bringing me the memory of when we spent a summer at the beach. All of these things I had hoped for my first love, for my first reminiscences of love.
Yet the things that remind me of you are foolish and lack poetry, lack the depth of what I actually feel.
Take this morning, for example. I stubbed my toe on the bunk, and was reminded of the time I did that in front of you, and how you had checked on me, looking at my toe, patting it and then smacking the wood that hurt it, telling it that it was a naughty piece of wood. It had made me laugh and I quickly forgot about my toe.
It is a sweet memory, of course, but not the one I wished to carry with me. I wanted this year to be full of memories we made together, travelling, eating at restaurants, laughing with friends. Instead I am here, and everything is grey and muddled. Although I know the war is changing, my future outside here still seems so far away, as if I could reach out and touch it but then it inches away from my grasp each time.
I have been thinking of Katharina too, lately. Not that I ever really stop thinking about her; she is always there, a part of me. Yet these past days, the violence has increased and I heard that a group of children were gassed – all alone, without their mothers – and I could not help but think of my younger sister and wish with all my heart that she is still alive.
I picture both Mother and Szymon waiting out the days in Max’s basement – oh God, I hope they are still there, I hope that we were not traced back to Max somehow. Not that Katharina and I ever said anything to those SS who took us, but I have no way of knowing what became
of them.
I have this idea that one day, you, Katharina and I will go to Max’s. We will lift the hatch above the basement and take my mother and Szymon out, show them the outside world once more, and visit my father who lies under the pines on the hill. I always thought that we would re-bury him and give him the funeral he so deserved, but the more I have pondered this, the more I have come to think that he would have liked the spot we chose for him far more than a cemetery.
I have a friend in my bunkhouse. His name is Levi and he makes jokes all the time. If the guards were to hear him, I think they would shoot him on the spot as most of the jokes are about Hitler, but I admire his spirit – he will not let it be broken. This is his second camp and he says it is not as bad as the last one.
At first, I thought he was joking and laughed at him. But he did not smile, and I stopped.
‘Auschwitz is worse, believe me,’ he said. ‘My wife and children are still there. When I was first relocated, I was worried for myself – I thought that whatever they had in store for me next would be far worse than what I had already endured. But when I arrived, the beatings were fewer, the guards less sadistic. And then I worried for them – left behind.’
Auschwitz. A place I know. A town we once drove through on our way to Zakopane for a holiday. It was a pretty little town, and I could not imagine such a place being redesigned to suit the desires of these mad men. A place that perhaps held Katharina.
Levi told me, ‘Deaths there were more frequent, the chambers and ovens working at all hours – it was as if they couldn’t get rid of us quickly enough. Lice, they called us. Lice. Indeed, we had them – I still do!’ He laughed then. ‘Imagine thinking that another human being is like a louse? Or a rat. Indeed, I often wondered whether they had drunk some form of potion that sent their minds crazy, as I could figure no other reason for man to view man this way.’
I agreed with Levi, waiting for him to tell me more. But he did not. Instead he stood in the bunkhouse and did a funny walk, telling jokes, trying to get everyone to smile. Does he hide behind the humour? I do not know. But I am glad that he is my friend.
Chapter 27
Isaac
‘He knew Levi!’ Isaac said, interrupting Anna. ‘How I wish I had asked him more questions when he was still alive. J. A. L. could have been the gardener before Levi. I wonder if Levi knew about his writing too?’
Footsteps could be heard coming towards them and Anna hurriedly placed the papers back, then sat, awaiting the visitor.
It was Schmidt.
‘Come to take you back to the camp,’ he said.
Isaac stood at the same time as Anna.
‘No. Not you,’ Schmidt told Isaac. ‘Herr Becher wants you to keep working. He wants the cars ready in a few days.’
Unsteadily, Isaac sat back down. ‘They are almost finished.’
‘Well, almost is not complete, is it?’ Schmidt said. ‘Come on, I haven’t got all night.’
Anna followed Schmidt from the shed, giving Isaac a little wave as she closed the door behind her.
Bewildered, Isaac looked at the car parts. The engines would work – they would be fine, possibly by tomorrow. Yet he was to spend a night in the shed, just as J. A. L. had done.
He was suddenly filled with despair. Not at the thought of being away from the bunkhouse, but what it would mean when the cars were ready. The family were clearly leaving for a long journey – Isaac was not stupid; he could see the fear in Becher, he had heard about the Americans coming. Then he thought of the bodies piled around the camp grounds, and imagined that his would soon be added to the twisted heap of arms and legs, no longer Isaac, instead a collection of jumbled parts, another victim of their hate.
He hated the thought of lying in death in one of the pits that they threw the bodies into – with everyone, but with no one at the same time.
A chill caught on the back of his neck as if someone were in the room with him. He looked about but nothing was there – no ghosts to speak of.
Then he saw the flash of a shadow outside the window – was Anna back?
The door creaked open ever so slightly, then another inch and another, and Isaac felt as though Death himself were here to collect him. Instead, it was Friedrich.
‘It’s really late,’ Friedrich whispered, even though his voice could not carry to the house. ‘I saw the lamp burning and Anna leaving, and I wondered if you were still here.’
‘As you can see, I am. You should not be here though, Friedrich, you will get in trouble, as will I – your parents are home.’
‘They are, but they really aren’t,’ he said, almost philosophically. ‘Mother is asleep, and the dead could not wake her. I saw Father in the living room, an empty bottle of whiskey on the floor – he will not wake either and, even if he did, he would not come looking for me.’
Despite the danger, Isaac wanted the company and did not insist that Friedrich leave as he should.
A rumble in the sky made both Isaac and Friedrich look to the ceiling of the shed.
‘Planes,’ Friedrich announced.
Isaac turned off the gas lamp, pitching them into darkness. They listened as the planes flew low, the engines whirring, Isaac’s ears ringing with the vibrations.
Soon, the rumble became a distant hum and Isaac waited, counted the seconds and minutes, and when no crash of bombs came, he turned the light back on, keeping it low.
‘Will they come back, do you think?’ Friedrich’s voice was barely a whisper.
‘I don’t know,’ Isaac said.
‘Do they know about the prison?’
‘Yes. I think they know about the camp.’
‘Will they take Father away for what he has done?’
Isaac was unsure whether Friedrich’s voice betrayed worry for his father or an eagerness to rid himself of his parent. ‘I really don’t know, Friedrich. I can’t tell you what will happen.’
‘Tell me what the camp is like.’
Isaac shook his head. ‘There is no good that can come of you knowing. You are too young.’
‘But there are children in there – I saw them – they know what it is like,’ his childish logic concluded.
‘Quite. But they will have to carry that knowledge with them the rest of their lives, and it will not be easy for them.’
Friedrich was not to be dissuaded. ‘I can tell people, Isaac. I can tell people what it was like. Otto, I bet he doesn’t know that children have to be sent away, and if he doesn’t know, he will grow up and maybe he won’t believe them. But if I tell the story, if I tell it, maybe he will.’
The boy was wearing on him. It was late, and he was hungry and sick, the fever chilling his skin rather than heating it. ‘I don’t think I can, Friedrich. I’m sorry. But one day, perhaps I will.’
Chapter 28
Friedrich
Last spring Friedrich had foraged in the woods with Otto. They had found a bird’s nest, high up in one of the trees they had been looking at, hoping that it would prove a suitable spot for a treehouse.
The eggs were tiny, a pale blue with mottled brown spots. Otto had wanted to touch them, his podgy hand reaching out as he steadied himself on the branch.
‘Don’t!’ Friedrich warned him. ‘If you touch them, the mother bird will leave them as you’ll have left your smell on them.’
‘Says who?’ Otto asked.
‘I can’t remember who said it, but it’s true – don’t touch them.’
Otto withdrew his hand, and Friedrich, who had been about to join his friend, slithered down the tree trunk, scraping his palms and legs on the bark.
Otto soon followed and dusted off his hands when he reached the ground. ‘I didn’t touch them. Can’t have the treehouse here anymore – we’ll have to find somewhere else.’
Friedrich looked at the thick long arms of the oak. ‘It’s perfect though – absolutely perfect.’
‘They won’t be there forever, will they?’ Otto mused. ‘If we come back in a week or so, maybe
they will have hatched and flown away?’
Friedrich agreed; as soon as the birds had gone, they could begin building their secret hiding place.
The following week the boys returned to find tiny pink chicks in the nest, their mouths wide and screaming for food.
At first, Friedrich recoiled from the sight and moved away from them on the branch. Their naked bodies and black unseeing eyes were not what he had been expecting a baby bird to look like.
‘They are so strange,’ Otto said. ‘Really strange, like they aren’t really birds at all.’
They had left the nest alone, sitting with their backs against another tree, their hands randomly picking up dead leaves and twigs as they spoke.
‘If we wait here long enough, we can see the mother bring them some food.’ Otto looked to the canopy above them and Friedrich did the same.
‘Will you go home in the holidays?’ Friedrich suddenly asked.
‘Probably. I’d say so. Mother wrote and said something about going to Grandmother’s house in the countryside. I’d rather not go there though. She’s always a bit mean and slaps my hands when I try to reach for cakes or sweets.’
‘I’d happily go to your grandmother’s,’ Friedrich said.
‘You not going home then?’
‘I don’t even know where home is at the moment. They’ve moved to a new place – Father got a promotion.’
‘If you could go anywhere, though, anywhere in the world, where would you go?’
Friedrich thought for a moment, ripping a leaf to shreds in his hands, then watched as the breeze took them.
‘I guess I’d be here with you.’ Friedrich grinned at Otto. ‘At least when you’re around we have fun and I have someone to talk to.’
‘Look!’ Otto raised his hand and pointed to the sky where a blackbird had shot past, then landed on the branch with the nest of baby birds. ‘She’s a good mother, flying off to find food then bringing it all the way back for them. That’s a lot to do. I think if I had been born a baby bird and my mother would have had to do all that, she wouldn’t have bothered!’ Otto laughed.
The Watchmaker of Dachau: An absolutely heartbreaking World War 2 historical novel Page 19
