Page 16 of The Watchmaker of Dachau

‘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?’