Page 29 of The Watchmaker of Dachau

‘He fixed the clock this morning. Madam has just been taken out by that Schmidt in the car – I heard him telling her that it would cheer her up after having Isaac in the house all morning.’

Anna turned to look at Greta who was kneading a ball of dough, her hands floured white, a smear of it on her cheek where she had brushed strands of escaping hair from her face.

‘Where did she go?’ Anna leaned towards her and wiped away the dusting of flour from her cheek.

‘Shopping, I imagine. Doubt we’ll see her until tomorrow. Herr Becher is in Munich for two days too.’

‘Did Friedrich go with her?’

‘Ha! No.’

‘So she’ll have to come home today, to take care of him.’ Anna opened a tin that held the last of the cake, and readied it on a blue china plate to give to the boy when she found him in the house.

‘She’s forgotten she’s got a son. She won’t be home today – you mark my words; she’ll stay at one of her friends’ so she can moan about her difficult life.’

Anna turned to finish the washing up, cleaning the last plate, and then began to dry them, feeling suddenly weary, as if her legs were going to give way from underneath, leaving her in a heap on the floor.

‘Once you’re finished in here, get the bedrooms and bathrooms cleaned whilst she’s out. We’ll tell her I did their bedroom, all right?’

Anna did not answer; it took all her energy to keep drying the plates and pots.

‘Did you eat that bread I gave you yesterday?’ Greta eyed her as her old hands stopped kneading the dough, wiping them now on her apron.

Anna nodded. She had meant to, but once back in the camp, the large lump of bread in her pocket began to feel like a selfish treat. The other women were completing harder tasks than her, kept out in the cold, whilst she was in the warmth of a house. Despite her own hunger, she’d given the bread away.

‘Here, sit for a minute.’ Greta pulled out a chair for her, poured her some coffee and went to the larder. She came back and placed in front of Anna a lump of cheese, a slice of cold chicken and some more bread.

‘Eat it. I want to see that you eat it.’ Greta sat on the chair opposite and watched Anna take each bite.

‘I can’t feed you all. God knows I wish I could.’ Greta wrung her hands as she spoke. ‘What with Levi and that Isaac and you, it’s hard to get you much without it being noticed. I’ve been making more bread, but Frau Becher has noticed how much flour I am asking for, so I had to lie and say I spilled a bag. You can’t keep giving it away, Anna – you have to eat too.’

‘I felt guilty,’ she said as she swallowed a mouthful then drank back some coffee, her head feeling less woozy, her eyes becoming alert once more.

‘I’ll make a soup.’ Greta suddenly stood. ‘I can do that. There’s leftover vegetables and some meat. It’ll be watery, mind you, but I can do it, and that will keep you three in some food for a few days.’

With that, Greta began to gather the carrots, onions and potatoes, and set them down to chop. Anna stood and placed her hand on Greta’s shoulder. ‘Thank you,’ she said, leaving Greta to cry over the onions that stung her eyes.

Anna started in the Bechers’ bedroom – a room she had never been in before. The bed dominated the room; a four-poster with drapes tied back with tasselled, woven purple ropes.

The bed was unmade, covers half on the floor, even a pillow, as if Frau Becher had fought with herself in her sleep. Anna opened the curtains, letting the weak light filter in, then opened the window a crack so the fresh air could take away the cloying scent of rich perfume that Frau Becher must have sprayed on herself before she left the house.

Her dressing table was full of small glass jars, some holding cream, others perfume, each topped with a silver monogrammed lid. Anna smiled, thinking of her own set, which her mother had put away for the day she got married. She traced the curlicued L and B on a powder lid, then took her hand away quickly, as if Frau Becher would know what she was doing.

She began by making the bed, enjoying the sensation of the soft cotton sheets in her hand, wishing she could lie back and feel the feather-stuffed pillows under her head. She picked up Liesl’s silk dressing gown and nightgown, both pink, with a matching pattern of tiny birds and flowers. She placed the nightgown on the end of the bed and the dressing gown in the wardrobe. As she straightened the silk robe on its hanger, Anna could not tear her eyes away from the other clothes in the wardrobe. She took her index finger and touched the edge of each dress, shirt and skirt, feeling the soft textures. Her finger stopped when she reached a cornflower-blue dress with small yellow flowers. It was like her mother’s – almost identical, right down to the darker blue belt that slipped around the waist. The wind was knocked out of her as a memory took hold. She was young, maybe four or five, and she was sitting with her mother, brother and father on a picnic rug. Her mother wanted to dance, and Anna took her hands and the two of them twirled around and around, singing a song her mother had learned from the radio.

Even in the bedroom she could smell the flowers, the clean water from the stream that rippled nearby. She could feel the wind in her hair as she twirled, and her mother’s soft yet firm hands in hers, never letting her fall.

A loud shot peppered the air outside, bringing her back to the room. She looked out of the window. She knew where the gunshots came from, and her heart beat faster as they continued to ring out. Then, silence.

As if someone else had taken over her body, she reached out and took the dress from its hanger, quickly undressing herself and stepping into the flowery gown.

She did not button it; she did not tie the belt. She simply stood, the dress large over her thin frame, and ran her hands over her hips, her breasts, as if seeing them for the first time. They had changed, she had changed.

She turned and looked at herself in the full-length mirror, the cap still on her head. She removed the cap, held it limply in her hand and stared at her reflection. Her head seemed too large for her body now, her hair dull, lank, and stretched over her scalp into a tight bun. Her eyes were larger too, flecks of green in the brown, deep black rings underneath them, and her lips were chapped and raw. Anna spoke to the reflection: ‘Who are you?’ The girl in the mirror matched her movements. ‘Are you really me?’ she asked.

Suddenly a ball of anger rolled in her belly, and her hands lashed out and knocked all of the bottles of cosmetics from the dressing table, sending them rolling onto the floor. One smashed, and as soon as it did, emptying its liquid contents on the wooden floor, Anna came to her senses.

She wiped away the tears that had wetted her face, and the mucus from underneath her nose. She had broken something. She kneeled down and picked up the shattered bottle, not knowing what to do with it.