Page 33 of The Watchmaker of Dachau

‘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.’