Page 38 of The Watchmaker of Dachau

May 1944

Today I remembered the time that Father took me fishing. It was a day much like today, when the blossom buds unfurled on branches, finally covering their nakedness with the most delicate and colourful of clothing. Everywhere you looked, life was beginning again – newborn lambs and calves that suckled at their mothers, and played and ran with their little friends in fields that were a thick carpet of green.

The birds were the first to alert me to the change of today, that change of hopefulness. A nest in the tree behind me has finally come to life, the squeaks and squawks of hungry mouths keeping their blackbird mother busy most of the day. It is nice to hear the birds sing once more. In the camp there are only crows, hawking and screaming as if they too realise what is happening on the ground below them.

But today is for remembering. Father and I went fishing for the first time. I was perhaps five or six, yet I felt like a grown man with my fishing rod slung over my shoulder, Father’s cap on my head too large and slipping constantly. I walked with him, three or four steps to keep up with his own long stride, and as we walked through the city, people waved at him, said hello, and I felt so proud to be by his side.

Father did not usually fish. He was not a man for the outdoors, preferring to stay inside and read his books, write a new lecture for his students, or make his children sit at his feet as he told us stories from his research, or sometimes from his own mind.

I cannot remember why he took me fishing that day, other than when I woke, he was there at the dining room table, a small fishing rod bought just for me propped on the wall, waiting for me.

I am sure we must have talked during our walk through the busy city streets, past the flower market that lit up the grey, gothic buildings around it with reds, yellows and purples. Past the university where students sat on the grass, reading, enjoying the spring sunshine, and waved at my father. Soon we reached the river that was held captive by bridges and pavements in the city, and followed it until we reached the outskirts, where buildings were fewer, and human traffic had quietened.

The cathedral’s dome, mottled green, sat behind a stretch of river which Father had deemed perfect for our outing, telling me that we would hear the bells chime the hours and we could listen to a simple, beautiful sound that we perhaps did not listen to very often.

‘What’s a cathedral?’ I asked him as I settled onto the bank, careful not to let my feet get too close to the thick mud that slopped into the water; the thought of being stuck in there forever was on my mind.

‘It’s where people go to pray and to talk to God,’ my father said. He sat a little way behind me on a blanket he had brought from home, and emptied his bag which he had filled with a picnic and a jar of worms for me to hook onto my rod.

‘Like a synagogue?’ I asked.

‘Exactly so.’

‘So why don’t we call the synagogue a cathedral?’ I took a wiggly worm from him and impaled him on the hook as I’d seen my friends do.

‘Very good.’ Father nodded his approval at my handiwork. ‘We don’t call it a cathedral, because we are Jewish and people who go to a cathedral are not Jewish.’

‘But you said they talk to God?’ I was confused and struggling to get the line in the water.

Father stood and took the rod from me, casting it out into the dappled water until it plopped with a satisfying noise into the depths. We sat back then and waited, the rod in my hand, Father pouring two cups of fresh orange juice. Then, he lit his pipe.

‘There are a lot of people who will tell you I am wrong, but all I can tell you is what I believe. I believe that they too are talking to our God, that we Jews and they Christians are not so different after all.’

‘So it doesn’t matter then, where you talk to God?’ I moved the rod into my left hand and gulped down some juice.

‘It doesn’t matter one bit. Why, you can talk to Him here if you like!’

‘Right here?’ I looked out across the river, the line of the city not far away.

‘Right here. He’s everywhere, so whenever you feel like talking to Him, just talk, He’ll hear you. All of this, He created. Look around at all the new life that spring brings – that’s where you can see God most at work.’

I nodded. I liked to think that I could just have a quick talk with God wherever I was, and vowed to do so.

Perhaps the memory came to me today, not because of spring, or even those baby birds, but to remind me that I can still talk to God, that He is still here, even though it does not feel like it at all.

It is hard to believe that God is here when all around me I see my friends, my camp mates, starving to death, dying of diseases that wreck their bodies, see them shot, beaten and then disappear.

The blackbird has returned to the nest and her babies are now giving a quiet chirrup of satisfaction at their meal. Perhaps, if I close my eyes and listen to the birds and pretend I am on the riverbank with my father once more, I can remember how to talk to God, I can remember how to pray, I can remember how to feel hope.

A parcel arrived today that caused much excitement in the house. Her Majesty, Liesl Becher, was awake before dawn as I worked in the garden, raking the last of the dead leaves and heaping them ready for a fire.

She surprised me. I have never seen her awake so early before, but her face was at each window every few minutes, staring out onto the driveway in anticipation. I knew it must be important as I was told to leave clearing the driveway and return to the shed, lest anyone see me – she hated the thought of visitors seeing a prisoner on the grounds of her home. When they hide me away in this dank shed, I am glad of it. I get to sit, to write, to stretch my body out.

I keep a keen ear out for any movement so I can always look as though I am working. Around me are scattered old pots and a few packets of seeds, to seem as though I am planting, if anyone ever bothered to check, but I doubt they will.

I heard the crunch of tyres on the driveway and crouched down to look out of the window. All I could make out was the side of a van, and then two men coming round towards the kitchen door. Neither had anything in their arms to begin with, but then they returned to the van and brought out a package which they carried together carefully.

There was a cry from Liesl inside, annoyed that they had used the kitchen entrance, but then a hush descended, and I realised that Herr Becher must be at home – he is the only one who can silence her.