Page 53 of The Watchmaker of Dachau

‘It was Herr Becher. He…’ She tried to find the words. ‘I don’t know. He wanted to talk to me, and he put his hand on my leg as I left.’

‘Did he…?’ Nina trailed off.

‘No. Nothing like that. But I’m scared. I don’t want to go back. How can I make it so I don’t have to go back?’

Nina stroked Anna’s head, just as Anna did for her when she was scared, worried about Kuba. ‘It’ll be all right,’ she soothed. ‘You don’t want to work here. It’ll be fine. Just stay out of his way – it’ll be fine.’

Anna allowed Nina to soothe her to sleep, her hand stroking her head, reminding her of her father doing the same when she was small.

Isaac welcomed her the next morning with a broad grin, his hands outstretched, ready to take the coffee from her like a child who is being given a present for the first time.

‘You look worried,’ he said between sips.

‘It’s nothing. I just didn’t sleep so well.’

‘You’re lying,’ he said.

She shook her head, then sat on the bucket and waited for him to drink his coffee. ‘How are the watches coming along?’

‘Don’t try and change the subject – what’s wrong?’

‘Nothing, really. I was just thinking about my family and it upset me, that’s all, I promise you.’

‘Tell me a happy memory of your family,’ Isaac said. ‘Trust me, it will make you feel better, just as the story I told you of Hannah has lightened my heart.’

‘I’m not sure I can think of anything.’ She tried, but couldn’t think past the buzzing in her ears from the sleepless night.

‘Tell me again about playing with your brother. You said you would fly kites when the wind picked up – tell me about that.’

She sat for a minute, then closed her eyes trying to summon up the picture of her running in the wind, laughing as the kites caught a gust and flapped into the sky.

‘I was nine years old when my father died,’ she began. ‘He was rarely at home so when he died, I felt guilty that I did not miss him more. My brother, he missed him, but I think he missed the thought of him – the thought of having a father like his friends had. My brother was younger than me by two years, but we were close as we only really had each other.’

‘What about your mother?’

‘She was never the same after Father died. It was as though we reminded her too much of him, or perhaps the life we used to have. It was easier for her to spend time with friends, or organising events – anything to keep her mind away from us. But I did not mind. When she was home, she loved us, of course she did, but I could see the sadness in her all the time, so I was almost glad when she would tell us to amuse ourselves for the day, or that an aunt was coming to visit.

‘The kites. My brother loved them so we made three or four, all different colours, and would sit by the window each day, waiting for the wind to pick up so we could run in the park, my brother in front with the kite trying to catch a gust, and me behind holding onto the string. There was always something so thrilling, almost dangerous, about flying kites. They were attached by just that thin piece of string and anything could tear them away. If I didn’t give enough, it would not fly properly and crash into a tree where it would tear. If I gave too much, it would fly too high, catch a stronger gust, and the string would burn my hand as the kite tried to make its escape.’

She opened her eyes, seeing Isaac, his elbows on the table in front of him, the mug in his hands, listening as if she were telling him how to magically disappear, and not a simple story of childhood.

‘I can see it,’ he said. ‘I can see you running, trying to control your kite. Your brother with you. It is as though it is my own memory.’

‘You did not have children?’

‘I did,’ he said. ‘A son, Haim – meaning “life”. We had tried for so long that when he came, he was a complete blessing.’

‘Where is he now?’ she asked, not really wanting to know the answer.

Isaac smiled weakly at her, his eyes watery. ‘He died. On his tenth birthday. He was a sickly child… On that day, on his birthday, I had done this for him – come here, look.’ Isaac waved her over to him.

She stood and walked the few steps to where he sat. One by one he pulled the tools from his pouch, then handed her something that looked like a tiny knife.

‘See there, at the end, underneath my own,’ he said.

She brought the tool towards the thin light, but she felt the engraving under her thumb before she saw it – H. S.

Silently, she handed the tool back, then returned to the upturned bucket, not knowing what to say.