Page 7 of The Watchmaker of Dachau

‘A tutor? Will I not be going back to school?’ Friedrich stirred his soup with his spoon and thought of Otto.

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

As soon as he had asked the question, Friedrich wished he could take it back. His mother sucked in her breath and his father placed his spoon by his bowl. ‘I said no. That is enough for you.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Friedrich said, feeling as if he were small again and asking questions – why is the sky blue, why can’t I have cake? Questions were not permitted – not then and not now.

‘You’ll keep to your room, read, learn. Keep out of your mother’s way too – she has things to do.’

The dining room door edged open and a short man entered, his stomach drooping over his black belt, his thick thighs straining against his grey trousers. Friedrich watched him walk towards his father, not asking permission to be in the room, his tiny wisp of a moustache, so much like the Führer’s, twitching on his lip as he finally found the words to speak.

‘I have them here,’ he managed to say to Friedrich’s father, white globs of spittle immediately forming in the corner of his mouth, making Friedrich wipe his own with his napkin.

‘Schmidt, good work.’ His father took the papers that this Schmidt handed him.

‘He’s here,’ Schmidt observed, nodding in Friedrich’s direction but speaking now to his mother.

‘Arrived today,’ she answered, her voice edged with tiredness.

Schmidt made a noise that reminded Friedrich of his mathematics teacher when one of the students got an answer wrong.

His father looked up. ‘Friedrich, this is my assistant, Herr Schmidt. He will sometimes be in the house when I am not home and will work in my study. You will not get in his way, you understand?’

Friedrich nodded.

‘When I am not here, and when your mother is busy, he is in charge and whatever you do, he will tell me about it.’

Friedrich looked to the fat Schmidt who was now smiling with thin lips, the spittle still edging the corners of his mouth.

‘Yes, sir,’ Friedrich answered.

‘Good. Very good. He’ll be here tomorrow?’ his father asked.

‘I’ll collect him myself,’ Schmidt answered, then turned from the family, walking quickly towards the door, his heavy footfall echoing on the wooden floor as he strode purposefully away.

Friedrich shuddered at the thought of being in the house alone with Schmidt. The way his dark piggy eyes had looked at him with no emotion, and the way that man spoke to his parents, gave Friedrich the feeling of having a teacher about the house who was not afraid to use the cane.

Friedrich ate his soup slowly, trying not to think of the spittle that had decorated Schmidt’s lips, the silence in the room only interrupted by his mother beginning to chatter about Eva Braun, the fashion, her hair.

‘Is there a garden?’ Friedrich asked, when there was a pause.

‘There is,’ his father said. ‘At the rear. It stretches out towards a small stream and a few trees. You can play up to the trees but not beyond. Is that understood?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good.’

‘Can I build a treehouse? That way, maybe if Otto can visit…’ He trailed off, seeing the look on his father’s face.

‘Otto won’t be visiting,’ his mother said. ‘No treehouses.’

Friedrich wanted to ask why not, but knew better. Instead he asked, ‘Did you bring my train set with you?’

‘Oh, Friedrich!’ His mother played with the pearls at her neck. ‘You’ve been here less than a day, and the number of questions coming out of your mouth is exhausting!’

‘Now, now, Liesl.’ His father stood and kissed the top of her head. ‘You know your mother gets tired, Friedrich. You must let her be.’