Page 8 of The Watchmaker of Dachau

‘I tried to look for it, but the other rooms were locked,’ Friedrich said.

‘I have already found it for you. It is in the spare room and I will bring it to you tomorrow.’

‘If you give me the key, I can get it?’ Friedrich ventured, wanting to see the view from the house, the garden and the stream, imagining what it would be like to one day build a treehouse and sit high in the branches, almost touching the sky. ‘That way I won’t upset you or Mother.’

His father sat back in his seat. ‘I said I will bring it to you. I don’t know why you want to play with it anyway – the engine is broken, and besides, you are too old for that now, almost a man!’ His father forced out a bark of a laugh, and slapped his hand on the table as if he had made a wonderful joke. His mother laughed heartily along with her husband and Friedrich excused himself, walking away from his parents, who seemed to relax as soon as he left the table and fell into a conversation which he could not hear as he left the room.

He unpacked his cases, stacking the books on an empty shelf, and tacked a photograph on his wall of himself and Otto, dressed in their white shorts, t-shirts and black plimsoles in front of the running track. They were both smiling at the camera, their arms slung around each other’s shoulders, a slight mark visible on each of their hands where the night before they had pledged to be blood brothers, and used a letter opener to slice away the soft skin of their palms – only a centimetre – before they shook hands.

Would he see Otto again? Surely in a day or so he could broach the subject once more and invite Otto to come for spring. They could perhaps make a secret treehouse that his parents would never find.

He heard soft steps outside his door, and a light knock, and climbed off his bed hoping to see his father with his train set, or maybe his mother, to say goodnight.

Yet on the other side of the door there was no one, save for a small plate of meat, bread and cheese on a silver tray with a glass of milk. As he looked down the hallway, he saw the cornflower blue of Anna’s cap disappear down the stairs, towards his parents and the empty echoing foyer of the house he did not know.

Chapter 3

Anna

Anna walked with her hands stuck under her armpits to fend off the biting air that nibbled at her fingertips, turning them first white and then blue. She followed Schmidt who walked in front, wrapped in a thick coat, his hands encased in leather gloves. He smoked a thin cigar as he walked, humming a tune that Anna did not know and did not care for.

Her feet burned as they crunched through the frozen snow, the holes in the bottom of her thin soles leaking iced water into her already damp socks. The small track was hemmed in by thick pines and for a moment, underneath the light of the full moon and the prick of stars, she imagined that she was simply walking in the woods, her hand safely encased in Piotr’s as he told her which type of owl had just screeched through the air, what it ate, where it slept. If he were here now, he would know how to run and hide in the trees, dig a hole underground to shelter in, and forage for food.

Schmidt suddenly stopped in front of her and raised a hand to halt her. His head jerked from side to side, as if he were trying to hear something in the still air.

‘What is it?’ she whispered.

‘Shhh!’

As they stood, Anna’s legs trembled with cold, fatigue and hunger, her teeth knocking against each other – her whole body seemed to be alive and working independently of her.

‘I said to be quiet!’ Schmidt hissed at her.

She tried to still the chatter of her teeth and held her breath, waiting.

Then, as if all was as he had expected it to be, Schmidt continued to walk, puffing at his cigar once more.

Although the camp was only a mile from the house, Schmidt seemed to take pleasure in making Anna hurry to work, so that she arrived breathless, her face covered in sweat, and when it came time to take her back so she could eat and sleep, his pace became leisurely.

She tried to slow her steps to match his, her face now downturned, looking at her sodden brown shoes – shoes that did not really belong to her. She wondered who had worn them before her – were they young, old? Then she remembered the bodies being carried, dragged and piled upon carts, to be buried in a large pit not far from her bunkhouse, and she felt sick at the thought of whose shoes they had been.

Piotr’s face came to her; his dark green eyes that showed his smile, his happiness when he was with her. She thought of his shoes: the clunky boots he wore, a lace missing, when they walked together in the countryside; the shiny brogues he wore when he took her to dinner or dancing.

She imagined his feet by the side of hers now, matching her stride like a mirror image, as if they were walking down the aisle, their families smiling at them.

‘Guten abend.’ Schmidt’s voice broke into her thoughts and she looked up, the wrought-iron gates in front of her, the gatehouse and guards with guns slung on their shoulders.

Schmidt spoke to the guards, who ignored Anna until finally Schmidt nodded in her direction. She took the ten or so steps forward that brought her through the gate, towards the shadows of the camp.

No one was sleeping when she arrived in her bunkhouse; all were undressing for bed, their thin arms and legs on display as their skin goose-pimpled with the cold. Anna made her way to her bunk, her friend Nina already in her bed above, the blanket pulled up to her chin and eyes closed.

‘You’re back!’ Nina’s voice was as excited as if she hadn’t seen Anna in weeks, when it had simply been a day.

‘I thought you’d be asleep.’ Anna sat on the edge of her bed, removing her shoes then her wet socks.

‘I was waiting for you. How did it go? Was it better today?’

Anna remembered the soup, spilling it, and Liesl’s scolding. ‘Not good.’