The Watchmaker of Dachau: An absolutely heartbreaking World War 2 historical novel

by Carly Schabowski

  Eventually they stopped, and he lay still. Someone was asked to take his body to the morgue. No one checked if he was dead – I just hoped that he was, as the pyres have been burning for days now and the thought that he might be awake, his body enveloped in flames, is too much to bear.

  Word has spread amongst us that the war may soon be over. The Americans are coming, so they say, getting closer each day. Indeed, the planes that have been flying overhead have increased, the drone of their engines a constant hum in the air, and sometimes we hear as bombs drop and crash into the ground.

  Will they come?

  Why are the pyres burning so much? Why are the guards more sadistic than usual? Why are they agitated when the planes fly overhead, each of them looking upwards, their eyes showing the fear that we have all felt for so long? Can it be true?

  My days are as long as the sun deigns to shine now. I am to dig a new flower bed for Liesl, to uproot young trees that she does not like. I am to chop firewood for their fires in the winter, I am to work until I cannot move. And yet I cannot complain, for it would be worse to be digging and building on the camp, or on the roads; it would be worse to be stuck in the cramped hot factory making munitions; it would be worse.

  My dearest,

  Another letter to you. I dreamt of you last night, a frantic dream that seemed so real, so that when I woke, I was not sure where I was.

  We were visiting my family, and I was nervous. I stood at the front door, your hand in mine, and you kissed me and told me it was going to be all right.

  My father opened the door, and looked at us, and smiled.

  That smile was all I needed from him – that smile said that he approved and that our lives would now be blessed. But then you disappeared, and I looked to my hand and yours was gone. Instead I stood alone in the street and the front door was now closed, my father hiding inside.

  What do you think that means? Do you think dreams mean anything at all?

  You told me once that dreams were where we could be free, where our lives could intertwine. I felt bereft after this dream, though, as if we were lost to each other forever. I wish I could dream of happier things, of life away from here. Yet I feel as though my mind is slowly catching up with reality and that my night-time escape is no longer that – there is no escape.

  This sounds like madness, I know; I am slowly going mad. The heat, the hunger, the nightmare we are living in… at times I find myself closing my eyes during the day and willing myself to wake up.

  I wish I could write the letters to you that I want to – the letters full of happiness, of memories of us – yet today there are none. There is only my madness to keep me company and such words to fill a page.

  Chapter 16

  Friedrich

  The arguments between his parents continued. After the phone had been thrown, things had settled for a day or two, until one day his father came home from work and would not speak to anyone at dinner, taking his meal into his study and locking the door. When Friedrich had gone to bed, he had heard the tired screams from his mother, his father’s voice low and dangerous.

  It was towards the end of February when his father spoke to him for the first time in weeks.

  ‘It is almost spring,’ his father said, turning to him with surprise in his eyes, as if he had just noticed the warmer air, the buds swelling on tree branches.

  The slice of toast was halfway to Friedrich’s mouth and he froze, unsure whether to continue his breakfast on the rest of its journey or answer his father.

  ‘Speak!’ His mother’s voice was unusually high. ‘Speak! Are you deaf and dumb?’

  Friedrich placed his toast back on the china plate, which had twirls and swirls of roses on the rim.

  ‘It is,’ he stuttered.

  ‘You like the sun, don’t you, Fried?’ His father’s eyes were large as he looked at him, and it scared him. When he called him Fried, his nickname, it made him anxious.

  ‘Remember when we went away to the coast? You played in the sand. Do you remember that?’

  Friedrich shook his head.

  ‘No, no, maybe not. You were young. But you loved it. Being outdoors all day, swimming.’

  ‘Peter!’ his mother shouted. ‘Stop it.’

  ‘Stop what? Friedrich likes the sun, don’t you, the heat?’

  ‘I suppose,’ he said. He looked down at his toast, which had grown cold.

  ‘Let the boy speak!’ His father turned on his mother. ‘This constant barrage from you is exhausting! Don’t you know what I have to do each day? Don’t you know what is facing us?’

  His mother began to cry, proper tears this time, which made her shoulders heave up and down.

  Friedrich waited for his father to calm her, but he did not. Instead his teeth tore into his toast, ripping it then chewing silently, a little muscle in his cheek moving up and down with each bite.

  ‘May I be excused?’ Friedrich asked.

  No one answered. No one looked at him, so he scraped his chair back, waiting for someone to shout at him for doing so, and when neither did, he walked from the room to his bedroom.

  He sat on the edge of his bed and tried to understand what had happened, why his father had asked about the heat, or why it had made his mother cry.

  His hands were cold. He tucked them under his armpits then thought of the gloves he had given Isaac. Isaac – was he still there? He must be. Anna was back, and the gardener.

  He had tried to sneak out many times, but had always been caught by Schmidt, whose presence was forever felt in the house; either he sat in the living room, entertaining his mother whilst his father was at work – and not in the study as he should be – or he was prowling the hallways, looking for something amiss, something to scold Greta or Friedrich about.

  He hated Schmidt. He hated the way he stank of tobacco from the cigarettes he rolled himself, and how he dropped ash all over the house and the furniture as if it were his own home. He hated the way he made his mother laugh, or would dine with her when his father was busy or away.

  Schmidt had found it easy to lock him inside – literally by locking the kitchen and front doors – but Friedrich decided that today would be the day he outwitted the lazy fat Schmidt. He would go and talk to Isaac and maybe Anna, and they would make him feel a little better.

  With his decision made, he waited for the slam of the front door signalling his father’s departure for work, and then the slow footsteps of his mother to her bedroom.

  He heard her door shut, and Friedrich climbed off his bed and went into his parents’ bathroom where a cabinet was hung on the wall by the mirror – he knew what was inside.

  He had to jump up to retrieve the bottle he was looking for, the tiny white pills rattling inside the brown glass. He shook out two, then three, then thought of Schmidt’s rotund body – maybe he needed four? He thought for a minute. His mother would take one and sleep all day, and if she had fought with his father, perhaps two, and then come to dinner in the evening, groggy and strange.

  Two. That would be enough. He tipped the other two back into the bottle, then made his way downstairs to the kitchen.

  ‘May I have some hot chocolate?’ he asked Anna who stood washing dishes, her eyes looking out of the window. She jumped as he spoke, then turned to him.

  ‘Can I? Please?’ he asked, giving her the sweetest smile he could muster.

  ‘Greta should make it for you.’ Anna looked to the kitchen door, as if someone else would walk through.

  ‘Where is she?’ Friedrich asked.

  ‘She’s gone to the market for your mother.’

  ‘Well then, you’ll have to do it. Please?’

  ‘I’m not supposed to,’ she whispered to him, and he saw that her eyes were filling with tears.

  ‘Don’t be upset.’ He walked towards her then, just as he would have done if his mother let him. He wrapped his arms around her waist and gave her a quick hug. ‘Why are you upset? Don’t you know how to make it? I do – I can show you
if you like?’

  He pulled away and saw that she was smiling at him now. ‘I know how to make it. Wait in the living room and I will bring it to you.’

  ‘It’s all right.’ He sat at the kitchen table. ‘I’ll wait here.’

  He watched as she poured the cold milk into a pan and set it on the heat, then slowly spooned in the chocolate powder and gently stirred.

  ‘I haven’t seen you for ages,’ Friedrich said. ‘Where did you go?’

  Anna looked hesitant. ‘There were some sick people, and your mother thought it best I didn’t come back to the house in case I made you unwell.’

  ‘I heard Father say that people were dying. Is it in the same town that Isaac lives in?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Is Isaac all right?’

  ‘He is.’

  ‘I knew you were here. I could hear your footsteps, they’re not like Mother’s – they’re really light, like a tiny mouse or a ghost. But when I’d try and find you, you always disappeared!’

  ‘Perhaps I am a ghost.’ She poured the chocolate milk into a green mug, then handed it to him.

  ‘I haven’t been able to look outside for Isaac though, so I’m glad to know he is back too.’

  ‘Do you want me to blow on it for you?’ She nodded at the mug, which he hadn’t touched yet.

  He wanted to sit longer in the warm kitchen with the smell of fresh vegetable soup on the stove, the rich yeasty scent of bread baking in the oven, but he knew his job awaited him.

  ‘It’s all right, I’ll blow on it. I’ll take it into the living room. Have you seen Schmidt yet this morning?’

  ‘Herr Schmidt was carrying two boxes of papers into your father’s study the last I saw of him. I expect that is where he is. Do you want me to call him for you?’

  ‘No! I’ll find him if I need him.’ Friedrich smiled at her. ‘Thank you, Anna.’

  In the hallway, Friedrich held the mug carefully in one hand whilst he knocked on the study door with the other.

  ‘Who is it?’ Schmidt’s voice rang out, making Friedrich angry – it was his house, his father’s study; how dare he ask?

  He swallowed his anger and instead replied, ‘Friedrich. I’ve brought you a hot chocolate.’

  The door clicked open and Schmidt’s face appeared, redder than usual, sweat on his brow, his piggy eyes staring at the mug.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Friedrich could see the flames in the fireplace leaping behind Schmidt, the smell of burning paper in the air.

  ‘None of your business. Give it to me then.’ Schmidt’s hand was already out, reaching for the drink. Friedrich stifled a grin; he knew Schmidt wouldn’t be able to resist. ‘I should be asking you what you are doing,’ Schmidt said as he finished swallowing his first gulp, a line of chocolate milk on his top lip that he did not rub away.

  ‘Nothing. Playing with my train set.’

  ‘Good. Good boy.’ Schmidt patted him on the head. ‘Stay in your room. Your mother is unwell, and I have a lot of work to do, so keep quiet.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Friedrich walked away, hearing the click of the latch as the study door closed and the lock was turned.

  He waited in the living room for an hour, to make sure that the tablets he had placed in Schmidt’s drink had taken effect.

  He was rarely allowed in the living room; it was his parents’ domain after dinner, or perhaps in the afternoon, to sit and listen to the gramophone or read a book.

  The gramophone was of interest to Friedrich. He loved the way the speaker fluted out like a strange bronze shell. He looked inside it, then said, ‘Hello!’, listening as his voice echoed in the cylinder. He wished he could add a record to the turning table, and place the needle on the grooves as he had seen his parents do, waiting as it scratched and buzzed to find the notes. But he knew what would happen if he woke his mother, so he backed away from it, resisting the temptation.

  As soon as the grandfather clock in the hallway chimed that an hour had duly passed, Friedrich raced to the study and knocked loudly. There was no answer. He tried again, then again and waited. Then, sure that Schmidt was now fast asleep, he tiptoed to the kitchen, listening at the door for anyone inside. It was quiet.

  Quickly he ran through the kitchen to the back door and opened it, running out towards the shed, feeling the cool air on his skin.

  ‘Hello!’ Friedrich flung open the shed door. Isaac, taken by surprise, dropped something on the floor, then scrabbled around trying to pick it up.

  ‘Sorry.’ Friedrich moved towards him to help, but Isaac waved him away, and folded some papers that had fallen on the floor and placed them in his pocket.

  ‘I haven’t seen you for some time,’ Isaac said.

  ‘I know. They made me stay in the house, even locked the doors!’

  ‘But they opened them for you today.’

  Friedrich shuffled one foot to the other. ‘Sort of.’

  The old man raised his eyebrows at him. ‘Are you supposed to be outside?’

  ‘Well, in a way no one knows, so I am.’ Isaac laughed, taking Friedrich by surprise now. ‘Is it funny?’

  ‘It is, it is! I’m not sure why. Perhaps because you are being young, perhaps because you are making your own rules.’

  ‘Can I sit for a while, whilst you work? I promise I will be quiet; I just don’t want to be on my own anymore.’

  ‘You can,’ Isaac said, and pointed at the upturned bucket.

  Friedrich went over to it and sat down. ‘It’s spring, Father said.’

  ‘Almost.’

  He watched Isaac prise the back off a watch and peer inside.

  ‘I like spring. I like it when the sun goes to bed later, and the birds wake up earlier. If I had my way, I’d build a treehouse ready for summer when Otto comes to visit.’

  ‘So your friend is coming to visit?’

  Friedrich shook his head. ‘Maybe. If Father says it’s all right, but he’s not around much lately and Mother is hysterical all the time. I don’t understand it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Isaac stopped what he was doing and peered at him.

  ‘I don’t know. It’s all a bit strange. There are phone calls late at night, and Father was asking me if I like hot weather and Mother got upset about it. And they are always fighting. She wants to go and see her friends, but he says she is not allowed to and that makes her angry. It’s like – I don’t know – like we are locked up in a prison.’

  ‘A prison, eh? But you get fed nice food, have a bed, can play with your toys?’ Isaac raised his eyebrows at him, willing him to find the correct answer as his teachers did.

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘So not like a prison then. In a prison, you have to work, you cannot play with toys, and you get little food or warmth.’

  ‘Have you been in a prison?’ Friedrich asked. ‘Are you really a jewel thief?’

  Isaac grinned at him. ‘No. I am not a jewel thief, although I wish I were. But I have been in prison.’

  ‘What did you do? Are you a murderer?’

  Isaac shook his head. ‘There’s no need to be afraid. I didn’t do anything.’

  Friedrich was confused yet again. His whole day was confusing. Why would Isaac have to go to prison if he had done nothing wrong?

  Then Friedrich looked at Isaac’s striped clothing, his hollowed cheeks, his skin so thin you could see the blue veins beneath.

  ‘The town isn’t a town, is it?’ Friedrich asked finally.

  Isaac shook his head.

  ‘Did Father put you there, in the prison?’

  Isaac nodded. ‘It is bigger than that. It’s the war. It’s everyone. Not just your father.’

  Friedrich felt stupid. Like a silly little boy who played with trains and believed stories that fell from his parents’ lips. A town where they were happy. A place where they could stay to keep him and his parents safe. He wasn’t supposed to like the Jews, he knew. He wasn’t supposed to like foreign people, or black people, or gypsies. He had sworn his alle
giance to his Führer every morning at school, he had read about what all the Jews and foreign people were doing to his country, and yet he did not feel hate for them, and why would he – he rarely met any of them.

  Now here was a Jew, and he was nice to him, even though he shouldn’t be. He did not know what he was supposed to think.

  ‘Do you want to help me with the watch?’ Isaac’s voice was soft and broke through his complicated musings.

  Friedrich stood. ‘I do,’ he said, and he pulled the bucket close to the desk and listened as Isaac told him about the magic of time.

  Chapter 17

  Anna

  It was late. The clock in the hallway struck eleven as Anna sat in the kitchen, checking on the plate of food still sitting in the oven, waiting for its master.

  Greta had gone home early, the raspy cough she had been trying to conceal finally drawing phlegm and bending her double with painful hacks.

  Anna was to stay until Herr Becher returned home, give him his dinner, and then a guard would return her to the camp. If they did not, she was to sleep on the cold tiles of the kitchen floor.

  She finally heard the rumble of the car on the driveway and stood, then sat back down again – should she go to the door to greet him? Should she wait?

  His footsteps echoed on the lacquered wood as he walked down the hallway, his boots making a heavy thump with each step. She heard him shout out for Schmidt, and then she heard the slam of his study door. Schmidt was still here? She hadn’t seen him all day. Liesl had not left her room and the boy had played quietly by himself, only appearing for dinner which he took to his room.