Page 80 of The Watchmaker of Dachau

‘When do they leave?’ Anna asked.

‘Who knows? Not that they’d tell me anyway.’

Suddenly there was a hum in the air, and the plates stacked on the sideboard began to rattle as the plane descended lower. Instinctively, Anna crouched down low, as if the plane would land right on top of them.

‘Getting nearer,’ Greta said, her eyes scouring the garden outside, waiting to see the Americans arrive.

‘There were bombs all last night.’ Anna stood. ‘They are close.’

‘You look worried?’ Greta said.

‘I heard they are evacuating the camp tomorrow. Making us march elsewhere before they arrive.’

Greta shook her head. ‘They’ll be here before they have a chance to march you anywhere. Mark my words – they’ll be here to save you.’

Anna finished with the silverware and wrapped the plates, placing them carefully in boxes. A part of her hoped the plates would smash en route and that Liesl would open the crate to see her fancy china cracked and worthless. Smiling at the thought, she missed wrapping one, then two plates, giving them a chance to break.

‘What are you smiling at?’ Greta asked.

‘Nothing.’

‘Look out there, and here we are stuck inside.’ Greta pointed at the garden where the grass had grown long, dandelions bobbing their yellow heads, daffodils and tulips colouring the borders.

‘Come on, come with me, we deserve a break.’ Greta pulled on Anna’s arm and led her to the kitchen, where she instructed her to sit on the doorstep.

She came out with two cups of coffee, and squeezed in next to Anna.

‘What about Liesl?’ Anna asked.

‘Her? Leave her to wail and scream. I’ve had it with that woman. Here, I’ll lock the kitchen door, stop her from finding us, all right?’

Anna liked the feeling of annoying Liesl. She relished the moment of disobedience, feeling like the old Anna, the Anna before who would cheekily stay out later than she should, or play music when she should be studying.

‘I like it better like this,’ Greta said, as she sat back down once more. ‘The dandelions growing, the grass taking over as nature meant it to. You know, when they first arrived, they had that poor gardener mow the lawn nearly every other day, in stripes. Up and down he went, up and down, and then he’d have to bend over and pull out each dandelion, treating the grass so they would not return.’

‘Levi certainly worked hard,’ Anna said.

‘No, no, not him. The one before. He was a young lad, very quiet and polite. Half-Polish he was, so that when he spoke German, there was always a word he said with a different inflection – it was nice, sort of like hearing it anew. I always thought he would have made a nice singer; he had that kind of look about him.’

Anna took a moment or two before she realised who Greta was talking about – J. A. L. and the diaries and letters. ‘Where is he now, where did he go?’

Greta looked at the top of her coffee cup. ‘You know, they say that if you look at your coffee and the bubbles are in the centre of the drink, it will be a nice day. If the bubbles are at the side, it will rain. Strange, isn’t it?’

‘What are you talking about?’ Anna looked at Greta who still stared into her mug.

‘It was like that on the day the poor boy did not come back. I’d looked at my coffee that morning, and it told me the weather would be clear. It was clear – at least for that time of year, when it was getting cold and the branches were becoming bare. I remember being happy that day, thinking to myself that at least we’d have no rain. We’d had rain for weeks, you see, and that poor boy was almost covered head to toe in mud all the time.

‘I was peeling vegetables for dinner, right there at the sink, as I do most days, when there was a crash through the side gate and three SS guards came marching in. They went straight to the shed and I heard the boy cry out, then a bang and then another.

‘I ran to the door and screamed at them to stop, but they wouldn’t listen to me – I mean, why would they?

‘They dragged him out of the shed by his feet, and I saw that his face was bloody from the blows they had dealt him. It was a sport for them, I think. They seemed to delight in what they were going to mete out to him. Each one kicked at him, in the ribs, the legs, even his head. His whimpers were drowned out by the noise of their boots hitting the bone. I turned away and hid my face after a moment; I couldn’t watch them kill him. Perhaps it was a minute later, perhaps two, when they stopped. I looked up and saw that each one was pissing on him. Actually urinating on his body, which was battered and bleeding. It was then that I noticed Frau Becher at the window, watching the whole thing, a blank expression on her face, and there at the side gate was Herr Becher, smoking a cigarette and leaning against the gate as if he were simply on a break from a busy day at work.

‘Two of the men picked up his body by the arms and the feet, and took him towards a waiting truck. I shouted at the remaining guard, who had a prominent scar above his eye. “May you burn in hell for this!” I was crying, my hands shaking, stupidly hoping that Frau Becher had not heard my outburst.

‘The guard just lit a cigarette, and blew the smoke into my face. “It’s him who’s disgusting,” he said. “All this time and you had a homosexual working here – right here where Herr Becher lives. You can bet he’ll burn in hell when we’re finished with him.”

‘“He’s not dead?” I asked, wanting to run to the truck and help him.