Page 85 of The Watchmaker of Dachau

I made a similar sandwich and popped a black olive in my mouth, just as Ismail and Mordecai did. Then, like a mirror image, I sipped at my coffee. Although basic, the flavours were so exotic to me. I was used to porridge for breakfast.

‘Your father told me that you were having some trouble at school,’ Mordecai began. I felt my face flame as it had when he had asked the previous evening about friends.

‘I know you probably don’t want to talk about it, but you see, I think you will find we would understand.’

Ismail nodded along with Mordecai, his face serious. How much had Father told Mordecai, and how much had he in turn told this stranger?

‘How about I tell you my story first, and then perhaps you will feel more comfortable telling me yours?’ Mordecai asked.

I sipped at the bitter coffee and nodded. Ismail passed me a sugar cube and I dropped it into the drink, wondering whether he could read my mind.

‘I was twenty-two, I think, when I fell in love,’ Mordecai began. ‘I was travelling for work with a professor at the university – I was his assistant, you see. His speciality was the history of the Ottoman Empire, which of course led us to Constantinople, to review some ancient manuscripts that were held in a library.

‘I worked hard and barely left the library – only to eat, drink and sleep in the tiny hot hotel that was a few doors away. However, that time was all I needed to find love – those brief moments of sitting at a cafe, listening to the call to prayer, watching the world float by. In the evenings I would sit with my love, and we would drink alcohol spiced with aniseed, then drink water to calm the burning in our mouths.’

It was then that I realised I had heard this tale before, the previous night in fact. ‘But you said that you sat with Ismail at the cafe?’

‘I did,’ Mordecai said simply.

It took me a few more sips of the coffee until I reached the sediment at the bottom before I realised what Mordecai was trying to subtly tell me – his love was Ismail.

I looked at them both and saw it instantly: the way they mirrored each other, the ease with which Ismail passed him a napkin or salt, neither of them having to ask – it had been learned from years of being together. How had I not seen this before?

‘Now it is your turn,’ Mordecai told me.

I twisted a paper napkin around my fingers, watching as it stopped the blood flow, making my skin go pale. Then I released it, feeling the sensation of my pulse pushing blood back once more.

‘He was my best friend,’ I said, not looking at either of them. ‘We played when we were younger, and then as we grew, we studied together and laughed together. The other boys were always talking about girls and it was nice that I didn’t have to do that with him – he seemed indifferent to them, as I was.

‘One evening we were studying together in my room. I don’t know how it happened, but I found my lips kissing his cheek. He didn’t immediately pull away, so I tried to kiss him on his lips. It was then that he pushed me hard in the chest and stood up, his face red, his fists balled at his sides.

‘He didn’t speak, and neither did I. I didn’t know what to say. I watched him gather his things and leave, and it was then that I cried.’

‘But you told your father?’ Ismail asked.

I nodded. ‘The next day, at school, people looked at me strangely and my friend – my best friend – became my enemy. He punched me in the face on the way home from school to the shouts and screams of the others. Father found me curled up on my bed, crying into a pillow.

‘I told him that I had been hit. He asked me why. I didn’t want to tell him, to say it out loud, and he didn’t push me to. All he did was hug me and tell me he loved me and was proud of me, and we never spoke of it again.’

‘Until now,’ Mordecai said.

‘Until now.’

‘Your father wrote me a while back and asked for my advice. I told him to bring you with him when he visited next and that perhaps I could help. You do see, don’t you, that your father is not ashamed of you – he simply was not sure how to talk to you about it. His kindness and love for you meant that he could bring you here, to his friend for the best part of his life, so that we could let you know it is going to be all right – that you are perfect as you are.’

I bit my bottom lip to stop myself from crying. I realised at that moment how much my father and my mother loved me. How they had probably talked about it and decided to show me that they understood, knowing that my teenage anger and confusion would not allow a full conversation with them – would not allow me to be completely honest with them.

When Father returned that evening, flustered from the heat, I hugged him, and he patted me on the back and whispered, ‘I love you.’

‘What about God?’ I asked, pulling away.

‘He loves you too,’ he said. ‘God is love. Don’t forget Him, as He hasn’t forgotten you.’

That was our conversation about God – those simple few sentences, yet I wanted to write them, to remember them here, now, when I feel scared. God loves me, just as my father did, and I wanted to tell you that I love you – I wanted to end my story with love.

Chapter 31

Isaac