The Death's Head Chess Club (20 page)

‘But still hardly fair.'

‘No, I suppose not.'

‘Some people might say you were deluded.'

‘Yes. And they might be right.'

‘How does it work then, this Kabbalah?'

Emil took a moment to gather his thoughts. ‘The night before an important game, I cast the alphabet tiles with the letters facing down and arrange them in a pattern. I pick the one that feels right. The letter that is revealed represents the order of angels I should call on.'

Willi's eyes narrowed. ‘What letter was I?'

‘The fifth letter, He.'

‘And what did that mean to you?'

‘“He” signifies the sword of the Almighty and the strength which flows from the limitless power of God. To me it meant I could be confident of victory.'

‘But how did it influence the way you played?'

‘I sensed it meant I should appear to play cautiously. I already knew of your reputation for aggressive play and thought that if I held back, you would think me timid and press all the harder and not see the trap I set for you. And it worked, did it not?'

Willi grinned, shaking his head. ‘That's too subtle for me.' He drained his glass. ‘Another beer?'

25.

T
HE
C
OLLE
S
YSTEM

June 1944
Konzentrationslager Auschwitz-III, Monowitz

Bodo Brack had a conundrum. Its name was Widmann.

Brack had little liking for the
Blockschreiber
, but he was useful. Widmann knew people, influential people on the outside. He had been convicted of attempted murder, but before that he had made his living as a pimp, and it had been a good living. He had not been one to hang around street corners stumping up business for cheap whores; his girls were high class and catered to a rather exclusive clientele: senior military officers and civil servants. All had gone well until a low-ranking Gestapo type had decided Widmann was doing a little too well, and that he should share his good fortune with others. Thinking he would be able to rely on his clients to protect him, Widmann had shot the Gestapo man and left him for dead. The problem had been that Widmann was not much of a killer and his intended victim survived to testify. Soon after Widmann's arrival in Auschwitz he had started plying his trade again, sucking up to the guards and quickly becoming the leading dealer in
Mahorca
, the adulterated tobacco that he traded for the coupons the SS gave out for the camp brothel.

Brack cared little for Widmann's enterprise, but he knew that the war could not last indefinitely and that to have such contacts outside the camp
could prove invaluable. Widmann had been a
Kapo
in charge of a construction
Kommando
. It was brutal work, not at all to his liking, and so Brack had seduced him simply by asking him to be his
Blockschreiber
. The duties were light and did not involve marching to the Buna factory in the driving rain of a Polish winter: Widmann had accepted without hesitation.

However, Brack was now realizing, it was one thing to keep Widmann close in Auschwitz but another to rely on him when the war was over. He needed to find a way to tie Widmann to him, but so far the answer had eluded him.

His musings were interrupted by the arrival of Eidenmüller. He handed a bottle of Schnapps to Brack, and gestured for the
Blockältester
to follow him outside.

‘Don't you like the sunshine?' Eidenmüller asked.

‘Not really. Anyway, not much of a view, is there?' They laughed. ‘What do you want this time?'

‘It's the Watchmaker.'

‘What's the little bastard done now?'

‘Nothing. My boss wants him to play another game. Against an officer this time.'

‘And the stupid fuck has refused to play again, is that it?'

‘No, he's agreed to play.'

‘Then what?'

Eidenmüller stopped in the shade of a birch tree. ‘It's like this, Brack. I run a bit of a betting syndicate and I lost a packet on the last game.'

‘Because the Yid won?

‘Yeah. Made a bit of a miscalculation. I said to myself, nobody's unbeatable, especially not a runt of a Jew watchmaker. And Frommhagen, the
one he beat, he's not half bad. So what I need to know is this – how good is this Watchmaker really?'

‘It wasn't me who said the Watchmaker was unbeatable,' Brack said. ‘It was a Pole who said he played in some big-shot chess tournament in Munich back in '36. According to him, the Watchmaker would have beaten anybody who played in the tournament. He said he reckoned the Watchmaker had supernatural powers he was so good.'

Eidenmüller hawked and spat. ‘Bullshit.'

Brack shrugged. ‘Maybe. Who knows?'

‘He'll be playing an SS officer next time. Who would you put your money on?'

Brack sniggered. ‘Who do you think?'

Eidenmüller glanced at the sun and grimaced. ‘Thought as much.' He started to walk away.

‘Hang on,' Brack called after him. ‘What's he get if he wins this time?'

‘Same as before – he gets to save somebody's life.'

‘How?'

Eidenmüller stopped and gave Brack a puzzled look. ‘I thought you knew – when there's a
Selektion
, they'll be protected.'

Understanding registered on Brack's face. ‘Right. So – whose life?'

‘Anyone he likes.'

Anyone he likes . . .
Eidenmüller's words set the cogs whirring in Brack's brain. By the time he got back to the block he was beaming.

He had found the answer to his conundrum.

Word of Emil's victory over one of the all-powerful SS has circulated around his block, and some of his fellow prisoners have had the audacity to mention it to the
Kapos
in their work
Kommandos
. Most are rewarded
with a kicking or a sharp blow from a knotted rope, but this has not prevented the whispers from spreading: the Nazis are not unbeatable.

When Emil returned to the block that evening, Brack was waiting for him.

Seeing him, Emil's stomach contracted to a tight knot of anxiety: the fearful beating he had received at the hands of the block elder remained an acutely painful memory. Why would Brack be waiting for him? The only thing he could think of was that Brack had been told to stop the whispers at their source.

To Emil's alarm, Brack put an arm around his shoulder as if they were the best of friends, and led him away from the block so they could not be overheard.

‘You know, Watchmaker, I think you and me got off on the wrong foot. I said to myself, Bodo, you and the Watchmaker ought to be friends, good friends. You'd like that, wouldn't you? Fact is, I've got a bit of a proposition for you.' He patted Emil's shoulder clumsily. ‘We both know this war ain't going to last for ever, don't we? Well, I reckon if you help me and I help you, the both of us will live to survive it.'

Emil eyed the
Blockältester
suspiciously. ‘What do you want?'

‘I want us to help each other, that's all. Look, I've been doing a bit of digging around. I know a lot about you. I know you got a wife in the camp, for example.'

The expression on Emil's face told Brack that he had hit his target.

‘She's dead,' Emil muttered. ‘I'm sure of it.'

‘What if she's not? What if I was in a position to help her? What would you do for me in return?'

Emil searched Brack's face, trying to fathom whether the
Blockältester
was sincere. ‘Anything,' he said, his mouth suddenly dry. ‘I'd do anything.
Is
she still alive?'

‘She is. At least, her name hasn't appeared on any of the death reports.'

‘Where is she?'

‘In Birkenau.'

‘Can you get a message to her?'

Slowly Brack shook his head. ‘It's chaos there. There's a big
Aktion
going on. Thousands of Jews arriving from Hungary every day, and all of them going straight up the chimney.'

‘If it's chaos, how can you help her?'

‘I might be able to get her extra rations.'

‘What do you want me to do?'

‘Simple. Keep playing – and winning – at chess. I know about your deal with that SS officer – I get to choose whose life you are playing for, and I will do what I can for your wife.'

‘You want to choose whose life I play for? What if I say no?'

Brack smiled, an unctuous leer. ‘You wouldn't want to do that, Watchmaker. Think about your poor wife. Besides, that's not the only way I can help you.' He stepped away, expecting Emil to follow, but the Watchmaker did not move. Brack jerked his head in the direction of their block. ‘Come on,' he said.

Brack led Emil to the line for the evening soup ration. He took Emil straight to the front and said to the inmate who was doling out the soup: ‘In case you didn't know, this is the Watchmaker and he's a friend of mine. In future he's to get his soup ration from the bottom of the pot, not the top, got that?' He gestured for Emil to hold out his bowl. The ladle dipped to the bottom and came up heavy with chunks of potato and turnip. ‘Give him two,' Brack ordered. He winked at Emil. ‘So, Watchmaker. Do we have an understanding?'

Like a drowning man, Emil's hunger rose instantly to the surface, gasping for air.

He gave a little bob of his head.

Later, Widmann asked Brack what he was up to. ‘Insurance,' came the reply. ‘I've got a proposition for you. Some of the Yids in here are bound to have rich relatives in England or America, only they can't get word out to them. But
we
can.' He stepped closer to Widmann and lowered his voice, explaining the deal he had just struck. ‘Every time the Watchmaker wins a game, I've fixed it so that I get to choose which life he saves. So, we're going to have an auction – the Yids can bid against each other for their lives. We get word to their relatives in return for a large deposit into a Swiss bank account.'

Widmann grinned. ‘I like the sound of it. What exactly are you proposing?'

Brack passed a bottle of Schnapps over. ‘A 70–30 split. I've got the Watchmaker, you've got the contacts. All you have to do is get word out to the relatives. What do you say – deal?'

Schnapps or no Schnapps, Widmann was not to be bought so cheaply. He took a large mouthful of liquor and gasped appreciatively as it went down. ‘70–30 doesn't sound like such a good deal to me. 60–40 sounds better.'

Brack laughed and spat on the palm of his hand, extending it to Widmann. ‘It's a deal. If we play this right, there'll be plenty for both of us. By the time we get out of here, we'll have made ourselves some serious money. But' – he pulled Widmann close, his strong, heavy hand closing around the
Blockschreiber'
s, squeezing it until the other man winced. ‘Don't ever think of double-crossing me,' he growled. ‘If you do, you'll
wake up one day trussed like a goose ready for the oven – 'cause that's where you'll be going.'

Widmann pulled his hand away, rubbing it gingerly, eyeing Brack with alarm. ‘Don't worry, Bodo. You can trust me.'

‘Trust you? I don't think so. But as long as you remember which side your bread's buttered, we'll get along fine.'

1962
Kerk de Krijtberg, Amsterdam

After supper, the bishop insisted on coming down to the sitting room. The housekeeper fussed and muttered but Meissner would not be denied.

‘The doctor—' she objected.

‘—has been wrong before, Mrs Brinckvoort, and will no doubt be wrong again. It makes me feel much better if I am able to sit and have a civilized conversation with my friends.' He pointed at the antique cabinet that stood against the wall. ‘If you look in there, you will find what's left of the bottle of Kümmel. I should be very grateful if you would pour me a large one.'

‘But the doctor—'

‘To hell with the doctor. If you won't get it . . .' He looked pointedly at Willi.

Schweninger stood. ‘It will be my pleasure.'

Not used to being on the receiving end of harsh words from the bishop, the housekeeper stalked out of the room.

‘A toast,' Meissner said, raising his glass, an ironic smile playing on his lips: ‘To life.'

*

The next morning, Emil and Willi set off for the Krasnapolsky and the next game of the tournament.

‘Did you cast your tiles last night?' Willi asked. When Emil nodded he asked, ‘What was the result?'

Emil shook his head. ‘The tiles do not always give a clear answer. Last night was one of those occasions. I could not understand what they were trying to tell me. Today I will have nobody to rely on but myself.'

‘How does that make you feel?'

‘It usually makes me feel quite alone, but perhaps today not quite so much.'

‘You will win,' Willi stated confidently. ‘I have a feeling about it.'

This time Emil's opponent drew white. He started innocuously enough, advancing his king's pawn one square and his queen's pawn two squares before bringing out his king's knight.

Schweninger had found a chair from where he could see the game. Half an hour later, Lijsbeth Pietersen sat beside him. ‘What's happening?' she whispered.

‘It's very different from the last game,' he told her. ‘The Hungarian is playing defensively, right from his first move. It's as if he knows he can't win but wants to avoid being humiliated. In my opinion, Herr Clément is certain to win.'

‘Mijnheer Schweninger, do you mind if I ask you a personal question?'

‘It depends on what the question is.'

‘Last week, you and Mijnheer Clément were at each other's throats. Now you seem always to be together. What has brought about this transformation?'

Schweninger leaned back in his chair, smiling. ‘Chess. That is what has brought us together.'

Miss Pietersen pursed her lips primly. ‘Mijnheer Schweninger, if you didn't want to tell me, all you had to do was say so. Please don't mock me.'

‘I'm not mocking you, I promise. I don't understand it myself but, for the first time in my life, I have been given a glimpse of the real power of this game.'

‘By Mijnheer Clément?'

‘Yes. By Mijnheer Clément.'

Although the game dragged on for over two hours, its end was never in doubt. Afterwards, Emil and Willi walked without speaking along the Singel Canal. When they reached the Krijtberg, Willi walked straight up the steps but Emil loitered on the street.

‘If you don't mind,' Emil said, ‘I need to spend a little time alone.'

‘Of course. Are you going to the Leidseplein?'

‘Yes, I think so.'

‘I should have known.'

Back at the Krijtberg, Meissner was in the sitting room, a shawl wrapped around his shoulders. He seemed to have aged years in a matter of days, though his eyes were bright and alert. ‘How did it go today?' he asked, as soon as Willi entered the room.

‘Emil won.'

‘Naturally.' Meissner twisted stiffly in his chair and peered down the corridor, like a naughty schoolboy keeping a look out for the teacher. ‘Willi, could I trouble you for a cigarette? Mrs Brinckvoort has hidden mine.'