The Death's Head Chess Club (28 page)

It was the second miracle of the night, as unexpected as the first: real bread, soft and white, aromatic; not the hard, sawdust-filled pig-food that she had become used to. She held it, hardly daring to believe what she possessed. It was like treasure – if only there were somewhere safe she could hide it . . . but she was too hungry for that. Still she hesitated. It was such a simple, everyday thing, yet so utterly out of reach; if she put it in her mouth it would be gone . . . Then she was chewing ravenously, her heart beating quickly and her breathing heavy, as if she were with a lover. The bread was soft, moist and delicious; she wanted it to stay in her
mouth for ever. As long as she had bread in her mouth she would never be hungry again. And the taste . . . she had never tasted anything so good. It tasted of breakfast in her favourite café on the corner of the Rue de Maine, of a rich dark sauce mopped up from a plate, of the sharpness of mustard spread thick on roast beef; it tasted of before the war, of summer evenings when she would promenade with friends along the Tuileries, of the heady scents from the perfumerie on the corner of the Rue Danton, of coffee in Montmartre, of champagne in Le Chat Noir.

It tasted of freedom.

‘More bread?' Meissner asked.

She stared suspiciously as he passed the loaf, stiffening herself like a cat ready to pounce in case he was playing with her, teasing only to snatch it back.

Now it tasted of the south, of a bright spring day strolling along a river path with Emil and Louis and Marcel, the boys yelling with delight as they threw bits of stale bread to the ducks.

The spell was broken. The bread congealed in her mouth to a claggy dough, which she had no saliva to soften. A wave of nausea threatened to overwhelm her, and she had to spit the bread out into her hands, coughing and spluttering. She had come back to the real world, to this car with its booming engine and two SS men headed for God alone knew where.

Dawn found them on the outskirts of Brno. ‘We take the road south,' Meissner said, consulting a map on his knee.

Eidenmüller, at the wheel, disagreed. ‘Don't you think we'd be better sticking to the main roads, sir? Less likely to be stopped.'

‘You think so?' Meissner examined the map again. ‘Possibly, but it would take us too far out of our way.'

‘If we get caught with her, we've had it.'

‘What are you saying? That we should ditch her and run?'

‘No, sir. That's not what I'm saying. What I'm saying is . . .'

Rosa lifted her head. ‘I need to pee,' she said.

They pulled off the road into a copse of trees.

Rosa got out of the car, making for the trees. Meissner followed. ‘I'm sorry,' he said, ‘but I must insist on going with you. I cannot take the risk that you might run away. Please do not try. It would give me no pleasure to shoot you.'

Rosa squatted behind a bush. To pass water is such a basic human act, but this was the first time since her arrest that she had been able to do it in a place that was not surrounded by barbed wire. It gave her a strange feeling of liberty, as if she could simply get up and walk away from this place and never stop until she reached the ends of the earth.

It was almost exhilarating, but it was short-lived.

‘What's she doing in there?' she heard Eidenmüller muttering.

The men relieved themselves, then Meissner took over at the wheel, determined that they would follow the southern route.

From the back seat Rosa looked out on the countryside, mesmerized. The road was lined with trees in full leaf, swaying gently in the morning light; hedgerows brimmed with flowers; and fields were heavy with produce, nearly ready for harvest. She tried to think back to the last time she had been able to look upon such a landscape – was it really only a year ago?

She dozed on the back seat and woke only when they stopped to fill the petrol tank from the jerry cans strapped to the side of the car. ‘Where are we now?' she asked.

They had been passing through hamlets with German place-names
for some time. ‘In Austria, heading for Linz.' Eidenmüller took the wheel again. Towns passed by: Hagenberg, Pregarten, Altenhaus.

Meissner was staring out over the countryside, trying to keep his eyes open, when Eidenmüller gave an almost inaudible groan: ‘Oh, shit.'

Ahead was a patrol of soldiers, one of them waving a hand for them to stop.

‘Get down, right down into the foot well,' Meissner ordered Rosa. Hurriedly, he pulled a blanket over her.

As they drew closer they could see it was a squad of four Feldgendarmerie, led by an Obergefreiter. ‘Relax,' Meissner told Eidenmüller, ‘even you outrank him. Besides, we're SS. He has no jurisdiction over us.'

‘Thank Christ for small miracles,' Eidenmüller muttered, pulling the car to a halt.

Meissner rolled the window down. ‘Yes?' he snapped.

The Obergefreiter jerked to attention and saluted. He was barely out of his teens.

Meissner raised his right hand, palm outwards. ‘
Heil Hitler
. Now what is it? I haven't got all day.'

‘Beg pardon, Herr Hauptsturmführer, we are looking for some deserters. Somebody reported seeing them in this area.'

‘Army deserters?'

‘Yes, Herr Hauptsturmführer.'

‘Then you're wasting your time with us, aren't you?'

The Feldgendarmerie NCO swallowed. ‘Beg pardon, Herr Hauptsturmführer, but I must ask to see your papers.'

The NCO was rewarded with a look of disdain. ‘Eidenmüller, show him your papers.' Meissner made no attempt to retrieve his own. Instead, he reached for a cigarette and popped it between his lips. He gave the
NCO the full force of a glare from his ice-blue eyes. ‘Well? What are you waiting for? Don't you have any matches?'

‘Of course, Herr Hauptsturmführer. At once.' A match flared. Meissner reached out to steady the NCO's hand as he puffed to light the cigarette.

Eidenmüller passed his identity card over. The NCO perused it nervously. For long moments it seemed they were cocooned in a bubble of silence, but the slow ticking of the car's engine penetrated, louder and louder until, to Eidenmüller, it seemed as deafening as a steam-hammer. From the hedges along the road, the cheerful chirping of sparrows seemed unreal and out of place.

Meissner recognized the electricity that fills the air before battle, yet he drew steadily on his cigarette, with an air of irritation at the unnecessary and intolerable delay.

‘Auschwitz?' the NCO eventually said. ‘You're a long way from home. What are you doing here?'

Meissner reacted angrily. ‘That is none of your business and I have had enough of this nonsense.' He flicked the cigarette at the NCO's feet and turned to Eidenmüller. ‘Take this man's name and unit number.'

Eidenmüller was sweating. His head was pounding. He fumbled in his tunic pocket, but the Feldgendarmerie NCO knew when he was beaten. ‘No need for that, Herr Hauptsturmführer.' He handed back Eidenmüller's papers. ‘You're clear to proceed. I'm sorry we detained you.'

Meissner did not even glance at the NCO as he pointed a finger at the road ahead. Eidenmüller put the car into gear, gunning the engine to put as much distance between them as he could.

Meissner placed a hand on his orderly's forearm. ‘Not too fast, Ernst,' he said, ‘or they'll suspect they've been had.'

‘Beggin' your pardon, sir, but you're mad.'

‘Why do you say that?'

‘All you had to do was show them your papers.'

‘No. That was too great a risk. Nobody must know we were here.'

‘But it was OK for them to see
my
papers?'

‘In an hour they'll have forgotten your name, but an SS-Hauptsturmführer? That's something they would remember and would be bound to report.'

‘And they won't report what happened anyway?'

A gleeful smile appeared on Meissner's face. ‘Not likely. They would have to report that they let me go without seeing my papers. They'd probably end up on the Eastern front.'

They had been told to look for a hamlet called Grünau. There, they would be met by an SS officer, a friend of Brossman's from his days in Lublin. They concealed the car in a small wood and waited.

At the appointed hour, they saw a
Kübelwagon
slowly making its way towards them. Meissner stepped out from behind the trees and waved it down. When the car stopped he called out, ‘Otto Brossman sends regards from Lublin.'

The voice that came back was high-pitched and anxious. ‘Brossman? I think I may know him. Where did he do his training?'

‘Bad Tölz.'

‘When was he there?'

‘1940.'

A harsh grinding sound came from the
Kübelwagon
as the driver botched putting it into gear again, then the car crept forward until it was almost touching theirs.

The driver got out: an SS-Obersturmführer wearing thick-lensed
glasses, which he took off and started to polish nervously. ‘Quickly,' he hissed. ‘There's not much time.' He used the glasses to point at what looked like a heap of ragged clothing lying on the back seat. ‘I have to get back before this one is missed.'

Eidenmüller bent to pull out the rags and grunted. They were heavier than he expected. His hands met resistance, cold and clammy. ‘Shit.' He let go instantly and stood upright. ‘What is this?'

‘A body of course – one in, one out. That's the only way it can work.'

Eidenmüller looked aghast at the corpse. ‘Is it a woman?'

‘Of course it's a fucking woman. What did you expect, a monkey?'

‘What happened to her?'

‘Died of a fever.'

‘Christ. Was it anything contagious?'

Meissner brought Rosa Clément over. ‘How will you get her in?'

‘Easy. She'll be passed off as this one.' He jerked his head at the body that Eidenmüller was pulling out of the
Kübelwagon
. ‘Nobody knows she's dead yet. I'll have the new one allocated to a work
Kommando
in a different part of the camp. The prisoner count will tally and nobody will be any the wiser.' The Obersturmführer peered short-sightedly at Rosa. ‘She's about the same size. We'll need to get their clothes switched.'

With a rapid gesture Meissner indicated to Eidenmüller that he should remove the clothes from the cadaver. With obvious distaste he set to his task, rolling it onto its back to unfasten the jacket buttons. The corpse's eyes were open and they stared at him accusingly. ‘Holy Mother of God . . .' He jumped back, almost toppling over in his desire to get away from the body. Instinctively, he crossed himself. ‘Sorry, sir, I can't do this. I really . . .'

Rosa was there, a hand on his arm. She crouched down beside the woman's body. Its limbs were stiff and the skin had a waxy quality, making
it difficult to get the clothes off. Finally it was naked; she looked vulnerable and pitiable, like a lost child. A tear slid from Rosa's eye and fell on the woman's face, a connection between their two existences that crossed the barrier that death had put between them. Under her breath, Rosa said a quick prayer, the first in months: ‘Eternal rest give unto her, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon her . . .'

‘Well?' the Obersturmführer demanded, looking at his watch.

It was Rosa's turn. In her months at Auschwitz she had suffered the humiliation of being forced to undress many times, not least during the frequent
Selektionen
. She had been stripped of her dignity along with her clothes to the unpleasant remarks of leering SS guards who openly ogled the women lined up for their inspection like vegetables on a market stall: ‘Nice tits for a Jew . . . too hairy . . . too bony . . .' She had learned to make her mind go elsewhere so that she was not the one they were staring at, slavering over. But now, being told to undress by these men, this was different. These were her rescuers – had they restored her dignity, or was it only a loan that they could call in whenever they wanted?

‘Come on, you stupid Jewish bitch.' The Obersturmführer was polishing his glasses again. The anger in his voice was palpable – or was it anxiety? ‘Get your fucking clothes off and get hers on so I can be on my way.'

Rosa's hand moved to the top button of her jacket. ‘Turn around,' she said, not knowing where the courage to say these two small words came from.

When Rosa was hidden in the foot well of the
Kübelwagon
, Meissner held out a hand to the other officer. ‘Thank you. I know you're taking quite a risk over this.'

‘I only hope it's worth it.'

‘It will be. After the war you can say you were one of the few SS who saved the life of a Jew.'

‘What now?' Eidenmüller said, once the
Kübelwagon
had departed.

‘Back to Auschwitz, where our friend Brossman will have filed a report that, after freeing the unknown prisoner in the prison block, she was tragically shot trying to escape. And, lucky for us, we'll have a body and the paperwork to prove it. Unfortunately, an administrative error will send the body to the crematorium before Hustek has the chance to see it. Shame, eh?'

‘What'll happen to her?'

‘The Watchmaker's wife? She'll have to make do as best she can, same as all the other prisoners. But at least we've given her a fighting chance.'

1962
Kerk de Krijtberg, Amsterdam

It had taken Meissner some time to get his story told, between frequent bouts of coughing.

Emil sat transfixed, his supper untouched. ‘So that's how she got to Mauthausen,' he said finally.

‘You didn't know?' Willi asked.

‘I never told him,' Meissner said. ‘If Hustek had found out, it would have been the end of her and everyone involved.'

‘I assumed that she had left Auschwitz with everyone else in January '45. Quite a few prisoners ended up in Mauthausen,' Emil said. ‘When I found her in the autumn, she was ill and confused. When she told me that an SS officer had broken into the prison at Auschwitz in the middle of the night and taken her away, I thought she was delirious.'