The Death's Head Chess Club (29 page)

‘I have always wondered,' Meissner said, ‘whether she survived. I'm glad she did, God be praised.'

Emil could not hold back the wave of bitterness that broke over him. ‘Why would you praise your god for such a thing?' he spat. ‘I cursed his name for what he did to her.'

‘But I thought you and she were—?'

Emil stood, shaking his head, not bothering to wipe away the tears that had started down his cheeks. ‘Oh, yes, we were reunited. For six days. Then she was taken from me a second time.'

Willi reached out to grasp Emil's wrist but Emil pulled his hand away.

‘I'm so sorry,' Willi said. ‘Truly. How—?'

Emil slumped back into his chair, the anger leaving him as quickly as it had come. ‘Scarlet fever. She was too weak, you see, and by then she had lost the will to go on.'

‘Dear God, dear God,' Meissner whispered, beating his chest. ‘
Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa
.'

33.

K
ING
'
S
I
NDIAN
A
TTACK

1962
Kerk de Krijtberg, Amsterdam

The next morning Emil woke early. He wasn't sure what time it was but daylight was filtering around the edges of the curtains. He had not slept well. His night had been spent wrestling with memories. He had wanted to recall the good times he'd had with Rosa, but his mind had refused to cooperate. Instead, it had taken him to the miraculous day he had found her name on a Red Cross list, then to all the bureaucrats in their petty fiefdoms whom he had had to fight in order to get to her; then how he had found her, in bed number 117 in the makeshift hospital in Sankt Georgen an der Gusen: such a pretty name to disguise the enormity of what had happened there.
¹
He remembered holding her hand, white and bloodless, so frail, like an old woman's. At first she hadn't recognized him; later, she could not trust herself to believe that he had also found a way to survive and that now he had found her. He had told her that he would never leave her side again. A smile had flickered across her face only to be replaced by pain. ‘Forgive me,' she had said.

He remembered his last words to her. ‘Louis and Marcel,' she had asked, her eyes wide but not seeing, her fingers suddenly locking his
hand in hers. ‘How are they?' He hadn't been able to bear telling her the truth. ‘They're fine,' he had whispered. ‘You'll see them soon, very soon.'

Another lie that had emanated from the kingdom of lies. Its intentions were good, but it was still a lie. He had vowed then that there would be no more lies in his life.

Emil got up. Quietly he looked into Paul's room, but he was in a deep sleep. He decided to go down to the kitchen, put on some coffee and have the first cigarette of the day on the bench overlooking the canal.

Willi was already at the kitchen table, smoking and staring vacantly ahead, a half-empty cup in front of him. He looked as if he hadn't slept, either.

‘Is everything all right, Willi?'

‘No. In fact, nothing is right at the moment.' He spoke in a dull monotone.

‘What are you talking about?'

‘It finally hit me last night.' Willi raised his head to look directly at Emil. ‘What you and Paul have been talking about. It's all real, isn't it? It's not a story. It's not ancient history. It happened, and you and Paul were in the thick of it. And now I find myself caught in it too, and I realize how horrific it was, how cold and calculating and evil it was, and that it was done by Germans and that the victims were innocent women and children, and I don't know what to think about it and I don't know if I can deal with it.'

Emil sighed. ‘What you are feeling is the legacy of Auschwitz. It is a burden that Paul and I must carry for the rest of our lives, and now I think that it has fallen upon your shoulders too. There is nothing you can do but bear it as best you can.'

Willi did not seem convinced. He ground out the stub of his cigarette
in an ashtray and immediately took another from the packet. His hands shook as he lit it. ‘The thing is,' he said, ‘when you were playing chess against the SS it was not like other games, with only an intellectual duel at stake – they were the most real and vital games that have ever been played. Only a few years ago there was a game so extraordinary it was dubbed the game of the century. You must know it – the American master, Byrne, against the young prodigy, Fischer. It was a masterpiece of sacrificial play. Breathtaking. But it is insignificant beside your games in Auschwitz, and yet the world will never know of them.' He turned to look squarely at Emil. ‘And if Paul had not almost knocked down my hotel room door, I would not have learned of them either, nor would I have come to know you, and so I would have continued to convince myself that what you had to say about Auschwitz was the product of the embittered imaginings of a man who feels guilty because he survived.'

Emil pulled out a chair and lit a cigarette for himself. ‘Surely enough evidence about the death camps has emerged since the war to convince you they were more than imaginings, Willi?'

Willi stared at his hands, avoiding Emil's gaze. ‘During the war I worked in the propaganda ministry. One heard things. We all knew that something was happening. We knew that the Jews of Germany had been sent east – but then they disappeared. Where could they have gone? Tens of thousands of people don't just disappear into thin air. We were told they were sent to work camps. Then stories about the camps began to circulate. They were not told openly, you understand – that was not possible, the Gestapo had ears everywhere. But behind closed doors, between people who trusted one other, things were said.' He drew deeply on his cigarette and let the butt fall from his fingers into the dregs of his coffee. ‘It's not possible to keep such a secret. Men come home on leave and tell their
families, and word gets out. I knew what was happening; everybody did.' Absently, he reached for the cigarette pack again only to find it empty. He crushed it in his hand and dropped it onto the table top. ‘I told myself it could not be true,' he continued, ‘it was too wicked, too incredible. Conditions in the work camps were harsh, but that was to be expected – we were at war with the Bolsheviks, a war to the death. Casualties could not be avoided. War is cruel . . . but death camps? It was not only unbelievable, it did not make sense – so much better to put the Jews to work than to kill them. Why kill them? There was no profit in it for the Reich. So I told myself the stories were not true. Could not be true.'

‘And now?'

Willi bowed his head. Silent tears streamed down his face. When he spoke, his voice was tremulous. ‘Now I am ashamed. Ashamed of myself, ashamed of my country. For the rest of my life, I must live with the knowledge that we are a nation of murderers.'

Willi's hands were still shaking. Emil felt a swell of pity for him. ‘You're right, Willi. And it's painful to realize and difficult to bear.'

‘You said that no German who lived through the war could claim to be innocent of the death camps . . . that there were no good Germans.'

Slowly, Emil shook his head. ‘Yes, I did say that, didn't I?' He stood and picked up the kettle, walking to the sink to fill it. ‘You're not the only one who is learning how wrong he can be.'

September 1944
Political Section, Konzentrationslager Auschwitz-I

The Buna
Werke
has been bombed. The bombers came in daylight, but instead of running for shelter as fast as their legs would take them, many of the prisoners waved their caps and cheered. The effect on prisoner
morale is extraordinary: now they talk endlessly about how the Allies will bomb the gas chambers and crematoria in Birkenau.

The Gestapo is convinced that the factory has become a target because Polish partisans have managed to get information to the Allies. Oberscharführer Hustek has been ordered to find the prisoners who are communicating with the partisans, and it has presented him with an opportunity. In the technical workshop where the Watchmaker works, he has daily contact with Polish workers; that makes him a suspect.

Two of Hustek's men have been sent to bring him for questioning.

Hauptsturmführer Meissner is in the Kommandant's office. For twenty minutes he has been on the receiving end of a barrage of questions about the midnight ‘inspection' of the prison block. Sturmbannführer Bär is not convinced by Meissner's insistence that he had nothing to do with it.

‘Sir. I wasn't there. I wasn't even in the camp at the time.'

‘Where the hell were you then?'

‘I told you, sir. I had a couple of days' leave. You authorized it. I went to Kraków.'

‘Then why can't you say where you went in Kraków, or who you saw? In fact, anything at all about your leave in Kraków?'

‘Because, sir, as I've already explained, I took a wrong turning and then my car broke down. I spent the night in the forest. The next day it took me hours to walk to where I could find a telephone and call for help.'

‘Hours? You could have walked to Kraków in a day if you had to.'

Meissner holds up his walking stick.

‘Don't get clever with me, Meissner.' His superior's voice is sharp. ‘How did you manage to find out the woman was in the prison block?'

Meissner shakes his head wearily. ‘I knew nothing about it until after I got back. From what I have been told, Hauptsturmführer Brossman
decided to check the block on the off-chance she might be there. That he found her was pure luck.'

The Kommandant scowled. ‘Brossman, yes. I don't know how you managed to involve him in your scheme, but I'll find out.'

‘Sir, I'm sure you'll find Hauptsturmführer Brossman's motives were entirely genuine. The woman had gone missing. Brossman was duty-bound to search for her, and Hustek was holding her without authorization and for no legitimate reason. She wasn't even entered into the log as being there. Holding a prisoner for personal reasons flies in the face of all sorts of regulations, and it's against the law.'

‘Don't be so ridiculous,' Bär snaps. ‘Hustek's Gestapo. He's above the law.'

Meissner can feel his anger rising. ‘But with the woman as his prisoner, he would have had a hold over the Watchmaker. Surely you can see that?'

‘Does it matter, as long as he wins?'

‘It matters to me, sir,' Meissner retorts. ‘Hustek is a disgrace to the SS. He's not fit to wear the uniform.'

‘That's not for you to say, Meissner. I'm satisfied that Oberscharführer Hustek's work makes a significant contribution to the war effort.'

Before Meissner can stop them, the words are out: ‘If you think kidnapping a helpless woman makes a significant contribution to the war effort, then you're as bad as he is. Don't you understand? The war is over. Germany has lost. It is only a matter of time before the Russians are in Berlin. I've fought them, I know. There's no holding them back. Not any more.'

Bär's face pales with anger. ‘You forget who you are talking to, Meissner. I
won't
have defeatist talk here. You are an officer in the SS. You should be ashamed of yourself.'

Bär's words break the thread that has been holding Meissner's temper
in check. Before he knows it, he is shouting: ‘I won't take that from you, sir, or from anyone else who's spent
their
war lording it over women and children, herding them from cattle trucks into gas chambers at the point of a rifle. Only someone who's seen the enemy close enough to smell them knows the truth of this war. The Waffen-SS know the truth of it, and we'll carry on fighting until our last breath; but, by God, we know the truth of it.'

When Meissner stops, he realizes the Kommandant is staring coldly at him. ‘Finished? Good. Do you still want that transfer? If you can find a unit desperate enough to take you, then you can have it. Now get out.'

Meissner was shaking as he walked down the administrative building steps. Walking stick or not, going back to Monowitz on foot would help him to calm down.

He had not gone as far as the main gate when he found Eidenmüller waiting for him.

‘What are you doing here?' Meissner asked, sharply.

‘Sorry, sir, but you need to get back quickly.'

‘Why?'

‘Hustek's after the Watchmaker, sir. His men are in the camp now.'

Hustek had sent two agents to the Buna factory. Neither of them had been there before. It was vast: pipes ran everywhere in a seemingly inextricable tangle; some were suspended from overhead gantries, others ran at ground level. In the distance, the agents could see a large, square building with a row of tall, black chimneys pushing into the sky.

The bomb damage was extensive. At various points they could see men in civilian clothes carrying clip-boards, assessing the destruction; around them gangs of men in striped uniforms were clearing away rubble
or removing damaged piping or machinery. Others scurried backwards and forwards, some heavily laden, still more pushing trucks along narrow-gauge rails or pulling hand-carts; others were digging. Everywhere, the furious activity was being driven by the clubs or thick, knotted ropes wielded by the
Kapos
.

‘This is hopeless,' one said. ‘We'll never find him here. It's chaos.'

‘We should ask someone,' replied the other. ‘The Rapportführer might know where he is.'

‘Forget it. I know the Rapportführer here. Gessner. No point asking him. Him and Hustek don't get on.'

‘Does anyone get on with Hustek?'

The first one rolled his eyes. ‘Let's go to the camp. Bound to have better luck there.'

In the records office they found Unterscharführer Hoven.

‘We're looking for the prisoner called the Watchmaker.'

Hoven looked up from the file on his desk that he was studying. ‘Really? And who exactly is “we”?'

‘Gestapo.'

The word alone was sufficient to generate a spasm of anxiety in Hoven's bowels.

‘What exactly is it you want?'

The two men exchanged a knowing glance. They had the measure of Hoven. ‘Just tell us where to find him.'

Hoven turned back to his file. ‘Block 27,' he said, without looking up.

As soon as they were gone Hoven closed the file and left his office. Eidenmüller was in the next building along. He would want to know that the Gestapo was after the Watchmaker.

*

The two Gestapo men threw open the door to Block 27 and, unannounced, entered the day room. Two men were sprawled on wooden benches along the wall, asleep. Both had green triangles on their jackets. Without ceremony, the first Gestapo man pulled their legs up, tipping them onto the floor. With a rush of expletives the prisoners picked themselves up, rubbing gingerly at flesh that would soon bear bruises.

‘Who the fucking hell are you?' one of them demanded angrily.