The Death's Head Chess Club (33 page)

36.

T
HE
G
REEK
G
IFT

1962
Kerk de Krijtberg, Amsterdam

‘Extraordinary,' Willi breathed. ‘I was with you every move. So you beat the champion of the SS, and you won another life. But you must have known that Hustek would not honour the bargain that Paul had made with you. Was it true that Paul had requested a transfer?'

Meissner raised a hand from the bed. ‘I'm afraid it's true,' he said, his voice frayed from coughing. ‘And I knew it was selfish of me: I was running away, but I did not expect to survive the war. Casualty rates in the Waffen-SS were horrific, much higher than in the Wehrmacht, and I thought that in death my honour would be restored.' He was taken by another spasm of coughing. Willi helped him to sit up and Emil passed him a glass of water. After a few sips the spasm eased, but Meissner's face was grey with pain.

‘Do you want some laudanum?' Willi asked. ‘The doctor said it would help the coughing as well as the pain.'

Meissner shook his head. ‘It was the Kommandant who, quite unwittingly, gave Emil the protection he needed after I had gone. And it was through him that the final character entered the Watchmaker's story.'

‘Another character, so late in the game? Who?'

Meissner took another sip of water before replying. ‘It was you, Willi. You also had a part to play, and you were probably instrumental in saving Emil's life.'

‘Me?' spluttered Willi. ‘It would be nice to think so, but I don't see how. I never went near Auschwitz.'

‘Precisely.'

Friday, 13 October 1944
Solahütte, SS country club, German-occupied Silesia

With a furious shout, Hustek up-ended the board. Chess pieces flew into the air and scattered across the floor. In the stunned silence that followed they could be heard rolling to a halt. Hustek was standing, with his arm extended and his pistol pointing at the Watchmaker's head but, suddenly, the Gestapo man forced a smile and lowered the gun. ‘No,' he said, his voice quietly menacing. ‘Shooting is too good for you, Watchmaker.'

Without another word he forced his way through the packed ranks of spectators, not caring whom he pushed out of his path.

Then there was uproar.

Harsh words were shouted, and angry looks directed at the Watchmaker. One man spat at him; a woman threw her drink over him. Some stood, looking as if they intended to give him a beating, or worse.

Emil tried not to look at them. He was scanning the room for Daniel Farhi, who seemed to have disappeared. Then he saw him – crouched down in a corner, his hands clasped over the top of a head, trying to hide. It was the best thing he could have done: the crowd continued to direct its fury at Emil until Meissner placed himself in front of him.

Meissner stared down the crowd, daring them to include him in their invective.

Across the room, Eidenmüller steered Farhi along the front of the bar towards the exit.

‘Let's go,' Meissner said softly, to Emil. Holding his walking stick before him, as if threatening to use it if necessary, Meissner edged his way through the crowd, the Watchmaker on his coattails.

The doorway was blocked by the Kommandant, his face red with anger. ‘Well?'

‘Sir,' Meissner replied, ‘I think this is not the time. We should wait until tempers have calmed.' He glanced behind. The noise had not abated. Somebody yelled, ‘Jew-lover!'

‘I don't think we have the luxury of
that
much time, Meissner. I will see you in my office first thing on Monday.'

‘Yes, sir.
Heil Hitler
.'

Monday, 16 October 1944
Kommandantur building, Konzentrationslager Auschwitz-I

Sturmbannführer Richard Bär read and reread the file on the desk before him. He was searching for anything that would provide a clue to Meissner's disloyalty. Before July there was no doubt that the Hauptsturmführer had been one of his best officers: conscientious, and capable; but he had changed. Where, Bär wondered, had Meissner's defeatist attitude come from? More importantly, what had happened to transform him into a Jew-lover?

Absentmindedly, he scratched a pimple that had erupted on the end of his nose and winced as he took the top off. A drop of blood fell onto the open page. He pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at it, but all he managed to do was smear blood across the neat, type-written words. It was Meissner's request for a transfer: Bär took his pen and signed it.

There was a knock at the door.

‘Hauptsturmführer Meissner, sir,' his orderly said.

Bär was much calmer than he had been on Friday night: he thought he had found a solution to the problem of the unbeatable Jew. It would be Meissner's last duty before he left.

‘Send him in.'

Meissner entered and brought his heels together, raising his arm in salute. ‘
Heil Hitler
.'

The Kommandant ignored the salute, and did not invite Meissner to sit down. Instead, he leaned back and observed his troublesome officer closely, as if by doing so he could discover the cause of his disaffection. ‘That was quite a stunt you pulled on Friday night,' he said eventually.

‘You'll pardon me for pointing it out, Herr Sturmbannführer, but it was not my idea for the game to be played at Solahütte, nor was I the one who arranged for a prisoner to be manacled in the corner. If anyone is to be accused of pulling a stunt, surely it is Oberscharführer Hustek.'

‘The funny thing is, Meissner, now that I've had time to think about it, I find I'm much less concerned with the uproar you caused than I am with your disloyalty.'

Meissner was indignant. ‘Disloyalty? How have I been disloyal?'

‘You have been disloyal to your fellow SS officers, to the SS, and to the Führer; and above all, disloyal to the blood of the German
Volk
.'

‘Why? Because I arranged a few chess games against a Jew?'

Bär pursed his lips and shook his head. ‘Of course not. You are disloyal because you have taken the Jew's side.'

Meissner's eyes narrowed in anger, then he did a double take – was that blood on the Kommandant's nose? ‘Sir, no. I will not take that,' he replied. ‘I have never taken the Jew's side.'

A drop of blood fell onto the Kommandant's tunic. He seemed not to notice. ‘No? Then prove it to me: have him liquidated. I don't care if you do it yourself, or have him sent to the gas chamber.'

Meissner's reply was immediate. ‘No, sir. I can't do that.'

Another drop. ‘That's what I thought.'

‘Sir. All I have ever sought was to maintain my honour in my dealings with him. I gave him guarantees if he won his games. Surely you would not have me break my word?'

Only now did the Kommandant seem to notice the blood. Irritated, he held the handkerchief to his nose. ‘I don't expect you to break your word, Meissner, but you helped him to win, didn't you? That's what is so unforgivable.'

Meissner watched, fascinated, as the rich, dark blood of the German
Volk
seeped through the Kommandant's handkerchief. He made himself look away, to the photograph of Himmler on the wall, so fond of invoking the
Volksblut
himself. ‘How?' he replied, evenly, trying not to rise to the Kommandant's provocation. ‘How did I help him win?'

Bär removed the handkerchief from his nose to examine it. Meissner caught himself staring again.
Yes
, he thought,
take a good look – it's blood; and it's about as close as you will ever come to being wounded in action
.

The Kommandant's words cut across his musings. ‘You can't deny that it was your actions, Meissner, that prevented Oberscharführer Hustek from beating the Jew.'

‘With respect, sir, I did nothing to prevent Hustek from winning. All I did was to stop him cheating. Look what he managed to do with me trying to stop him – what would he have done if he'd had a free hand?'

The Kommandant dabbed at his nose again. The bleeding seemed to have stopped. He turned his attention back to Meissner. ‘I've seen this
happen before, Meissner, where an unscrupulous Jew corrupts an otherwise blameless German. What you need to do is recognize what he's done to you and get yourself out from under his influence.'

Meissner had to work hard not to show his exasperation. ‘Sir, I protest. I am under no Jewish influence. If anything, my fault was having too much faith in the supremacy of the SS.'

Bär regarded his subordinate coolly. ‘This is getting us nowhere.' He picked up a sheet of paper from the desk and passed it across. ‘I've made my decision – two, actually. Here is your transfer request. I've authorized it. As soon as you've been assigned to a new unit you can leave. However, before you go, we must have a solution to our little local Jewish question.'

There was a book on the desk. The Kommandant pushed it over to Meissner. ‘Do you know what this is?' Meissner shook his head. ‘It's a copy of the register of the Grossdeutscher Schachbund
–
the German Chess Federation. It contains the names and addresses of all its members. What I've decided is this – we will invite the chess champion of Germany to Auschwitz. He will play our unbeatable Jew and put an end to his pretensions once and for all.'

Meissner was appalled. ‘That's hardly fair, sir. The Watchmaker has never played chess at that level.'

Bär slammed his fist down on the desk. ‘Fair?' he roared. ‘I don't care whether it's fucking
fair
, Meissner! This thing has gone too far, so now I must put an end to it.' He paused for breath before continuing more calmly: ‘Don't you understand? Here in Auschwitz we are the front line fighting international Jewry. We cannot afford to lose a single battle, or we will be devoured. In war, everything is fair.'

Meissner knew he had to choose his words carefully. ‘Don't you think
you're taking this a bit too seriously, sir? Don't forget, Obersturmbannführer Höss himself supported the idea. He said it was good for the SS to be challenged, that it would keep us from becoming complacent.'

‘I'm not interested in what Höss or anyone else has to say,' the Kommandant said angrily. ‘
I'
m the one who will be held to account if anything goes wrong. I'm concerned only with the good order of this camp, which your ridiculous ideas and your notions of fair play have disrupted. We've already had to put down one rebellion this year – this Watchmaker has given the prisoners hope. They've seen him beat the previously unbeatable SS. Well, I have to take that hope away and remove their illusions. So you will find this chess champion and bring him here. That is an order.'

October 1944
Ministry of Public Enlightenment and Propaganda, Berlin

Willi was late back from lunch. He was late for everything these days. With the relentless Allied bombing and all the shortages, even the Ministry of Propaganda could not guarantee food in the canteen. Besides, nobody cared any more, least of all him. The war was as good as lost, though nobody dared to say so.

His colleague, Georg, was gone: an English bomb had taken out his apartment block one moonless night about two months ago. At first, Willi had missed the older man's harping about his being late and how important it was to look busy, but that had passed. Now there was merely a pretence of work in the department, and the only men left were the cripples: Willi and others like him who weren't capable of holding a rifle. He hadn't had a woman in months. Women looked askance at men his age wearing civilian clothes. They would taunt him: ‘Why aren't
you
at the front?' He had been tempted, once or twice, to pull off the glove that
covered his artificial hand and wave it at them, but in the end he couldn't be bothered. What was the point? The war was getting to everyone. All he wanted now was for it to be over.

There was a scrap of paper on his desk – a note from his boss, Falthauser. As Willi scanned the note, he mused sourly,
Why hasn't an Allied bomb taken
him
out, instead of Georg? There's no justice
.

It made no sense. Apparently an SS officer had been looking for him. What could the SS possibly want with him? Pocketing the note, he set off to find his supervisor.

The increased intensity of the bombing had not improved Falthauser's temper. ‘I have no idea what they want with you,' he told Willi, ‘but you are ordered to report to the SS economic-administrative sub-office on Prinz Albrecht Strasse, immediately.'

Willi did not delay his visit. It wasn't as if he had any work that couldn't wait.

The SS headquarters had been hit by the bombing, but people were still working inside. He was directed to a young Untersturmführer, whose office consisted of a desk in a passageway.

‘Are you Wilhelm Schweninger?' the officer intoned.

‘Yes, that's me.'

‘Wilhelm Schweninger the Reich chess champion?'

Willi rolled his eyes. Like many in the Propaganda Ministry, he did not like the SS – perhaps a reflection of the prejudices of his master, Goebbels. ‘Yes,' he replied. ‘I am Wilhelm Schweninger, the Reich chess champion.'

The SS officer peered at him as if he found it hard to believe that such a poor specimen could be champion of anything. ‘We have received a rather
unusual request,' he said, ‘from the Kommandant of K-Z Auschwitz. I have instructions to induct you as an honorary member of the SS, and arrange transportation to the camp.'

‘Auschwitz? What possible reason could there be for me to go to Auschwitz?'

‘Apparently your presence is required for a game of chess.'

1962
Kerk de Krijtberg, Amsterdam

‘I couldn't believe my luck.' Willi chuckled. ‘At last I had a uniform. True, it was an SS uniform, and people in my building would look down their noses at it, but outside the ministry it would stop all those sneers and muttered comments. I might even get a woman or two again, especially seeing as I was given the honorary rank of Sturmbannführer.'