The Death's Head Chess Club (6 page)

April 1944
Technical workshop, IG Farbenindustrie Buna Werke, Monowitz

It is the day after the cleansing of Block 51. One of the Polish civilian workers brings a watch for Emil to repair. In return, he offers Emil a portion of his
Zivilsuppe
– the food prepared for the civilian workers – for the next two weeks. The watch is small and elegant, with a delicate movement. ‘It belonged to my wife's mother,' the man tells him. ‘She passed away a few weeks ago. It would mean a lot to my wife if I could get it fixed.'

Two words plunge deep into Emil's consciousness: ‘wife' and ‘mother'. He wants to shout, ‘What about my mother? What about my wife?' He must keep such thoughts to himself. All morning, Emil keeps his thoughts locked in the vault of his mind, until the events of the previous day force their way in.

Everyone knows there is a camp for women. He hopes Rosa is there, but typhus is everywhere and the SS would have no more scruples over eliminating a block in the women's camp than they had had in Monowitz.

In an unguarded moment, these thoughts rush to the surface and Emil reveals his bitterness to the men at the nearby work benches. ‘Did you see what happened to the men of Block 51 yesterday? It's only a matter of time before they do it to the rest of us. The SS are depraved,' he says. ‘All of them.'

It takes only one to denounce him. Perhaps he is envious of Emil's newfound status with the civilian workers; perhaps not. Most likely he is simply starving. His reward is two rations of bread, riches beyond temptation to one suffering the hunger of Auschwitz.

As the men queue for the midday soup ration, the
Kapo
orders Emil to report to the Buna Rapportführer, SS-Scharführer Gessner.

Emil stands rigidly to attention, his cap held firmly in his hand, not looking at the SS man, eyes fixed on the wall ahead. The Scharführer is seated at a table eating his lunch: white bread and sausage. The rich smell of the sausage is torture.

The SS man seems to be in good humour. ‘So, you are 163291.' For a moment he says nothing more, picking with his fingernail at a bit of sausage between his teeth. Then he reveals the depth of Emil's betrayal: ‘The watchmaker.'

He pauses to let his words take effect. ‘You thought I did not know about that, didn't you? Well, let me tell you, nothing happens in this camp that I do not know about.' He waits for Emil's reaction. When there is none, he continues: ‘I have been informed that you said the SS is depraved.'

Emil feels his bowels constrict. His mouth goes dry and, instinctively, he swallows.

There is no point dissembling. Besides, he has made a promise to himself: he will not add to the lies on which the camp is built. ‘Yes, Herr Scharführer.' His reply is not defiant, merely truthful.

The Scharführer leans back in his chair and slaps his thigh as if Emil has told him a great joke. A broad grin appears on his face and he laughs uproariously. There is a riding crop on the table. With great
deliberateness, the Scharführer picks it up and, still laughing, comes from behind the table and strikes Emil viciously with it.

Emil falls to the floor, but he has seen what happens to prisoners who do not immediately get up: invariably, their punishment intensifies. Some are beaten to death. He picks himself up and stands to attention again. The skin on his face is split and blood runs from it, dripping over his chin onto his uniform. The pain is excruciating. Tears form in his eyes.

The Scharführer seems to approve. He walks in a circle around Emil, stopping once or twice to peer closely at the rough material of his tattered striped uniform.

Emil says a silent prayer that he has the correct number of buttons on his jacket and that there is not too much mud on his trouser bottoms. Although there are no facilities for the washing of clothes, punishments are frequently inflicted for having a muddy uniform. Emil tenses, expecting a second blow, but not knowing where or when it will fall.

The Scharführer speaks again. ‘Your supervisor tells me you are a good worker. Can you believe he called you his “good Jew” and asked me not to beat you too severely?' Emil does not reply. The German continues: ‘It astonishes me that you Jews do not understand the danger you pose to the Fatherland, especially after the Führer made it so clear. How can you be so ignorant?' He indulges himself with a second blow with the riding crop. He raises his hand to inflict a third but relents. What is the point? It is foolish to expect a Jew to understand – in fact, in a way, for a Jew to say the SS is depraved is a compliment. Everyone knows that in the twisted way that Jews think, everything is back to front: good is bad, rich is poor and depraved means heroic.

The Scharführer looks closely at Emil's face before dismissing him. ‘If there could be such a thing as a good Jew,
Watchmaker
, I am sure you
would be the one.' He laughs again. It dawns on him that what he has said without thinking is very funny.
A good Jew?
It is hilarious. But his humour quickly cools. ‘Now, you stinking Jewish turd,' he says, his voice menacing and angry, ‘get out of my sight before I change my mind and give you the beating you deserve.'

1
Chief garrison physician, with authority over the twenty or so other SS doctors in the Auschwitz complex.

11.

Q
UEEN
'
S
G
AMBIT
A
CCEPTED

1962
Kerk de Krijtberg, Amsterdam

Emil awoke in a darkened room. Heavy curtains were drawn across tall windows. He was on a leather couch, with a blanket draped over him. Beside it was a small table on which stood a glass of water. As his eyes became accustomed to the gloom he was able to make out the features of the room. Opposite the couch was a heavy stone fireplace, above which was a large painting of the Madonna and the infant Christ. The picture was old, blackened from its proximity to the fire. The wallpaper was similarly smutted, adding to the impression of age. On either side of the fire sat tall, leather armchairs, their armrests rubbed to a shine, and horsehair stuffing peeking out in places where fingers had drummed times beyond counting. The hearth was home to a set of antique fire-irons. Against the wall opposite the window was a bookcase stuffed with ancient volumes and, above the door, a simple wooden crucifix. On the mantelpiece stood a clock in a brass case; as Emil tried to focus on it to see the time, it chimed four. Moments later, the door opened. Emil sat upright.

‘Watchmaker,' the bishop said, his voice hushed. ‘Welcome back. How are you feeling?'

Shocked, Emil struggled to make sense of what he had heard. ‘Watchmaker? Nobody has called me that since . . .'

‘No. But you didn't answer my question – how are you feeling?'

‘I don't know. Awful.'

‘You fainted. I suppose we could have called an ambulance, but on a Sunday it would have taken ages. The presbytery was not far, so I got a couple of volunteers to help bring you here. You've been out for quite a while. I was worried about you. I was about to call a doctor.'

Emil inhaled deeply, catching unfamiliar smells of incense and wax polish. ‘Worried? Why would you be worried? You're not my keeper.' He got unsteadily to his feet. ‘I should be going.'

The bishop barred his way. ‘I don't think so. You should be resting. Let me help you – you've had quite a shock.'

Emil shook his head. ‘Is that what you want – to help me? Why? So you can congratulate yourself that you came to my rescue again? No. I don't need your help, and I'm not staying.'

‘I hoped we might take some time to talk.'

Emil was incredulous. ‘
Talk?
What could you possibly have to say to me that I would want to hear?'

Meissner retreated a little and bowed his head in an attitude of contrition. ‘I thought perhaps I could start by saying I was sorry.'

‘Sorry?' Emil found himself shouting. ‘You are . . .' He stopped, unable to find words to express what he felt. ‘We meet again after a gap of nearly twenty years and you think you can wipe away all that passed between us simply by saying
sorry
?'

‘No, no, of course not. But it would have been a start.' The bishop moved aside, gesturing towards the door. ‘Leave, if you wish,' he said, gently.

Emil's bitterness had been quick to erupt but Meissner's response had taken him by surprise. He had expected his anger to be met with more
anger but, instead, the opposite had happened. His rage melted away; in its place he found the smouldering coals of what his life had become.

His anger could not always be trusted, but the coals could.

‘Look,' he said, his voice becoming calmer, ‘there is nothing we can say to each other that can possibly be worth saying, and as there is no changing what passed between us, I really do think it best if we go our separate ways.'

Meissner looked at him. ‘It's for you to decide, naturally, but if you'll permit me to say, I do not agree with you that it would be best to go our separate ways. I think we have many things to say to one another, things that may be hard to say, but which nonetheless need to be said.'

Emil stood unmoving, casting his gaze around the room, taking in the odd variety of the knick-knacks that filled it, his mind seeking reasons to leave other than the bitterness with which he was filled.

‘I would consider it an honour if you would stay to share my supper this evening,' Meissner said, breaking the silence.

‘Why?'

From habit, the bishop's fingers strayed to the cross on his breast. ‘Do you remember what you once said to me in Auschwitz? “There is no why. The outside world does not intrude here. We have been inoculated against it.” For now, all I can tell you is that “Why?” is too complicated a question for me to understand.' He shrugged. ‘For years now I have answered to an inner compulsion. I have tried to resist it, but without succeeding. I have told it I am not worthy, can never be worthy, but it does not listen to me. In the seminary they told me it was “my vocation”, but I can't see it that way.' His voice took on a tone of almost desperate yearning. ‘It is
more
than that. It is God's love working its way into the world, taking as its instrument something – someone – that once served
evil, but moulding it to its own divine purpose. So to answer your question “Why?” in perhaps a simplistic way – because I am a sword that has been beaten into a ploughshare.'

1947
Kraków

In his prison cell, Paul Meissner was waiting for his lawyer. Meissner did not like the man. He was possessed of a colossal sense of his own importance.

For his part, Meissner's lawyer regarded his client with cynical disdain. That the German was a war criminal was obvious. The state was wasting its money appointing a lawyer to conduct his defence.

As usual, the lawyer had been late. ‘If it were possible to find even one Auschwitz prisoner to testify on your behalf, that would make all the difference,' he now said, not bothering to suppress a yawn.

An exasperated Meissner retorted: ‘Have you listened to anything I've told you? I had nothing to do with the prisoners. Why would I? I was an administrator with responsibility for the SS personnel in the satellite camps.' Angrily, he banged his fist on the table. ‘I told you there was only one prisoner I had dealings with.
He's
the one you have to find.'

The lawyer made a show of consulting his notes. ‘Ah, yes, “the Watchmaker”. But you say you can't remember his name, only his number.'

‘It's not a question of remembering or not remembering. Everybody called him the Watchmaker. But you must be able to trace him from the number.'

The lawyer was sceptical. ‘
If
the records were preserved, and
if
he survived.'

‘Yes,' Meissner agreed, dejectedly. ‘If he survived.'

But no trace had been found of
Häftling
number 163291. He had not been included in any records of inmates who had eventually turned up at other camps, like Mauthausen or Bergen-Belsen.

The lawyer yawned again. The case was hopeless.

The president of the court addressed Meissner's lawyer. ‘Before the verdicts are read out and sentence is passed, does the defendant have anything to say?'

The lawyer stood. Drawing himself up to his full height, he adjusted his robes, grasping them in his right hand in a pose he imagined to be reminiscent of Cicero addressing the courts of ancient Rome.

‘With the court's permission, my client would like to read a statement.'

In the dock, wearing trousers without a belt and a collarless shirt, ex-SS-Hauptsturmführer Paul Meissner rose to his feet. Only weeks before, his ex-commanding officer, Arthur Liebehenschel, had been condemned to death by hanging in this same court-room. But when Meissner spoke, his voice was clear and unwavering.

‘I have not attempted to hide from the court the nature and extent of my activities in Auschwitz. Terrible crimes were committed there – unforgivable crimes. I do not seek to diminish the part I played, nor do I seek to evade my responsibility. I acknowledge that I am guilty of grave crimes, but I would like to put on record that I believe I did what I could to maintain my honour. Before I went to Auschwitz, I had no idea of what was going on in Birkenau. I learned about those events only gradually. I had nothing to do with anything that occurred there. I never set foot on the unloading ramp, and took no part in any of the
Selektionen
. Not one prisoner in Auschwitz died because of me. Once I realized I had no ability to change what was going on, I took what I considered to be the
only honourable course of action – I requested a transfer back to active service, even though my old regiment was at that time fighting on the Eastern Front. All of this was recorded in my personal journal, which the court has graciously acknowledged. Many thought I was going to certain death, but that was preferable to being an accomplice in mass murder. When I surrendered, I did so as an SS officer and, unlike others, made no attempt to hide it. That, too, was a matter of honour for me. I did my duty. I do not ask the court for clemency and I am ready to accept whatever sentence is deemed fitting.'

It took only minutes for the president of the court to deliver the verdict and sentence: ‘On the charge of genocide – not guilty; on the charge of complicity in genocide – not guilty. However, on your own admission, you are guilty of the hideous crime of slavery. You administered a system in which tens of thousands, mainly Jews, were used as slave workers, and although they did not die at your hand or at your command, still many of them perished. This is a crime that demands exemplary punishment.'

Meissner braced himself. The court did not have a history of leniency.

‘You are sentenced to six years' penal servitude with hard labour. The sentence is to commence immediately.'

1962
Kerk de Krijtberg, Amsterdam

‘Six years with hard labour. Little enough reparation for the part you played,' Clément said, breaking chunks of white bread into a thick vegetable broth.

‘Little enough,' Meissner conceded. ‘But not easy, especially with an artificial leg.'

‘Not easy? Is that what you tell people? You should listen to yourself.
Not easy?' Emil stared at him in disbelief. ‘Easier than we had it every day in Auschwitz, that's what I would say. Did they feed you sawdust bread and pig-swill? You should be grateful you had a wooden leg.'

‘The leg lasted less than two months. The best craftsmanship German engineering could produce, and it fell to bits.'

Clément held his spoon before him, like a weapon, punctuating his sentences with it. ‘You know what this sounds like to me? It sounds like you're feeling sorry for yourself. Did you know that when the Russians liberated Auschwitz, they found thousands of artificial limbs from Jews who were killed in the gas chambers?
Thousands
. Maybe you should have asked for one of those.'

‘How could I? I had no idea they were there. Besides, the Poles had no intention of finding me a replacement. And it's pretty nigh impossible to do hard labour on crutches. They did try, of course, but no matter how often they beat me, I kept falling over. After a while the beatings stopped. In the end they put me in the kitchens. I was given a stool and a knife and I spent my days peeling and chopping vegetables. I got pretty good at it.'

‘How the mighty are fallen.'

Paul did not respond to Emil's irony and they finished the soup in silence. Afterwards, the bishop busied himself clearing the dishes from the table.

‘Six years,' Clément mused. ‘It's no time at all. Who decided on six years? Not a Jew, I think.'

Meissner resumed his seat at the table. ‘Actually, in the end I served only four years in prison. I think they were tired of me. I was unceremoniously deported to the British occupation zone, where I had to undergo de-Nazification.'

‘What did that involve? Making you wear
tefillin
to see if you were struck with apoplexy, or eat matzos to see if you choked?'

Meissner sighed. ‘No. They made me complete the
Fragebogen
– a questionnaire – and a series of interrogations. The British were suspicious of me. By then, relations between the West and Russia were at a low and they suspected I was a Communist plant; it was months before I got my
Persilschein
– my official exoneration. Only then could I look for work. I was offered a job in a ticket office on the railways, but I had already decided what it was I wanted to do. I asked to train as a priest in the Catholic Church.'

‘So you swapped one organization that would look after you and tell you what to do, for another. Not exactly a hard life, it seems to me – being a priest.' Emil turned in his chair. ‘Take this place, for example. You're not exactly living in ruinous poverty, are you? Quite the opposite, in fact.'

Meissner demurred. ‘You can choose to see it that way if you want to, but that's not the reason I wanted to become a priest and I think you know it. If I'd wanted an easy option, I could have spent my days punching tickets at the Köln Bahnhof.'

‘No.' Emil's fist came down hard on the table. ‘For your information, I
don't know
. I don't know anything about you. For nearly two hours you've been parading your self-justification but without answering the most important question –
why
?'

The bishop shook his head. ‘The same question as before. And I only have the same answer – the inner voice that will not be denied.'

‘And such a voice – that only you can hear. Does the Church have no qualms about accepting convicted war criminals into its fold?'

‘Of course it does. But the very foundation of the Church is in forgiveness.'

‘Father forgive them . . .' Clément intoned.

‘Yes. The Church rejoices in every sinner who repents.'

‘Is that why you wanted me to come here, so you could ask my forgiveness? Let me tell you right here and now – you won't get it.'

The bishop reached across the table to grasp Emil's hands. The Frenchman pulled away as if fearing to be contaminated. ‘Your forgiveness cannot help me, Watchmaker,' Meissner said. ‘For me it is too late. The only forgiveness that counts is my own, and after nearly twenty years I am still unable to forgive myself. I tell myself better that I had been put in front of a firing squad than I should have stood by and done nothing. I know that I have God's forgiveness, but that is not enough for me. You must think me arrogant, but I promise you I am not. I am guilty. I am ashamed. And I will carry the guilt and the shame to my grave.' He looked keenly at Emil. ‘What I hope is that I can help you to understand that the power of forgiveness will bring healing for
you
– not me, not anyone else.'