The Death's Head Chess Club (7 page)

Clément's face soured. ‘You sound suspiciously like all the people who have wanted me to find a good German, who insist that the war is over, that it is time to forgive and forget.'

‘I am not here to tell you to forget. Nor do I want you to find a good German. But I beg you to listen to me when I tell you it
is
time to forgive – if you can find it in you.'

Emil found Meissner's reasoning impenetrable. ‘You say I must forgive, but if it's not you I have to forgive, then who?'

‘You must learn to forgive yourself.'

Again a silence fell between them. The bishop rose. ‘Please wait here. I will bring coffee. That is one thing the Dutch are very good at.'

Emil surveyed his surroundings. The kitchen was large, with a big refectory table that would easily sit ten. It was true it was not exactly
luxurious, but it had everything that might be needed to serve a large household, and it was spotlessly clean. On one wall was a photograph of a pope, though he had no idea which one; on two others, portraits of saints: he could tell by the golden halos that adorned their heads. He could find no connection between these representations of sanctity and Meissner's stubborn insistence on forgiveness. The priest clearly had little understanding of what Emil had gone through, still less of why he might think the very idea repellent. And yet . . . He was both intrigued and irritated: irritated that he had been put in a position where he felt he was not in control; intrigued despite himself to know more of what Meissner had done since being freed from prison. He wondered what he could have been doing in the Belgian Congo.

Meissner returned bearing an earthenware coffee pot decorated in garishly coloured tribal motifs, and matching mugs. ‘I brought these back with me from Africa. If I have any prized possessions, it's these.' He set everything down and poured two cups of thick, dark liquid.

‘Many Nazis escaped after the war to out-of-the-way places, mostly South America,' Emil observed. ‘You fetched up in Africa. Some might see that as more evidence that you were trying to evade responsibility for what you had done.'

Meissner sipped his coffee, closing his eyes briefly, thinking. ‘Some might, I suppose, if they were in an ungenerous frame of mind. But it wasn't my idea to go there, not at first. I was sent to a leper colony.' He paused, then continued softly: ‘I was happier there than I have ever been. In Africa, where the people have so little, where one's grip on life is so tenuous, where ignorance kills more than any disease and famine can pounce without warning, there is a joy that has to be seen to be believed – the simple joy of living, of loving, and accepting the Lord's gifts without
question. I didn't want to come back. I wanted to live out my days with those people.'

Emil had listened without interruption. Now he said, ‘Why
did
you come back?'

‘Malaria. I tried to accept it as a trial sent to me by the Lord, but it was so severe I was incapable of doing anything. I was sent back to Europe to recuperate. But once I was here, it became clear that I have something more serious than malaria.' The bishop leaned forward, his face earnest. ‘Watchmaker, I am dying. I have been sent home to die, and this is not even my home. I have leukaemia. I don't understand it fully, but it is a cancer that affects the blood. I have a matter of months, perhaps less, to live. But I still believe that God has a definite purpose for my life. Watchmaker, that purpose is you.'

12.

A
LEKHINE
'
S
G
UN

April 1944
Konzentrationslager Auschwitz-III, Monowitz

The evenings are lighter now and Yves has taken to sitting on the ground outside the entrance to the block, not coming in until it is almost time for lights out. The poor food and strenuous labour have reduced him almost to a walking skeleton. He is staring at the sky, fearing he may not awaken to see it again.

Inside, the
Stubendienst
¹
finds Emil rocking slowly back and forth, praying, as he often does when he is alone.

‘Watchmaker,' he says. ‘Bodo sent me to find you. He wants to speak to you.'

Watchmaker – the name has stuck. Emil does not like it: it singles him out when his best protection from unwanted attention is anonymity.

Bodo Brack is the
Blockältester
, a thick-set man who is serving a life sentence for murder. He has never shown any interest in Emil before.

‘What does he want with me?'

His errand done, the
Stubendienst
shrugs. ‘What am I – his secretary?'

Emil walks slowly to the day room. He can't think what Bodo could possibly want with him, but it can't be anything good.

Emil removes his cap and stands to attention before the block elder. Brack has been in the camp for over two years, longer than anyone else. Everyone knows he is the kingpin among the
Prominenten
– the favoured prisoners who run the camp for the SS. He can arrange better food and even the vouchers that can be used to visit the brothel that the SS runs for the
Blockältesten, Kapos
and even the
Scheissministers.
²
But not Jews. Brack does not like Jews. Ten minutes pass before he deigns to notice Emil.

‘Watchmaker,' he says, pausing to lick his fingers after chewing on a lump of cheese. ‘Is this block not to your liking? Do I not see to it that your every need is provided for?'

‘Yes,' Emil replies anxiously, wondering where this is leading. ‘This is a good block and you are a most considerate block elder.'

Without warning, Brack springs to his feet and with a back-handed blow to the face knocks Emil to the floor. ‘You lying Jewish pile of shit,' he yells.

Emil struggles to his feet. ‘Please,' he says, ‘what have I done?' A second blow falls. Now Brack signals to his cronies who are standing nearby and they lay into Emil, kicking him repeatedly. All he can do is curl into a ball and try to protect his head with his arms. After a while the kicking stops and he is dragged to his feet. He stands unsteadily. Blood is flowing from his nose, and from the wounds inflicted by the Scharführer only days before.

‘That,' Brack says menacingly, ‘is only the beginning – unless you start to cooperate.'

‘Yes. Of course I will cooperate, only please – tell me what I have to do.'

‘Where were you the other day when Block 51 was cleansed?'

‘I was in Block 46.'

Bodo exchanges a knowing look with one of his cronies. ‘And what were you doing in Block 46?'

‘I was playing chess.' Emil looks beseechingly at his tormentor.
What harm can there be in chess?

But Bodo is oblivious.

‘Who did you play?'

Emil shakes his head. ‘I don't know. The game was arranged by the Ä
ltester
in Block 46.'

‘I happen to know the elder in Block 46. He's not as tolerant of Jews as I am. Yet he lets you play chess. What did you give him so that he would let you play?'

There is no point trying to lie. Brack already knows the answer to the question or he would not have asked it. ‘I gave him a watch.'

‘And where did you get the watch?'

‘I did a favour for one of the German technicians in Buna. He gave me an old watch that was broken. I fixed it and gave it to the
Blockältester
.'

The German brings his face to within inches of the Frenchman's. ‘But you forgot something, didn't you, you stinking Kike?'

Emil shakes his head. ‘I don't know.'

The
Blockältester
hits him again, though this time with less force. ‘Don't fucking lie to me, you Jewish pig-fucker.'

‘Please. Tell me. What did I forget?'

‘You forgot that before you make a gift to a
Blockältester
in another block, you must first make a gift to your own.'

One of Emil's teeth has been loosened – when he touches it with his tongue, he can feel it move. ‘I'm sorry,' he says. A distant, fleeting thought occurs to him of how perverse it is that he should apologize to the person
who has just inflicted a beating on him. ‘How can I make amends?'

If he hopes that this will serve to mollify Brack, he is disappointed. ‘I think you already know what you need to do,' Brack says, his words laden with contempt.

‘Yes,' Emil acknowledges. ‘May I go now?'

‘You'll go when I say and not before. I haven't finished with you yet.'

Nervously, Emil swallows the blood that has pooled in his mouth and waits for the next blow to fall.

‘From now on, you will not play chess unless you have my permission.'

Emil is not expecting this. It is as if a death sentence has been passed. But to protest would be to invite another beating.

Brack senses the effect of his words. ‘I did not say you could no longer play chess. I said you could play only when I give my permission. From now on, you are playing chess for me.'

April 1944
Ministry of Public Enlightenment and Propaganda, Berlin

With a flick of his fingers, Wilhelm Schweninger launched the still-glowing butt of his cigarette into the street and pulled open the door to the Propaganda Ministry. His level of seniority did not entitle him to enter the building through the imposing portico of the Leopold Palace on Wilhelmplatz; instead, he passed beneath one of the tall, stone doorways that opened directly from Wilhelmstrasse.

With a nod in the direction of the uniformed doorman, he headed for the stairs that would take him to his office on the second floor.

For nine years, Schweninger has worked in Section III under State Secretary Hermann Esser, his every working day taken up with the propaganda opportunities offered by tourism. Unlike most of his contemporaries, a
career in the armed forces or the SS had never been open to Schweninger. His father, Otto, was a farmer. At fourteen years of age, helping with the harvest, Wilhelm had trapped his hand in a baling machine. It had been so badly injured that amputation had been the only option. With a future working on the land impossible, the young Wilhelm had been encouraged to study, and he had gone to university in Heidelberg, where he had studied English. It was there that he had discovered his true calling: chess, giving himself over to the game so completely that he failed to complete his studies.

In order for any chess player to compete at a higher level, it was necessary to become a member of the Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei. Wilhelm's Nazi Party membership had proved doubly useful when, in 1935, in the run-up to the Berlin Olympics, the Propaganda Ministry had been looking for young Aryan men with a flair for languages to brief the foreign press. It had seemed the perfect solution for the twenty-two-year-old, who was already gaining a reputation as a fearsome chess player. The Propaganda Ministry was the biggest of the Reich ministries, so he had seemed set for an interesting career.

Even the war had not dampened his ambitions to become an international chess champion – not at first. Working in Section III afforded ample opportunities for travel, and having a position in the ministry meant that his talents in chess were encouraged, if only for their value as propaganda. Before he was thirty, he was the undisputed champion of Germany and had beaten several national champions from countries occupied by, or allied to, the Reich. But then had come the Allied landings in North Africa and the reverse of Germany's fortunes at Stalingrad. The work of Section III had become much more limited in its scope, as had international travel.

Of all the institutions in the Reich, the Propaganda Ministry was the
most intolerant of defeatist talk and attitudes. But even so, now, at the beginning of 1944, the writing was on the wall for any but the most stubbornly myopic to see.

Wilhelm had never given voice to any of this, but, just lately, had decided that his career needed a new direction – one that would stand him in good stead after the war. He had learned that Herr Schweitzer, the graphic artist so favoured by Reichsminister Goebbels, was looking for an assistant. Under the pseudonym ‘Mjölnir', Schweitzer's work could be seen all over Germany – striking posters that urged ordinary Germans to heroic feats, whether at the front or at home. The artist was held in the highest regard by all in the ministry. If Wilhelm got the job, it would transport him to the giddy heights of Section II, with its myriad opportunities in radio, film and the arts. His interview had been three days ago; he expected to hear the outcome today.

There was a definite spring in his step as he entered the office he shared with Georg Wetzel. Georg was in his fifties, a dour widower whose wife had been killed in a bombing raid. He now lived in constant dread of a letter from the army to tell him his son had been killed in action; so much so, his hair had gone completely white. Still, he saw himself as a father-figure to Wilhelm, and tried, in his clumsy way, to nurture his protégé's career.

With the insouciance of a circus performer, the younger man threw his hat on the stand and took his seat.

Georg spoke. ‘Late again, Willi. It won't do. If Falthauser gets wind of it . . .' He jerked his head in the direction of the supervisor's office at the end of the corridor.

Wilhelm had heard it all before and shrugged it off. ‘Couldn't be helped, old man. It was the bombing again. Tramlines are gone all along
Hohenzollerndamm. Anyway, I won't be having to worry about him for much longer.'

‘If things carry on like this, there'll be nothing left to bomb, soon.' Georg looked longingly at the photograph on his desk of a woman and a teenage boy. ‘If only the damned Luftwaffe did what they're supposed to do. It's every night now – every fucking night stuck in a cellar waiting for the one that's got your name on it and next day we're still expected to be at work on time. It's ridiculous.'

Wilhelm shot a warning look at Georg. ‘Be quiet, you old fart, or you'll get us both in trouble. You know what the official line is.'

‘I know what fat fucking Hermann's official line is . . . and he can stick it up his fat fucking arse.'

Schweninger made a show of opening his diary and going through it.

‘And I don't know why you're bothering with that, either,' Georg continued. ‘Word is, the Allies will be landing in France before the summer's out. How long do you think we'll be able to hold out after that happens?'

‘Stop it, will you?' Wilhelm looked up in exasperation. ‘You'll end up in a bloody concentration camp the way you're going. I heard the speech Doktor G gave from the Sportspalast. You should have too. “Total war is the demand of the hour,” that's what he said.'

Georg snorted at the mention of Goebbels. ‘Yes, and he also said that workers in government offices will work longer hours so that more of us can be sent to the fucking front.'

‘Well, there's no chance of you being sent to the front – or me, for that matter. Anyway, as the Doktor said, it stands to reason that once the British and Americans are in France, they'll join with us and turn on the Russians – or face the prospect of Europe being overrun by the Bolshevik swine.'

The older man shook his head. The entire staff of the ministry had congregated to listen to Goebbels' New Year's speech on the radio, supposedly an act of solidarity. It had been a Friday and, instead of closing early, as it usually did, the ministry building had remained open; food and drink had been laid on, and wireless sets placed throughout the building so that everybody could listen. Timed to perfection, the dramatic final words of the speech had come only a minute before church bells across Germany started to ring in the New Year. The enthusiastic applause of the thousands of staff had changed to embraces, kisses and handshakes and cries of ‘Happy New Year!' Georg had had to admit that the Reichsminister was very, very good: he had almost been convinced himself. The applause seemed genuine and spontaneous, though it was not always easy to tell.

Now, with bitter irony, Georg quietly echoed the Doktor's final words: ‘Now, people, rise up and let the storm break loose!'

April 1944
Konzentrationslager Auschwitz-III, Monowitz

The camp is in darkness. All the doors are locked and the SS patrol the perimeter with their dogs and machine guns. In the bunk they share, Emil asks Yves what he thinks the
Blockältester
is up to.

Yves is more worldly-wise and astute than Emil, but he is completely exhausted and falls asleep mid-sentence. Emil prays he will make it to summer. Now that the biting cold of the Polish winter is past, he might have a chance.

Emil has an idea. It is common knowledge that Bodo has contacts with the SS. Emil will offer to repair their watches in return for extra food, which he will give to Yves. It seems a good plan, but Bodo is sure to want something in return.

Sleep comes slowly to Emil. He is aware of the night sounds of the block, the stirrings of his fellow inmates, the heavy, breathy sighs of hungry men sleeping, snoring; the occasional cry and the continuous to-ing and fro-ing of men to the toilet bucket. Emil needs to go to the bucket too, but waits. By now it must be nearly full, and he does not want to be the one who fills it and is then sent by the night guard to empty it into the latrine. At last he hears the sound of the door opening and the clang of the bucket against the doorframe as it is lifted out. In ten minutes he will be able to use it safely.