The Death's Head Chess Club (8 page)

When the camp bell rings in the morning, it is still dark. The night guard switches on the light.

Although he has not slept well, Emil feels better. He has a plan, and he is sure it will work. He knows this because of the rules of Auschwitz: those who run the camp for the SS are all corrupt. They will agree to almost anything as long as there is something in it for them.

1
Block orderly: a prisoner responsible for keeping the block clean and tidy. He was not expected to work outside like his fellow prisoners.

2
Latrine superintendents.

13.

A C
LOSED
G
AME

April 1944
Solahütte, SS country club, German-occupied Silesia

Obersturmführer Paul Meissner stood on the veranda looking out over the valley and inhaled deeply. He loved this time of year, and, standing there in the midst of the pine forest, it was difficult to imagine there was a war on.

Officers and NCOs were already arriving for the grand final of the camp chess tournament. Competition in the heats and the two semi-finals had been intense. Even Eidenmüller had tried his hand: ‘I know what the moves are,' he had said. ‘How difficult can it be?' Fortunately, he'd had the good sense not to bet on himself. Meissner had made an amusing entry about it in his journal. As far as he could tell, his Unterscharführer had made a killing, but this final game was more difficult to predict.

To everyone's surprise, among the officers, Otto Brossman, the taciturn Hauptsturmführer in charge of the first and second guard companies, had excelled. The SS had a reputation for being anti-intellectual, so Meissner had been surprised when Brossman had confessed that he had read widely about chess theory, and at Heidelberg in the 1930s had even taken lessons from the university champion.

‘It's all about tactics,' he told Meissner. ‘Attack, defend, entrench, retreat. Have you read von Clausewitz's
On War
?' Meissner admitted that
he had. ‘It's as he says – “War is very simple, but in war even the simplest things are very difficult.” Chess is the same. The individual moves are very simple, but combining them to create a winning strategy is a different matter. And,' he continued, ‘no two games are alike. Each one has its own personality, as individual as the players pitted against one other. It's so intriguing.'

Meissner was impressed. He liked Brossman. ‘You'll make a worthy champion of the SS,' he said.

The other contestant, from among the non-commissioned ranks, was an even greater enigma. Oberscharführer Hustek was in the Gestapo, in the camp's political section. About forty years of age, with dark, greased-back hair and a heavily lined face, he had swept all competition aside. Little was known about him other than his reputation for brutality with the prisoners and his hatred of Jews.

‘He's an evil bastard, that one,' Eidenmüller told Meissner.

The officer raised an eyebrow. ‘Is that so? That's probably an advantage if you're in the Gestapo,' Meissner replied.

‘And another thing – he's a sly one. You'll never know what he's thinking. I wouldn't trust him as far as I could throw him.'

Eidenmüller's judgement proved to be a sound one: Hustek had chain-smoked his way through every game, unnerving his opponents by staring at them unblinkingly until they made their move.

‘I reckon that's something he's learned from interrogating prisoners,' Eidenmüller opined. ‘More effective than any torture, I'd say.'

‘Well, I think he'll find Hauptsturmführer Brossman a somewhat different prospect,' Meissner replied. ‘He puts chess on a par with von Clausewitz.'

‘Sorry, sir – von who?'

Eidenmüller was offering odds of two to one against Brossman. For the first time, Meissner bet on the outcome – a week's pay.
That will teach Eidenmüller a lesson when he's forced to pay up
, he thought with a grin.

The game was due to start at 19:30 hours. Twenty minutes before the appointed time, Brossman eased his way through the ranks of SS who had made the trip out to the country club. ‘Hustek not here yet, then?' he asked Meissner.

Meissner shook his head, but before he could reply, the Kommandant entered the room, followed by a visiting senior SS officer.

Liebehenschel called out, ‘
Achtung!'
The hum of conversation ceased as the men in the room snapped to attention.

‘Gentlemen,' the visitor said, ‘please be at your ease. No need for any formality on my account.' The hum of conversation quickly resumed.

He surveyed the occupants of the room. ‘You are to be congratulated, Liebehenschel,' he said in a confidential tone. ‘I had my doubts that your chess club was really as popular as you had said, but now I'm here, I'm most impressed. The effect it's had on the morale of your men is obvious. I will tell the Reichsführer myself what a success it is.'

‘Thank you, sir.' The Kommandant inclined his head. ‘But credit must go to Obersturmführer Meissner. It was his idea and he is the one who organized everything. An excellent officer, if I may say so; it's a pity we do not have more like him.'

‘I'd like to meet him.'

‘Of course.'

Moments later the Kommandant was making the introductions: ‘Herr Gruppenführer, may I present Obersturmführer Paul Meissner, head of operations for the satellite camps and the organizer of this competition.'

The Gruppenführer appraised Meissner. ‘You are Waffen-SS? How is it that you ended up here?'

Meissner raised his walking stick. ‘I was wounded in action, sir. Sadly, I'm no longer considered fit for active service.'

‘And your Iron Cross. Where did you get that?'

‘Kursk, sir. The Voronezh front.'

‘Meissner rarely talks about it, sir,' the Kommandant interjected. ‘He's far too modest. He took on four Russian tanks with only a Wespe field howitzer, and killed two of them before our Tigers came to the rescue. His action saved the other two Wespes that were under his command, one of which had already been hit.'

The Gruppenführer extended a hand. ‘Well done, Meissner. It is a privilege to shake hands with you. You are a credit to the SS.'

‘Thank you, sir. I did my duty, no more.'

‘Gruppenführer Glücks is head of the Concentration Camps Inspectorate,' the Kommandant explained. ‘He has travelled all the way from Oranienburg to watch the final, and I have asked him to present the prizes to our champions.'

Meissner smiled and glanced at his watch. ‘With your permission, Herr Gruppenführer, the final match is due to start shortly. May I invite you and the Kommandant to take your seats?'

As Meissner spoke, Hustek arrived. Without acknowledging anybody, he took a seat at the game table that had been set up in the centre of the room.

Meissner was indignant – Hustek's insolence was insufferable. ‘Oberscharführer Hustek,' Meissner barked, in his best parade-ground voice. ‘Attention!'

Slowly Hustek raised his head and looked coolly at the officer. ‘I
don't have to take orders from you, Herr Obersturmführer,' he said. ‘I'm Gestapo.'
¹

The room fell silent. Meissner's knuckles turned white as his hand tightened on his walking stick.

A voice came from the side. ‘Really? Then perhaps, Oberscharführer, you'll take orders from me.' All eyes were on the Gruppenführer.

Hustek sprang to attention and saluted. ‘
Heil Hitler
.'

‘Don't “
Heil Hitler”
me. You dare to insult a hero of the German people? Where's
your
Iron Cross, eh? I've half a mind to have you sent to the Russian front. Then we'll see what you're made of.'

Hustek swallowed. ‘No, Herr Gruppenführer. I beg your pardon, sir. My behaviour was unacceptable. It won't happen again.'

The Kommandant glowered at the Oberscharführer. Everything had been going so well. ‘Herr Gruppenführer,' he said, in a voice that was menacingly quiet, ‘I would consider it a personal favour if you would permit me to deal with the Oberscharführer myself – after the conclusion of the competition.'

With a final glare at Hustek, the Gruppenführer took his seat. The game could begin.

1
The Gestapo had a presence at Auschwitz because there were many political prisoners there, mainly Communists. In practice, the Gestapo operated above and outside the German legal code and were accountable only to themselves.

14.

T
WO
K
NIGHTS

April 1944
Konzentrationslager Auschwitz-III, Monowitz

After roll call, Emil needs the latrine. Yves goes with him. The arrangements are primitive – a plank rigged above a pit, on which the
Häftlinge
must sit, shoulder to shoulder – and the stench is foul.

Yves settles beside Emil. He is worried about his friend after the beatings he has taken. ‘Your face is a bit of a mess.'

Emil explores the scab on his cheek with his fingertips. ‘I've been in better shape,' he admits.

Yves laughs hollowly. ‘Haven't we all.' He holds out a bony hand for inspection. ‘Look at me – I'm fading away to nothing. Jacqueline wouldn't recognize me if she saw me now.'

‘Jacqueline?'

Yves looks away. The hurt inside had settled to a constant ache but now, in an unguarded moment, it has risen to the surface. ‘My daughter.'

Emil finishes emptying his bowels. He pushes himself away from the plank and pulls his trousers up. He steps over to the tap to wash his hands. There is only a trickle of water but it will have to do. He is wiping his hands dry on his shirt when Yves joins him.

Gently, Emil puts a hand on Yves's shoulder. ‘Jacqueline – it's a lovely name,' he says quietly. ‘I wish you would tell me about her.' He squeezes
the shoulder, every bone shockingly sharp under his hand. ‘You know, here we are – we even share a bed . . . you would think we would know everything about one other – but we don't, do we? Not really.'

‘She was . . .' Yves stops, an agonized travesty of a grin on his face. ‘I can't.'

‘It's hard to talk about them, isn't it?' Emil makes a point of looking his friend in the eye. ‘But we must, otherwise they will be forgotten.'

Together they walk back towards the block. Their progress is painfully slow. Haltingly, Yves tells Emil something of his life before Auschwitz. ‘My wife's name was Annette. We would have been married ten years in September. Jacqueline was our only child. She was eight when we got picked up in one of the mass arrests. There was only the three of us – no other family, you understand – Annette and I were both orphans. Funny that, isn't it? Both of us, orphans, I mean.' He pauses for breath; the simple effort of speaking is telling on him. ‘Jacqueline was a beautiful child. Clever, in a quiet sort of way, and caring – always helping her mother. And then we got taken to Drancy. Annette was pregnant. The Germans didn't give a damn. We were put in a room with I don't know how many other people. And then Annette went into labour, about two months too soon. She haemorrhaged.' Yves runs a hand over his face. ‘A doctor came. He said perhaps if she had been in hospital, she might have been saved. He was terribly sorry, he said. The baby didn't make it either. It was a boy – not that it makes any difference. So that left me and Jacqueline. She became very quiet after her mother died. It was like she had died too, inside, but was somehow managing to carry on, on the outside. I think she did it for my sake. After that, we were inseparable.

‘Then there was the transport to Auschwitz. She was asleep when we arrived. When the SS bastards started hammering on the doors and
yelling at us like mad people she got very frightened. Then we were separated. Jacqueline was screaming to stay with me until one of the guards went over with a dog that started snarling and barking at her, which only made it worse . . .' Yves stops. He cannot find the right words. He collects himself and continues, his voice hoarse: ‘. . . until an old woman came and said, “Don't worry, monsieur, I will take care of her until you can come for her.”
Don't worry.
The most stupid thing I have ever heard in my life. How could I have let them take her away?'

Emil stops walking. His friend's anguish is raw, as if everything had happened only yesterday. ‘Yves.' Once again he takes his friend by the shoulder. ‘You can't allow yourself to think like that. There was nothing you could have done: they would have killed you right there.'

‘Maybe.' Yves's face is a picture of inconsolable pain. ‘But the thought of my little girl going to her death with nobody to comfort her is unbearable.'

‘I know, but it's not your fault. You can't blame yourself for what happened.' Emil almost goes on to say: ‘It was God's will,' but he stops himself.

‘I hate them,' Yves continues, his voice hardening. ‘When most people say they hate someone, they don't really mean it, but I do. We have had the most perfect instruction in the art of hatred, Emil, and we have a duty to put it to good use. One day, if God gives me the strength, I will pay them back for what they have done.'

The story is not so different from Emil's own, and he wonders how many of the men in Monowitz have a similar story to tell, of families torn apart, of women left to die, of children murdered in their thousands.

Bitterly, Yves goes on: ‘You know how some of the prisoners suck up to the
Kapos
and the block elders, trying to curry favour? Mostly they do it for nothing more than a crust of bread or an extra ration of soup. But
I've promised myself – no matter what, that's something I will never do. It would be a betrayal. I would rather make a pact with the Devil. If there was a way to get back at the SS and the scum who run this place for them I would take it, and to hell with the consequences.'

Emil is silent.

‘What about you?' Yves asks.

‘Me?' replies Emil. How can he tell anyone about what he has lost, when the full depths of his grief are still unknown to him?
But Yves is my friend. My only friend
, he reminds himself.

‘My wife was called Rosa –
is
called Rosa. When we arrived at the unloading ramp I saw she was selected for work, like me. She may still be alive. I pray she is. We had two boys, Louis and Marcel. The Germans took them away too, but at least they were with their grandmother. As for what became of them . . .'

September 1939
Paris

The word on everyone's lips was ‘war'. Only last year, Britain and France had both fallen for Hitler's bluff over Czechoslovakia, and now the German Chancellor was making threatening noises over Poland. Emil was sure there would be no second climbdown, but surely Hitler was astute enough to see that? However, such thoughts were far from his mind as he walked briskly along the Rue Cambronne on his way home. Sometimes Rosa would put Louis in the pram and walk to meet him. He loved it when she did that.

Looking up, he saw her walking towards him in the shade of the trees that lined the street; she seemed lost in thought. He ducked into a doorway until she drew level with him, then jumped out to surprise her.

Smiling, she punched him lightly on the chest. ‘
Fripon
,' she said. Rosa linked her arm in his as they strolled homewards.

‘Where's Louis?' he asked.

‘At home with your mother.' She looked at him coyly. ‘I've got something to tell you.'

‘Really? What?'

‘Oh, no, not so fast. You've got to guess.'

‘Guess? You know I'm no good at guessing.'

Rosa laughed.

‘All right . . . I know. Le Quintette du Hot are playing at Le Chat Noir.'

‘No, silly, you know they only ever play at Le Grosse Pomme, and anyway, they're in England at the moment.'

He grinned. ‘I knew that. I was testing you.' He turned serious. ‘War hasn't been declared?'

‘Not yet.'

‘I give in then. Come on, tell me.'

She smiled. ‘We're going to have another baby.'

‘Another baby?' Emil's face lit up with joy. ‘When?'

‘In May, the doctor says.'

Laughing, he took her hands and swung her round as if in a dance, all the way back to the apartment.

‘Maman
,' he yelled, running up the stairs to their door. ‘Has Rosa told you the news? We're going to have another baby! In May! Isn't that wonderful?'

His mother greeted them not with joy but with foreboding. ‘I take it you haven't heard the other news, then – France has just declared war on Germany.'

*

1962
Amsterdam

With a start, Emil woke. It was dark, and for a moment he could not remember where he was. His breathing was rapid and his heart was pounding. He must have been having a nightmare but he could not remember it. He lay back on his pillow and tried to settle again to sleep. But he could not get comfortable. The hotel pillow, which had been so soft earlier, was now solid and unyielding, despite the pummelling he gave it, and his limbs felt awkward no matter how he positioned them.

There was a reason why sleep had become so elusive: the conversation with Meissner and his ridiculous notion that the only way Emil could find peace was through forgiveness. And, more ridiculous still, that the person in need of forgiveness was himself. Emil rejected the suggestion. It was not he who had perpetrated such unspeakable evil. He was its victim. He turned again in the bed, his frustration and indignation mounting, but his attempt to relax was futile. Angrily he cast off the covers. Damn Meissner. To hell with him and his unassailable faith.

But there is no escaping the rules of Auschwitz. Everything is back to front. In Auschwitz the good are punished, the evil flourish, and the victims, not the perpetrators, are the ones who feel guilty. It is incomprehensible but true.

Emil had long ago lost hope that he would find anything to cleanse the past. And now Meissner had turned up, with his promise that hope could be rekindled . . . But hope was mocking Emil because it knew, as the priest did not, that the price of forgiveness was too high.

Forgive? He could not do it.

*

At breakfast, Emil found his appetite had deserted him. Coffee and two cigarettes left a bitter taste in his mouth as he headed to the Krasnapolsky and his next game in the tournament. He did not notice anything of his walk. He was preoccupied with the thoughts that had refused to let go of him during the night.

Could
it be that he was denying himself the redeeming power that the universe had to offer because he could not forgive? Or, as Meissner would have it, that he was refusing to forgive? If there was the smallest grain of truth in what Meissner had said, he would be a fool not to pursue it. But
was
Meissner right? Where did his authority come from? It was true the Catholic Church preached a doctrine of forgiveness, but its actions gave the lie to this: to be a Jew was to be acutely aware of the harsh treatment they had received at the hands of the Church over the centuries, right to the present day, and all in the name of their loving,
forgiving
Saviour. ‘Forgive' – it was an easy word to say. Too easy. The promise of hope that Meissner was holding out to him was an illusion.

Unable to sleep, and in an effort to see a way forward, Emil had cast the ten tiles on the points of the Sephiroth again, but the results had been unclear. A shadow seemed to have fallen over his powers of discernment and there was nothing he could do to see through it. The tile that was revealed when he turned it face upward was
א
– Aleph – which denoted the inaccessibility of the Divine Light. It told him there were some things that were beyond his understanding, and that for these he must have faith: but in what? He was a Jew, and despite all his searching of the Kabbalah, the religion of his fathers had done little to answer the questions that had raged in his soul for nearly twenty years. Surely it could not be telling him to have faith in the easy and convenient dogmas of the Catholics? Over the years, Emil had built for himself a subtle
series of fortifications to protect the few certainties he had left. It was the only way he thought he could survive. Now Meissner had succeeded in planting a seed of doubt inside this fortress. Emil steeled himself to make sure it would not take root.

In the second round, Emil had been matched against Lopez, an Argentinean. Emil had researched a number of his past games, won and lost, looking for his strengths and weaknesses. The South American played in a traditional style, attacking through the centre of the board, like Schweninger. If playing white, he favoured the English Opening; if black, the Queen's Indian Defence.

Emil felt equal to either challenge, and he won comfortably. As Lopez congratulated him, he remarked: ‘You surprised me, Monsieur Clément. You didn't use any of the defences you have employed at the top level in the last three years.'

Emil smiled a victor's smile, gracious but not condescending. ‘That's the point, Señor Lopez – to be unpredictable.' The result of the match registered by the arbiter, and their moves recorded for posterity, Emil made for the exit.

Meissner was waiting for him at the door.

‘Good morning,' he said, warmly. ‘You won, of course?'

Emil nodded. He was not sure he wanted to talk to Meissner again. He tried to walk past, but the cleric fell into step beside him.

Emil stopped. ‘Look,' he said, ‘I don't want to appear rude, but I think we probably said enough yesterday.'

‘You think we said enough?' Meissner looked appraisingly at Emil. ‘Perhaps you're right. Who knows? I have spent quite some time since thinking about what we said. I wondered if you had.'

Emil hesitated before replying, but then said, ‘I've been thinking about it for twenty years.' He strode off, leaving the other man behind.

‘There is someone I should like you to meet, and, in the circumstances, the sooner the better,' the bishop called after him.

Emil stopped and half turned his head. ‘Who?'

Smiling, the bishop limped forward to place a hand on Emil's arm. ‘It's a surprise, but I think it will do you good.'

‘I'm at that time in my life where surprises are rarely enjoyable.'

The bishop dropped his smile. ‘I did not say it would be enjoyable. I said I thought it would do you good. Will you come?'