The Death's Head Chess Club Page 10

  Summoning his reserves of dignity, Gruppenführer Glücks presented the awards – first to Hustek and then Brossman. He decided it was an opportune time to say a few words. He disliked speaking in public, fearing to say the wrong thing or to have his words misrepresented by a rival, but here he was on safe ground. Something big was about to happen to Auschwitz, and it was important to bolster morale in advance. Luckily, Himmler had recently made a speech on the same subject. Glücks had no qualms about plagiarism: the Reichsführer would take it as a compliment.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he said. ‘It is most gratifying to see such good spirits among our fighting men for – make no mistake – every man here is fighting a war every bit as much as any soldier of the Wehrmacht on the Eastern or the Italian fronts. Only our war is against a foe more wily, more insidious, more vicious than any Russian or American or Englander. Our foe is the Jew who, given the slightest opportunity, would betray our people and take from us our birthright. We must be stern – not only with our enemies, but with ourselves. We cannot permit ourselves to relax our vigilance for an instant, for to do so would invite disaster.

  ‘It is a crime against the blood of the German people to be concerned for Jews in labour camps, or to make concessions that would make things still more difficult for our children and grandchildren. If someone says to you, “It is inhumane to use women or children to dig ditches or work in factories; I can’t make them do it because the exertion will kill them,” then you must reply, “If that ditch is not built, or if those armaments are not made, then German soldiers will die, and they are sons of German mothers. You are a traitor to your own blood.”

  ‘As for the difficult work you do here in Auschwitz, this is a page of glory in our history that can never be written, and the heroic part you have played will never be acknowledged. But we know how difficult it would be for Germany today – under bombing raids and the hardships and privations of war – were we still to have the Jews in every city as secret saboteurs and agitators.

  ‘We have the moral right’ – he paused – ‘no, more than that, we have a duty to our people, to our blood, to destroy this race that wants to destroy us. It is no different to a doctor who exterminates a germ because if he does not eliminate the infection it will kill his patient. The Reichsführer-SS has said that any infection must be eradicated without mercy before it is able to gain a hold.

  ‘This work is not easy, but it is our duty. We did not ask to be given this duty, nonetheless we take up the burden willingly. Despite all the difficulties we face and the enemies that would destroy us, we can be proud that we have carried out this most arduous of tasks in the spirit of love of our people, and that the work we do will cause no harm to our soul, our virtue or our honour.’

  He raised his right hand. ‘Sieg Heil!’

  The roar that followed was deafening. The men gathered round him must have shouted ‘Heil!’ three, five, ten times.

  With the clamour resounding in his ears, the Gruppenführer left the room, followed by the Kommandant.

  Meissner waited until the noise abated before offering a hand to Brossman, saying, ‘My commiserations.’ He turned to Hustek. ‘Oberscharführer,’ he said, his voice curt, ‘come to my office on Monday and I will make the arrangements for your leave.’

  ‘Thank you, Herr Obersturmführer,’ Hustek replied in a sneering tone. ‘I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to it.’

  Meissner exchanged a glance with Brossman. ‘Indeed, Oberscharführer,’ he said, not bothering to disguise the irony in his voice, ‘it must be almost as much as we are.’

  Hustek froze. With studied insolence he placed his cap on his head and, without saluting, walked away.

  The two officers watched as he made his way through the crowded room. Among all the NCOs present, only one congratulated the Oberscharführer, and left with him.

  ‘The insolence of that man,’ Meissner seethed.

  ‘Gestapo,’ Brossman replied, as if no other explanation were necessary. ‘Don’t let the bastard get to you. And if you want my advice, I would start watching my back if I were you. I think you’ve just made yourself an enemy.’

  Meissner reached into his pocket for his cigarette case. He offered one to Brossman. ‘I can take care of myself,’ he said. ‘Besides, after the Kommandant has finished with him, I think Hustek will want to keep a low profile for quite some time.’

  *

  The Kommandant enjoyed the use of a large house close to the main entrance of the Stammlager. That night, he hosted a dinner party for his senior officers, with Gruppenführer Glücks as guest of honour. Liebehenschel apologized for the poor quality of the food but, in reality, the fare was sumptuous compared with what most Germans enjoyed.

  Glücks, who prided himself on being an instant judge of character, found the Kommandant a difficult man to assess: Liebehenschel was too familiar with his senior officers and Glücks sensed he was not a man to inspire much in the way of loyalty among his subordinates. But he could not fault his hospitality: wine flowed freely, followed by cognac and cigars, leaving the company in a relaxed mood.

  When it was time for the officers to take their leave, the Gruppenführer asked the Kommandant’s deputy, Sturmbannführer Richard Bär, to stay behind. While two orderlies cleared the dinner table, the three SS men retired to the sitting room.

  Bär was the first to speak. ‘I trust you feel your visit has been worthwhile, sir?’

  The Gruppenführer rested his cigar in an ashtray and held out his snifter for a refill. ‘It’s always worthwhile to meet front-line officers and get from them the true picture of what we’re up against. But I must confess that I had another motive in coming here. Your chess tournament merely gave me a convenient reason.’

  ‘Oh?’ The Kommandant poured a generous measure of spirits into his own glass.

  ‘Yes. I’ve been putting it off, but I can delay no longer. Something quite extraordinary is about to happen, and I must make sure that all the pieces are in place to ensure its success.’

  The two Auschwitz officers exchanged a glance. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ Liebehenschel said, ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand.’

  ‘I want your honest opinion, Liebehenschel. Tell me – what’s your position on the Jewish question?’

  The Kommandant frowned. ‘The Jews? I’m surprised you should ask me that, sir. Like any good German I think they’re a menace and a blight on humanity.’

  ‘Yes – but what do you think we should do with them?’

  ‘I think we should make the swine work for the good of the Reich, like we are already doing here and in other camps.’

  ‘But you don’t think they should be exterminated?’

  ‘I didn’t say that, sir. Once they’ve outlived their usefulness, what else can one do with them? But I think it’s inefficient simply to kill them out of hand. Surely it’s better to get as much as we can out of them first?’

  The Gruppenführer cleared his throat. ‘It’s being said in Berlin that you’re not the right person to be the Kommandant of Auschwitz, that you’re too soft on the Jews.’

  The Kommandant sat bolt upright. ‘And who is saying that?’

  Glücks registered Liebehenschel’s alarm. ‘It doesn’t matter. What matters is that it has reached the ears of the Reichsführer-SS.’ He sighed heavily. ‘Look, Auschwitz is the most important of the camps in the east. It embodies everything we’re trying to do about the whole Jewish problem. The Kommandant of Auschwitz has to be like Caesar’s wife – above even the slightest hint of suspicion. We simply can’t have someone in charge who’s soft on the Jews, or who is perceived as being soft on them.’

  The Kommandant was affronted. ‘Sir, if I have been soft on the Jews in Auschwitz, it is only because I had orders to increase the productivity of the factories. And it was only a few hours ago that you were telling me what a good job I had done.’

  ‘Yes, but at the same time, the numbers being sent for Sonderbehandlung1 in Birkenau have fallen not
iceably.’

  Liebehenschel leaned forward, eager to explain. ‘But if we want to keep the work camps operating at full capacity, we have to send fewer people to the gas chambers. It’s simple arithmetic. Since the beginning of the year, all arrivals who are physically fit have been selected for work, and the results speak for themselves. It is on my orders that we have begun construction of an extension to the Birkenau complex to house them.’

  The Gruppenführer’s voice took on a conspiratorial tone. ‘I am here to inform you that the situation has changed. There are plans to send many more Jews here – far more than will be needed for work in the labour camps. Capacity for special treatment at Birkenau must be increased dramatically.’

  ‘Many more Jews?’ Bär asked. ‘But I thought we had practically emptied Europe of them.’

  The Gruppenführer shook his head. ‘Not quite. The French are dragging their feet, and it seems that in Denmark the Jews disappeared overnight. But these new arrivals are from elsewhere.’

  ‘Are we permitted to know where?’

  ‘Hungary. According to Eichmann, there are at least a million Jews there, and it has been decided to get them out before Horthy and the rest of his pack of cowards go over to the Russians.’2

  Liebehenschel could hardly believe what he was hearing. ‘And they are all coming here? It will take a year to process that many, at least.’

  ‘We don’t have a year. Eichmann says he can send us twelve thousand a day.’

  Liebehenschel frowned. He thought he was used to the unreasonable demands of his superiors, but this—? ‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s not possible. Even with all the crematoria going at full tilt, we simply don’t have the capacity to process so many.’

  The Gruppenführer drained his glass. ‘I thought that’s what you might say. I’m sorry to have to tell you, but as of this moment you are relieved of your command.’

  ‘What? Relieved of my command? But . . . why? You said I was doing a good job. Surely . . .’ Liebehenschel realized he was gabbling and stopped speaking. A moment later, he resumed, his voice calmer. ‘Naturally, I will follow whatever orders I am given, but . . . who is to take my place?’

  The Gruppenführer indicated Bär. ‘You will be succeeded by your deputy. He will take over responsibility for the day-to-day running of the camp, but it was felt in Berlin that a more experienced hand should take charge of processing the Hungarian Jews. Obersturmbannführer Höss will return temporarily, specifically for this purpose. The operation is code-named Aktion Höss in his honour.’

  Bär raised his glass in salute. ‘Thank you, sir. I will do my best to live up to my new responsibilities.’

  ‘And what is to become of me?’ Liebehenschel asked, quietly.

  The Gruppenführer reached across to squeeze the ex-Kommandant’s arm. ‘No need to look so downcast. You are to be the new Kommandant of Majdanek. You’ll have a fortnight’s home leave, then take up your new position on your return.’

  ‘And when does all this start?’

  His task done, the Gruppenführer permitted himself a small smile. ‘Tomorrow.’

  1 The SS rarely referred openly to the extermination of the Jews. Instead, the euphemism Sonderbehandlung – ‘special treatment’ – was used.

  2 Admiral Miklós Horthy was the regent of Hungary, effectively its ruler since 1920. Although an ally of Germany, up to this point in the war Hungary had permitted only limited persecution of Jews. In the spring of 1944, fearing that Hungary might surrender to the Russians, the German army was sent into Hungary, swiftly followed by SS units led by Adolf Eichmann, determined to round up the Hungarian Jews and transport them to Auschwitz. There were far too many for them to be assimilated into the labour camps: the vast majority were sent to the gas chambers immediately on arrival.

  16.

  FIANCHETTO

  1962

  Amsterdam

  In his hotel near the Oude Kerk, Wilhelm Schweninger was packing to go home. He had hoped his return would be triumphant, but it was not to be. He was not sorry to be leaving: the hotel’s attempt at modern décor merely made it look drab, and he was still smarting from his defeat by Emil Clément. In his wallet he had a ticket for the 16:17 train from Amsterdam Centraal to Berlin, where he intended to get numbingly drunk.

  There was a knock on the door. He looked at his watch and sighed. The porter was too early: check-out wasn’t until 11:30. ‘I’m not ready yet,’ he called in German, knowing the porter spoke it fluently. ‘Come back in a quarter of an hour.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Herr Schweninger,’ a voice replied, also in German. The long narrow corridor beyond the door gave it an odd echo. ‘But could you spare a few minutes of your time? It’s rather important.’

  Schweninger dropped a shirt on the bed and opened the door. ‘Oh,’ he said, surprised. ‘I wasn’t expecting a priest.’

  ‘I must ask you to forgive the intrusion, Herr Schweninger. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Paul Meissner.’

  Schweninger did not stand aside to let the priest in. ‘What can I do for you, Father?’

  ‘It’s more what I can do for you,’ the priest replied.

  ‘And what is that, exactly?’

  ‘I offer forgiveness for your sins.’

  Schweninger shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Father, I’m no longer a believer, and you’ve caught me at a bad time. I am about to leave Amsterdam.’

  ‘I know. That’s why it’s important that I speak to you now.’

  ‘You’re talking in riddles, and I’ve got a train to catch. If you don’t mind—?’ Schweninger tried to close the door.

  Meissner put his shoulder against the door and spoke quickly: ‘My SS number was 1214958 and my Party membership number was 6374971. You joined the Party in 1934 and your membership number was 1265409. Although you held a position at the Propaganda Ministry, you were never inducted into the SS because of the injury to your hand.’

  Schweninger paled but then grew angry. ‘What is this? Are you trying to blackmail me? Well, you can forget it – I have owned up to my past and put it all behind me.’ He pushed at the door again.

  Meissner put his foot against it. ‘It would be a strange sort of blackmail, attempted by a priest, would it not? I revealed my own history to you to show that I too am tainted by a previous life that will not let me be.’

  ‘Look, I don’t know how you know all these things about me, but I don’t respond to threats. Now if you don’t go, I’ll call reception and have you removed.’

  ‘I’m not here to threaten you, Herr Schweninger, far from it – I’m here to help you. If you’ll allow me to buy you lunch, I will tell you everything. Afterwards, you will be quite free to catch your train, I promise.’

  There was something in the tone of Meissner’s voice that made Schweninger hesitate. He stepped back from the door, allowing it to swing open.

  ‘Let me be sure that I understand what you are saying, Father Meissner,’ he said. ‘If I listen to your story, you will buy me lunch and, afterwards, you will not try to stop me from getting my train.’ Meissner nodded. ‘In that case, why not? But I warn you – I have a healthy appetite.’

  Schweninger picked up a jacket and stepped out into the corridor. Followed by the priest, he walked along it to the door to the stairs.

  ‘What exactly is all this about?’ he asked, as they walked.

  ‘There is someone I would like you to meet. He’s waiting for us in a restaurant on Oudekerksplein.’

  May 1944

  Konzentrationslager Auschwitz-III, Monowitz

  Meissner had a letter, from France. The envelope was creased and thumb-print-stained. It had clearly taken some time to reach him. It took him some moments to recognize the writing.

  I Abteilung

  SS Panzer Artillerie Regiment 2

  2nd SS-Panzergrenadier-Division Das Reich

  Montauban, 12 March 1944

  My dear Paul,

  I’ll bet you’re surprised to hear from me. You must hav
e thought I was dead! To be fair, that wouldn’t be so far from the truth, but you know I’m not given much to writing. I tried to see you when you were still in the field hospital but they told me I was too late and that you had already been sent back to Germany. Nobody seemed to know where you had ended up and there were still many Russians to fight. After you went on your little holiday they counter-attacked in force. You probably saw something of it in the newsreels but you can’t get the sense of what it’s really like from them, can you? You know what I’m talking about. You don’t get the smells – the earth burning around you, the tightness in your belly when you see a squadron of T-34s heading towards you, and the elation when you’re surrounded by a dozen burning tanks and you’ve come through unscathed. You’ll be pleased to know that old Schratt is still making life hell for the junior officers. In case you didn’t know, he was the one that pulled you out of the Wespe after you were hit . . .

  Meissner looked up and stared out of the window. Old Schratt? Not so old. He couldn’t have been more than three or four years older than he was himself. He could picture him clearly: his helmet pushed back on his head and a chin like a rifle butt. It was good to know he was still well. He was one of those soldiers that every regiment needed – he had probably been born wearing jackboots. He had terrified Meissner when, as a young officer, he had arrived to take command of the unit. The Scharführer had taken him to a quiet corner and made it clear that it was he who was in charge – not some wet-behind-the-ears Untersturmführer foisted on them by a tin soldier in headquarters who had nothing better to do. What Schratt taught Meissner was far more important than anything he had learned in officer training. He had taught him how to keep himself and his men alive. ‘How much you care for your men every day is exactly how much they’ll care for you when it really counts.’ And the Scharführer had been right, as he had been about everything else. And now it seemed that old Schratt had saved his life.

  . . . Well, the good news is that now we’re on holiday too. The division was pulled out of the line and as a punishment for not fighting hard enough we have been sent to France. We are stationed in Montauban, about 50 km north of Toulouse. I must say the French make a bit of a change from the monumental stupidity of the Ukrainian peasants. Most of them don’t like us, of course, but it doesn’t stop them trying to sell us their cheese and wine. And the women, Paul – you should see the women. Real beauties.