The Death's Head Chess Club Read online

  Like himself, many of the Prominenten spent much of their time in idleness, desperately bored, amusing themselves by baiting prisoners and occasionally getting a ticket for the brothel. Now, he wondered if it was possible to get them interested in chess.

  If he had been in the Stammlager he could have organized items from Kanada to give as prizes, but the camp economy in Monowitz was confined within such tight boundaries that, apart from brothel tickets, it was hard to think of anything that his fellow Greens would value enough. The Häftlinge were another matter: almost anything was of value to them as long as they could exchange it for food, but that wasn’t going to be much use to him. No, try as he might, he could think of no way to turn the game to his advantage.

  He sent for the Watchmaker. ‘Give me the watch you promised and you can play your stupid game.’

  The Frenchman held out something wrapped in a piece of cloth. ‘I was already on my way,’ he said.

  Brack opened it slowly. It was a pocket watch. ‘You gave Muckermann a wristwatch,’ he snapped.

  Emil knew he had to choose his words carefully; he had been dreading this moment. ‘I beg your pardon, Herr Brack. I assumed a man of your eminence would prefer something more fitting to his stature.’ His heart had sunk when the Polish foreman had given him the ancient timepiece. But it had polished up quite well, and although the case was brass, not gold, it had a handsome crest engraved upon it, and a pleasant chime that Emil had managed to restore. Emil reached across to demonstrate. ‘It chimes every hour,’ he said, turning the hands to make it sound.

  Brack actually smiled. This set him apart. It also told the other Prominenten that the Watchmaker belonged to him. And it was then that it suddenly occurred to him how he could benefit from chess: the Häftlinge were all slave labourers – slaves without owners, but that would change. There must be many good chess players in the camp. He would make it his business to find them, and then he would set them against one another, like fighting cocks – no, not fighting cocks, something more refined than that . . . like racehorses. And the games would become entertainments that he, Bodo Brack, would put on, an affirmation of his dominance.

  1962

  Amsterdam

  Schweninger leaned forward, puzzled. ‘Let me be sure I understand,’ he said. ‘The prisoners who played chess were slaves, playing at the orders of this brute, for the entertainment of his fellow criminals . . . like the gladiators of ancient Rome?’

  ‘Precisely,’ Emil admitted.

  ‘I would have refused to play,’ the German stated flatly.

  Meissner rolled his eyes. Emil said, ‘I have not the slightest doubt that that is exactly what you would have done, but it would have changed nothing, and I would most likely have been killed.’

  ‘Then I would not have played as well as I could have. I would have ruined their sport.’

  Emil looked hard at the German. ‘I was not playing for their pleasure. I was playing for me. I was playing because chess was something the SS could not take from me. With or without chess, we were slaves. This way, at least, I got to play the sublime game.’

  Schweninger sniffed and shook his head dismissively. ‘This Brack. Do you know what happened to him after the war?’

  ‘Yes. But that would be getting ahead of myself. You said you wanted to know how the bishop and I met for the first time.’

  Meissner raised his hand a little as he shook his head. ‘Please. I would be most grateful if you would stop calling me “bishop”. My name is Paul.’

  ‘And my name is Emil, though you persist in calling me “Watchmaker”.’

  Meissner winced. ‘Yes. You are right. I am sorry.’

  Emil nodded curtly. ‘So, I first met Paul in late May or early June—’

  ‘I can tell you the date exactly. It was a Sunday. The twenty-first of May 1944.’

  ‘How strange that you can remember so precisely.’

  ‘Not really. It was my mother’s birthday.’

  ‘My mother was killed in Auschwitz. Did you know that, Paul?’ Emil’s voice cut through the café; several diners turned to stare. ‘She celebrated her last birthday in 1943,’ he continued, more softly.

  A silence fell between them.

  The exchange had made Schweninger feel uncomfortable. At a loss for something to say, he glanced at his watch. ‘My God,’ he said. ‘Have you seen the time? I’ve missed my train.’

  Instinctively, Emil and Paul checked their watches. ‘Dear Lord,’ the priest murmured, distractedly.

  Schweninger scratched his cheek thoughtfully. ‘Herr Clément . . .’ His voice thickened and he coughed to clear it. ‘Would you be offended if I offered my condolences?’

  Emil’s eyes were now closed, but he gave a slight jerk of his head.

  Schweninger’s chair scraped on the floor as he pushed it back from the table. ‘I’m sorry, but I must leave. If I don’t get back to my hotel, they will let my room go.’

  Meissner reached across the table to touch Schweninger’s sleeve. ‘Don’t worry about that. It’s my fault. I insist you stay with me at the Krijtberg.’

  ‘Is that a hotel?’

  The question provoked a surge of anxiety in the priest: he wanted Schweninger to remain in Amsterdam, for now, at least. ‘No,’ he replied. ‘It’s a place run by my order. It is a church with a house attached, which is usually occupied by priests like me, home on leave from the missions. There are only two of us there at the moment – the parish priest and myself. Most of the bedrooms are empty. It would be no trouble to put you up.’ He breathed a quick prayer that his powers of persuasion would prove to be as strong as ever. ‘The rooms are perhaps a little spartan compared with your hotel, but they’re clean, and the housekeeper gives us a hearty breakfast each morning. What do you say? Will you give it a try?’

  1 The period of democratic government in Germany from the end of the First World War to the enabling Act in March 1933 by which the Reichstag granted dictatorial powers to Hitler and, as a democratic body, voted itself out of existence.

  2 During this period, when the Nazis were aiming for electoral success, a Gauleiter was no more than a regional Nazi party leader. The Gauleiter of Berlin was a key position if the Nazis were to make inroads in the capital. Nazi tactics included attempts to discredit every element of the Weimar government, including the police, who would often try to prevent Nazi actions against their political rivals.

  19.

  THE NAJDORF VARIATION

  Emil made his way back to his hotel. Meissner had asked him to meet them later, but he was not sure he wanted to.

  The late afternoon sun was bright, but gave little warmth as Emil stood on a bridge over the Singel Canal, wondering what he was doing. Schweninger and Meissner had both been Nazis, committed to the dream of a German Empire lording it over the rest of Europe. Slavery had been the least of many crimes, and yet Schweninger had immediately protested that he would never have submitted to it, as so many had.

  Did he have a point? For the life of him, Emil did not know. The realisation shocked him: he did not know. Until today there had been a sharp clarity in his consciousness, especially in his hatred of the Germans, that he had nurtured, as a parent would a child, until it was almost the only thing that gave him any meaning. Hatred and chess: was that the sum total of his existence? Meissner is right, he thought grudgingly. What kind of a life is that?

  He stared at the water below him, and saw a stranger staring back at him from its murky stillness. He heard the voice of Yves, as clearly as if he were standing beside him: ‘One of us has to live to get out of here, if only to tell the rest of the world what is happening.’

  Well, he had done that. He had fulfilled his duty to the thousands who had perished in Auschwitz. Nobody knew for sure how many they were: at his trial, Kommandant Höss had claimed the death toll ran into millions; so many that the numbers were distant, abstract – they were not real people, they were figures to be entered into a calculating machine, like an exercise in
accounting. And Emil had done his duty. He had testified. He had written his book. He had borne witness to the horror . . . Still it was not enough. Nothing he did could free him from the aching loss and guilt. Meissner was right about that too, he realized now. It was not enough to bear witness. He had to make people understand the truth of existence in a death camp; how it penetrated every consciousness, poisoning every experience, twisting every thought.

  Painful as it was, Emil decided he would tell his story to Schweninger. Then perhaps the German would understand. And perhaps he, Emil, would find some peace.

  Perhaps.

  Tuesday, 6 June 1944

  Konzentrationslager Auschwitz-II, Birkenau

  Something terrible is happening. The camp senses it but cannot see it. It is hidden, concealed in unknown depths. The camp has felt this pulse of pain and terror before, but never with such intensity, repeating over and over. The camp is searching for the source, determined to find it, frantically extending tendrils of consciousness along the pathways and between the many huts of Birkenau. It is transmitted through the concrete posts that have their roots deep in the earth, and along miles of electrified wire; there is a whisper of it in the railway siding where, every day now, the cattle cars unload their human cargo.

  We follow the rails inwards from the arch, beneath which the trains enter the camp. Ahead, there is a grove of birch trees. Their silvery trunks reflect the sun to make patterns on the grass below. We listen. All we can hear is the rustling of the leaves and the sigh of an early summer breeze. Then we see them: a column of people standing quietly in the birch grove, queuing outside a low, red-brick building dominated by a large chimney. Thick smoke pours into the sky, a black stain on its pristine summer blue. There is an unfamiliar smell, cloying and unpleasant. Around the building, sheltered by the trees from prying eyes, are grassy lawns, and the people are there: men, women, and children, patiently waiting their turn to descend into a stairwell that takes them below ground.

  They proceed in a calm, orderly fashion, with no pushing or jostling. They have been told they have been brought to this place to take a shower.

  ‘A shower?’ a voice asks incredulously. It is a woman. Her nervousness makes her voice a little too loud. She did not intend for the SS men who stand around with dogs and machine guns to hear her. She is suspicious of the Germans. They are not known for their good treatment of Jews, and the set-up seems rather elaborate for something as simple as taking a shower.

  Smiling indulgently, an officer calls to her. ‘Where have you come from?’

  ‘Debrecen.’ The officer’s eyebrows lift as if to repeat the question. ‘In Hungary,’ the woman explains.

  ‘And how much time did you spend on the train?’

  ‘Six days.’

  He nods sagely. ‘Six days cooped up with I don’t know how many other people and you don’t need a shower?’

  Despite all that their experience has taught them about the SS, people nearby cannot help but smile.

  ‘We are not barbarians, you know,’ the officer continues. He looks more closely at the woman, who wishes now she had never opened her mouth. She is young, in her twenties, and beneath the dirt and matted hair, she is quite attractive. ‘What did you do before you came here?’ he asks.

  ‘I was a seamstress.’

  ‘A good one?’

  She blushes. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Men’s or women’s clothes?’

  ‘Women’s. Mostly undergarments.’

  Again she is on the receiving end of his indulgent grin. ‘Well, here you’ll learn to make men’s clothes. We are short of good seamstresses.’ When he says ‘good’, he catches her eye and winks. ‘We need as many as we can get to make uniforms for our troops.’

  She does not seem convinced so he addresses the people nearby: ‘Are there any more of you who are skilled at making clothes?’ A couple of hands are raised.

  The officer points at a man who is cradling a young child in his arms. ‘How about you,’ he says. ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I was a shoemaker.’

  ‘Can you make military boots?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then you’ll do well here.’ The officer spreads his arms wide as if to embrace the people around him. ‘We are not fools,’ he says. ‘We know good work when we see it, and we reward it. So let’s be practical. Put away your doubts. You are in a work camp. After your shower, you will be given your assignments. I give you my word as a German officer.’

  His speech is reassuring, but the people do not know that they have entered the kingdom of lies, and it is thus that the camp finds them, shuffling down concrete steps into a long underground chamber, where they are told to undress: men, women and children all together.

  There are pegs with numbers where they hang their clothes. They are told to remember the number so they will be able to find their belongings afterwards. Many try to cover their nakedness with their hands as they shamble along the corridor to the shower room. There are very many of them and they are crammed in tight – too tight. Suddenly, the doors are slammed shut and there is the distinct sound of heavy bolts being shot home.

  The lights go out.

  Voices are heard in the darkness: ‘What is happening?’ Some call to their loved ones. Some start to weep. Children cry and cling to their mothers and fathers. Then there is a harsh, scraping noise from above, and a shaft of light penetrates. It reveals fearful faces staring upwards at the noise.

  Above, SS men wearing gas masks have removed grilles from ducts that lead down to the shower room. In their hands they hold tins marked with a skull and crossbones. From the tins they pour granules of a powdery substance into the ducts. It falls lightly on those standing below – a fine, soft grit. It gives off a sweet, sickly smell.

  The grilles are put back. Below it is dark again. Then somebody gasps: ‘I can’t breathe!’

  Then another: ‘Gas. Poison gas!’

  People start to yell. Those nearest the doors hammer on them frantically, begging to be let out. There is a surge of panic towards the doors. Children and old people are crushed. Now many are screaming, especially the women and children. For a few short minutes the noise is deafening. When it abates someone can be heard saying Kaddish, the Jewish prayer for the dead. Some succumb to the poison less quickly than others, but in a matter of minutes, they are all silent, all dead.

  Afterwards, the mouths of many of the victims remain open, as if their screams continued after death.

  By the end of this summer day, nearly 4,000 lives have been extinguished. The only concern among the SS who have orchestrated this murder is that the corpses must be removed and burned before the next consignment arrives the following day.

  All that is left in the underground chamber are the last traces of gas and rows of empty clothes hanging mute, in accusing ranks. Those, and the silence of a thousand absent voices.

  A wail of grief passes through the camp at the horror it has just witnessed; a long keening wail that nobody hears: not the SS men who run the camp; not the thousands of prisoners who yet endure; not the camp orchestra which plays its absurd, cheerful tunes at the start and end of each day; not the birds that have deserted the trees that surround the camp; not the earth itself on which the camp lies.

  Only the wind hears it, but it is only one cry among many, and before it can be remembered, it is lost.

  1962

  Kerk de Krijtberg, Amsterdam

  Dinner in the presbytery was a frugal affair: onion soup followed by boiled potatoes and fried herring.

  ‘I do enjoy herring,’ Meissner said good-naturedly, ‘but why did the good Lord have to give them so many blasted bones?’ He grinned at Emil, pleased that the chess player had decided to return.

  Schweninger was silent, chewing stolidly; as always, his appetite came first, conversation, later.

  Afterwards, they retired to the same gloomy lounge where Emil had woken from his fainting spell.

  ‘I think perhaps it
’s my turn to take up the story,’ the priest said, offering cigarettes to his guests. ‘There are two sides to every tale, after all.’

  He held a taper to the glowing coals in the fireplace to get a light, then settled into an easy chair, inhaling deeply on his cigarette before starting to speak. ‘You might be surprised to hear that I was not brought up to hate Jews. My parents were staunch Catholics and it was only when I was inducted into the Hitler Youth that anti-Jewish sentiments were demanded of me. But my parents never took the rhetoric too seriously, so neither did I. When I got to Auschwitz, as far as I could see, the work that the Jews were doing was badly needed by the Reich, and it did not occur to me that the new Kommandant, Sturmbannführer Bär, would object to the idea of pitting this “unbeatable” Jew’ – he gestured at Emil – ‘against our SS chess champions. After all, as my orderly, Eidenmüller, would have said, we couldn’t have a Jew thinking he was invincible, could we?’

  When neither Emil nor Schweninger commented, he continued. ‘I was due to go on leave back to my family in Cologne, but when I got to the station in Oświęcim I learned that Allied bombing had severely disrupted rail traffic from Silesia to Germany, so I had to put off my journey. The following Sunday was a rest day in Monowitz, so I summoned Eidenmüller and told him I wanted to take a look at this Jewish chess marvel for myself.’

  May 1944

  Konzentrationslager Auschwitz-III, Monowitz