The Death's Head Chess Club Page 6

  The SS doctors take no chances. On their command, the fate of the men is sealed: all three are sent to the gas chamber. This is to be expected. The sick men are resigned to their fate, and nobody lifts a finger to help them.

  And now heavily armed SS men are marching through the camp, many of them with dogs. The camp bell is ringing, a sound that drowns out the camp’s own frantic warnings. When the bell rings before sunrise it means: ‘Out of bed. Rouse yourselves. Up, up, up!’; when it rings at any other time of day, it is a command to return to your block and stay there.

  In every block the inmates cower.

  Emil is playing chess in Block 46 when the bell rings. He is winning but that is hardly surprising: since the Blockältester deigned to allow him to play, he has won every game. Nobody says a word when he leaves and walks like an automaton to his own block. Widmann, the Blockschreiber, is conducting a roll call. His pencil marks a tick against Emil’s number. Inmates crowding around the door keep watch. It is the same in every block. The watchers shout into the block, reporting what is happening. The SS men march past without a glance in their direction. ‘They are going past, they are going past.’ The shouts are almost jubilant with relief. Bit by bit, more information trickles in from the door.

  ‘They have stopped at Block 51.’

  ‘They have sent the dogs in.’

  ‘Now everybody is coming out.’

  ‘They are marching them away.’

  The SS doctors outside Block 51 come not as healers, but as executioners. Without regard for whether they are infected or healthy, all the inmates in the block are sent to Birkenau. Only the Blockältester and the other criminals who run the block for the SS are allowed the luxury of going to the infirmary. They will have to take their chances, but at least they are not going up the chimney.

  The other inmates start to breathe again. They do not care whom fate has selected for death on this day, as long as it is not them. It is not because they are naturally cold-hearted. It is simply the way of things in Auschwitz. They deceive themselves, telling one another: ‘It was their time; it is going to happen to us all eventually. Who has the strength to think about when it will be our time, as long as it is not now?’

  A deep sense of shame runs through the camp. It has witnessed another barbarity. Its very conscience is defiled by what it has seen. It can no longer tell good from evil: there is no good, there is no evil – only life or death. Over 200 men are put into trucks and taken away. They will be forced into one of the gas chambers or shot. A day later their cold ashes will be scattered over the surrounding fields.

  Emil finds Yves. Never before have they seen an entire block taken away to be murdered.

  ‘It is an act of depravity,’ Emil says, in the privacy afforded by their bunk space. ‘Those were good men, healthy. These SS – some of them are doctors. Do they feel no shame?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Yves replies. ‘If they did, they could not do what they do; it would be intolerable to them.’ He is silent for a short while, then adds, ‘Somebody must remember this day, to be a witness to it.’

  Emil puts his head in his hands. He starts to weep, silent sobs shaking his body.

  ‘What is it, Emil?’

  The watchmaker searches his friend’s eyes, as if hoping for forgiveness. ‘I am scared that I have been infected by their corruption . . . if I were to look back on this day, it would be to say it was a day I played chess. This – horror – is too much to ask me to remember.’

  Yves takes his friend’s hands in his own. ‘You mustn’t think like that. This is not your shame to bear, but theirs. They do it because we are nothing to them. We are worthless. We are no longer even human beings. We are less to the SS than sacks of beans or potatoes. That is the truth of this place.’

  But Emil is not satisfied. ‘How did we become so worthless?’

  ‘Have you not understood, Emil? Are you so caught up in your mystical other-world of pawns and kings that you have not seen that we are on a journey to nothingness?’

  April 1944

  Kanada, Konzentrationslager Auschwitz-II, Birkenau

  Meissner surveyed the scene before him with seemingly calm detachment. He was in a large warehouse. Inmates scurried in with heavily loaded hand-carts, emptied their contents onto a large pile in the centre of the floor, then out again to return with a fresh load. An army of people, mostly women, some in camp uniforms, others in ordinary civilian clothes, delved into the pile, sorting it into a variety of categories: shirts, trousers, coats, dresses, jackets, hats, shoes, underwear, spectacles, suitcases, handbags – the last gleanings of the loot stolen from Jews from across Europe. Around the edges of the warehouse were mountains of these goods, waiting to be redistributed.

  It was difficult not to show amazement at the scale of the plunder that was taking place before his eyes.

  ‘Trains arrive daily,’ the Kommandant said, in a low, matter-of-fact tone, ‘sometimes two a day. Typically we can expect a thousand to fifteen hundred head on each train. They are compelled to leave their belongings on the unloading ramp. When they are inducted into the camp, they are relieved of their clothes and small possessions, like wristwatches or jewellery. Everything becomes the property of the Reich. It is all brought here to Kanada. All sorts of things find their way here. There is one Scharführer who spends every day doing nothing but sorting foreign currency. Every month it is sent to the Reichsbank where it is exchanged for Reichsmarks and the proceeds come back to the SS. Another is an expert jeweller who picks out choice items and grades precious stones. Gold and silver items are melted down.’

  ‘Why is this place called Kanada?’ Meissner asked.

  Liebehenschel responded with a world-weary sigh. ‘Because Kanada is a place of untold riches.’

  ‘Why are you showing me this, sir? Does it have something to do with the discrepancy between the food that is purchased and the food that is distributed?’

  The Kommandant stood aside to let a hand-cart pass. ‘I’m afraid to say, Meissner, that not all members of the SS are as incorruptible as you. Some months before your arrival, the Concentration Camps Inspectorate initiated a commission of inquiry into corruption. Theft on a grand scale by SS officers was suspected. Some had their hands so deep in the honey pot that they were unable to get themselves clean again in time.’

  He looked at Meissner. ‘What I’m trying to say is that I’m sure there is still plenty of thieving going on, but it’s more discreet, and on a considerably smaller scale. We try to control it by not allowing junior ranks to spend long periods of time here, but even officers are not always as trustworthy as they should be. Some of them collude with the prisoners – as you might have guessed. Valuable items that the prisoners find among the clothes and baggage are traded for food or privileges. What is happening with the rations in Monowitz is insignificant in comparison.’

  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.

  QUEEN’S GAMBIT ACCEPTED

  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 consid
er 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.’