The Death's Head Chess Club Page 9

  ‘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 h
is 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?’

  ‘I’d rather not. I need to spend some time reviewing the games of my next opponent.’

  ‘Indulge a dying man,’ the bishop replied softly.

  Emil sighed. ‘Very well. But I don’t want it to take too long.’

  ‘Not take too long?’ Meissner shook his head. ‘Watchmaker, this is likely to take the rest of your life.’

  15.

  WINDMILL

  April 1944

  Solahütte, SS country club, German-occupied Silesia

  The game started. Hustek drew black. Every officer sneered at the Gestapo man for his boorish behaviour, willing Brossman to win, while every NCO winced with embarrassment but could not set aside their conviction that Hustek would triumph.

  Meissner felt torn. As the game’s arbiter, it was his duty to be evenhanded but, by God, he hoped that the Oberscharführer would get his comeuppance.

  For ten or fifteen minutes, the game progressed with little advantage to either player. Then Meissner spoke quietly. ‘I should be obliged if you would stop doing that, Oberscharführer.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Staring so menacingly at Hauptsturmführer Brossman while he decides what move to make.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me, Herr Obersturmführer,’ Brossman growled. ‘I don’t scare so easily.’

  So intent were the spectators on the game – including the Gruppenführer – that the exchange was heard by everyone.

  ‘I thought this was supposed to be a fair game, sir,’ Hustek remarked, in an aggrieved tone. ‘Is this how it’s going to be – officers cosying up with each other to keep the lower ranks from winning?’ He spoke quietly, but he knew his words would carry. He raised his face to stare defiantly at Meissner.

  Hustek had castled to protect his king, and now Brossman brought up his queen to threaten the rook. If he moved forward one square he would take a pawn and have a direct diagonal route to his target. It took all Hustek’s willpower to suppress a smile. The officer had walked into his trap. He moved his own bishop one space diagonally, threatening check, a move Brossman had to defend. However, Hustek’s move also exposed his own queen. Brossman smiled, thinking Hustek had made a fatal error. He changed his tactic of attacking the rook to take the queen instead. It was Hustek’s turn to smile. In three successive moves, he forced Brossman’s king to move to avoid check, taking a pawn, a rook, and finally Brossman’s queen.

  The exchange greatly impaired the officer’s ability to dominate the centre of the board. Minutes later, Hustek followed with a second windmill combination, this time taking a pawn, Brossman’s remaining rook and a bishop.

  Meissner was aghast. Would peasant cunning win out against an intellectual appreciation of the game? It seemed so. Brossman held on for another fifteen minutes, but his fate had been sealed the moment he had taken Hustek’s queen.

  April 1944

  Ministry of Public Enlightenment and Propaganda, Berlin

  As usual, Schweninger was late back from lunch. In the canteen he had met an attractive young secretary who had been impressed by his stories of foreign travel and international chess championships. She had been wearing a V-necked woollen dress that exposed her cleavage enticingly whenever she leaned across the table. Standing over her, Wilhelm had not even tried to conceal what he was doing, taking full advantage of his height to peer down at her. That was what tourism was all about, wasn’t it – taking in the sights? She had agreed to meet him for drinks and dinner on Friday.

  In the office he found Georg in a sour mood. ‘Late again, Willi. It really won’t do, you know.’ Schweninger rolled his eyes but said nothing. ‘Falthauser’s looking for you,’ Georg went on. ‘He didn’t look happy.’

  ‘Does that mean it’s good news or bad news?’

  The older man shrugged. ‘Who can tell? He’s such a miserable bastard.’

  That was certainly true, Wilhelm thought to himself as he made his way from their cubbyhole to the large office at the end of the corridor.

  ‘Come in,’ was the crisp response to his knock on the door.

  Wilhelm entered. It did not occur to him to be nervous. It had to be about his interview, and he was confident he had done well. ‘You wanted to see me, Herr Falthauser?’

  The supervisor looked up from a stack of papers piled on his desk. He seemed his usual, joyless self. ‘Yes. It’s about your application for the post of Herr Schweitzer’s assistant.’

  Wilhelm was aware of a change in Falthauser’s demeanour. He seemed pleased. That could mean only one thing.

  ‘I regret to inform you that your application was not successful.’

  ‘Not successful? But . . .’ Wilhelm was shocked. ‘Are you sure there’s been no mistake?’

  Now the supervisor smiled. ‘No mistake, Willi. You’re here for the duration – better get used to the idea.’ He turned back to his work.

  Still stunned, Wilhelm turned to leave. Before he reached the doorway, his supervisor called after him: ‘Who do you think you are – the second Max Amann?’

  Wilhelm stopped. ‘What? What do you mean?’

  Falthauser looked up. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll work it out – eventually.’

  Wilhelm took his time walking back to the cubbyhole. He had been so certain.

  ‘You look like you’ve just been given the sack, Willi,’ Georg said.


  The younger man slumped onto his chair. ‘I might as well have been.’

  ‘What did Falthauser have to say?’

  ‘He asked me if I thought I was the second Max Amann.’

  For moment Georg did not understand, then, with a sigh and a shake of his head, he gave a wry chuckle.

  ‘It’s not funny.’

  Georg suppressed the laughter that was building inside him. ‘Fucking Falthauser. What a fucking comedian. He couldn’t be funny if his life depended on it, but this time . . .’

  ‘Well, I’m glad you think it’s so fucking hilarious.’

  ‘Don’t you see?’ Georg said, grinning. ‘It’s his cock-eyed way of telling you why you didn’t get the job.’

  ‘No, I don’t see. Tell me.’

  ‘Because you’re a one-armed cripple. Goebbels doesn’t like cripples. It reminds him that he’s one himself. It’s not so bad if you’re stuck down here out of sight in this hole, but anything else – forget it. Max Amann is the only exception.’

  ‘What’s so special about him?’

  ‘Him and the chief go back a long way – and he publishes Das Reich.’

  Understanding dawned on Schweninger. Das Reich was the weekly paper for which Goebbels wrote the editorial. ‘And he’s only got one arm?’

  ‘He’s only got one arm. Lost it in a hunting accident in the thirties. Some say Franz Ritter von Epp shot him deliberately.’

  Wilhelm shook his head in disbelief. ‘How the hell do you know all this stuff?’

  The older man smiled. ‘Well, when you’ve been around as long as I have . . .’

  Scowling, Willi glanced around the cubbyhole. ‘Christ, I’d rather be fucking dead.’

  April 1944

  Solahütte, SS country club, German-occupied Silesia