Emil Clément wandered back from the Grand Krasnapolsky and the bustle of Dam Square to his own hotel, a humbler affair overlooking the Singel Canal. It wasn’t far. His room overlooked a small bridge, over which cyclists seemed to glide in the dreamy way that the dwellers of Amsterdam had made their own.
Emil wondered at the persistence shown by the interviewer. He had not expected it. It wasn’t as if he was a politician or a famous entertainer; he was a chess player, nothing more. He felt unsettled. Perhaps he should not have come straight back to his hotel. He stood at the reception desk, lost in thought.
‘Is there anything I can do for you, Mijnheer Clément? Would you like your key?’
Emil glanced at the man behind the desk, a portly man in his sixties. ‘Yes, maybe there is. Is there anywhere in the city where people play chess? You know, a city square, or a park, perhaps?’
The man smiled. ‘Of course. You should go to Leidseplein. I’m sure you’ll find a game there. It’s quite a way, but you can take a tram from Dam Square; it’s easy to find. ’
Clément shook his head. ‘Thanks. I’ll walk. I could do with some fresh air.’
Lijsbeth Pietersen walked as quickly as dignity and high heels would permit along the gilded corridors of the Krasnapolsky. She held in her hand a piece of paper that was important, very important: it had the potential to wreck the World Chess Federation Interzonal tournament – due to start in two days’ time – before even the first pawn was played. Lijsbeth took her responsibilities seriously. The Interzonal was important: its leaders would progress to the candidates’ tournament and from there to the world championship.
At the door of the room that had been allocated to the tournament’s chief arbiter she paused to compose herself before knocking. Inside, a man in a dark suit was standing by a window, idly watching the comings and goings of the people on the square below. He turned as she entered.
‘Miss Pietersen,’ he said, with a thin smile. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure this time?’
With studied care she placed the piece of paper on the desk that stood between them, smoothing it onto the polished surface. ‘I know you’ve seen this, Mijnheer Berghuis,’ she said, her voice tight with suppressed anger. ‘I would like to know why you didn’t feel the need to inform me, and what you intend to do about it.’
Harry Berghuis slid his spectacles from the breast pocket of his jacket. In the past week Lijsbeth Pietersen had become something of an irritation. It was he who was the chief arbiter of the tournament; she was merely the administrator, a fact she seemed to find difficult to grasp. He seated himself at the desk and picked up the paper.
It was a copy of the draw for the first round of the tournament. He glanced at it, then let it fall back to the desk.
‘I don’t understand what you’re so upset about,’ he said. ‘As to what I “intend to do about it” – I intend to do nothing. The games will proceed according to the draw, as they always do.’
She gave him a look that spoke much of her opinion of his intelligence. Taking a pen, she circled two names. ‘Look.’
He looked again and shook his head in bewilderment. ‘What?’
‘Emil Clément and Wilhelm Schweninger will play each other in the first round.’
‘You know, Miss Pietersen, you really are going to have to learn to express yourself better. You’re not making any sense.’
‘Emil Clément is the contestant from Israel. He’s a survivor of Auschwitz. He wrote a best-selling account of his experiences in which he said there was no such thing as a good German.’
‘And Schweninger is a German.’ He gave her a dismissive look. ‘So what?’
‘Schweninger isn’t just any German. During the war he worked in their Ministry of Propaganda.’
Berghuis sighed. ‘And?’
Lijsbeth pursed her lips. Was Berghuis really so dense? ‘To work in the Propaganda Ministry, he had to have been a member of the Nazi Party.’ She took a step towards the desk and placed her fingertips on its surface, leaning over him. ‘Am I starting to make sense now?’
Berghuis did not like her tone. He felt his face getting hot and reached for his collar, trying to loosen it, hoping that a reason to ignore what she was telling him would present itself. ‘Lots of Germans were members of the Party,’ he countered. ‘Was he convicted of war crimes?’
‘It doesn’t matter whether he was or whether he wasn’t. If the press get hold of this, they’re going to have a field day.’
Berghuis picked up the piece of paper again, as if by looking at it the means to resolve the problem would leap out at him. ‘Damn,’ he said quietly. ‘What do you suggest?’
‘The only thing to do is to re-run the draw, making sure that the two of them do not meet unless it happens in the final.’
‘No.’ Berghuis shook his head. ‘We can’t do that. Notification has already gone out to all the contestants.’
‘We can tell them there’s been a mistake, that it needs to be re-done.’
‘What kind of mistake? The draw was done in front of at least twenty people.’
Lijsbeth could not resist saying, ‘Perhaps now you understand why you should have entrusted the job of doing background research on the contestants to me. There’s more to it than creating happy family biographies for the press.’
Berghuis lowered his head. ‘Yes, all right,’ he acknowledged. ‘But that’s not what’s important now. We have to work out what we’re going to do. If we do a re-run, someone is bound to smell a rat, and then the press will definitely stick their noses in. No, we’ll have to go with what we’ve got and pray for a minor miracle.’
‘You mean do nothing and hope that nobody puts two and two together?’ Lijsbeth rewarded her boss with a condescending smile. It was a small victory, but satisfying. ‘Well, I’m sure you know best. You’re the boss.’
At fifty, Emil Clément was tall and spare, with dark, receding hair and a closely cropped beard that hid the lower part of his face. Going down the hotel steps, he turned up the collar of his coat. Though it was April, a chill wind was blowing off the North Sea, bringing with it flurries of rain, somewhat different from the weather he was used to now.
He followed the canal southwards, almost to its terminus. He was looking for a street called Leidsestraat, and on reaching it he turned right – after crossing three canals, he would reach his destination. He flinched as raindrops spattered on his face. Dark clouds were looming: he would be lucky to find anyone foolhardy enough to be playing chess in the square.
By the time he reached the eastern edge of Leidseplein it was raining heavily. The square was indeed empty, apart from a few hardy people hurrying across, some struggling with umbrellas or sheltering in shop doorways. He ducked into the nearest café.
The barman was wiping the counter top with a cloth that had seen better days. ‘Nog regent het?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Emil said in English. ‘I don’t speak Dutch. Do you speak French, or German?’
The barman smiled. ‘Ja, Ich kann gut Deutsch sprechen.’
Emil ordered a coffee and said, ‘I was told I might be able to find a game of chess around here.’
The barman jerked his thumb in the direction of the parlour at the rear. ‘You’ll probably find a couple of games going on back there. They’re regulars, mind, so you may have a bit of a wait before you get a turn.’
The coffee was placed on the bar and Emil handed over several coins. ‘No matter,’ he said. ‘I’ll be happy simply to watch.’
3.
THE POLISH OPENING
November 1943
Oświęcim, German-occupied Silesia
Amid clouds of steam the train from Kraków groaned to a halt in the station in the small town of Oświęcim. SS-Obersturmführer Paul Meissner pushed open the door of his carriage and peered along the platform. There should be somebody there to meet him.
The stationmaster was about to put his whistle to his lips to send the train on its way when he saw an SS offic
er limping towards him. ‘A moment, if you please,’ the officer shouted. The whistle was lowered. ‘I should be very grateful if someone could get my baggage off the train.’
SS officers were a common sight, constantly going to and from the camp, usually insufferable and demanding. But as the officer stood leaning heavily on his walking stick, the stationmaster detected a little humility in his bearing, and his eyes took in the Iron Cross on the officer’s breast pocket.
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I’ll see to it at once. Won’t you have a seat in my office?’
Nearly an hour later, a shame-faced Rottenführer entered the stationmaster’s office and stamped to attention. Meissner was not impressed by what he saw: the remains of a meal halfway down his tunic, collars that were curling upwards.
‘Compliments of Hauptsturmführer Hahn, sir. I’m to take you to the officers’ quarters.’
For long moments, Meissner did not speak.
‘Your name, Rottenführer?’
‘Eidenmüller, sir.’
‘Well, Eidenmüller, let me tell you – you wouldn’t last ten minutes in the Waffen-SS. A man who takes no pride in his appearance is unreliable. Next time I see you, I want you in a tunic that is clean and pressed, understood?’
The man stood ramrod straight. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good. Now pick up my bags and get me out of here.’
Ernst Eidenmüller had been in the SS for nearly two years. At first, his progress through the lower ranks had gone remarkably well. He was like a cat that always landed on its feet – ‘Midas’, his comrades called him: everything he touched seemed to turn to gold. He’d taken pride in his appearance then.
In June 1940, when the newsreels across Germany showed Hitler sightseeing in newly occupied Paris, Eidenmüller was not on the streets joining in the rapturous celebrations with his fellow countrymen: he was in a Leipzig police cell for possession of a stolen bicycle. His protestations of innocence availed him nothing: his accuser was a minor Party official. A year later he was charged with black-marketeering. Nothing was proven, but, with a previous conviction hanging around his neck, all it took was a word in the judge’s ear from the local Gestapo chief and he was sentenced to eighteen months in a labour battalion. He braced himself for a tough time: everyone knew how hard life could be in the road gangs; instead, he found himself in an agricultural brigade.
His father was a Lutheran pastor, a severe man whose orbit he had been glad to escape, but he had given his son one sound piece of advice: ‘There are three things you must never allow to control you – women, money, or the Nazis; above all, the Nazis.’ Women had never been a problem: the kind of women he liked never seemed to be the kind that wanted to stay. As for money – Eidenmüller never had enough to be controlled by it. He had a taste for gambling. He was hooked on the thrill of it and never worried about whether he won or lost. That left only the Nazis.
The army wasn’t keen to take convicted criminals into its ranks, no matter how minor the offence, but the SS was a different proposition, as long as recruits could demonstrate impeccable Aryan ancestry. Early in 1942, all the men in his barracks were ordered to assemble for a lecture in the dining hall. Waiting to address them was an SS recruiting officer. ‘Healthy young men of German blood, your Führer calls you to do your duty . . .’ He had harangued them in this vein for nearly an hour. They listened unmoved to the officer’s words until he added that nobody would be allowed to leave the hall until they had pledged to join the SS – the first ten would be given the best postings. It was obvious there was no escape, so, with a shrug, Eidenmüller stepped forward. Along with nine others, he was assigned to the Totenkopfverbände and sent to Dachau for training; the remaining fifty were inducted to the Waffen-SS.
Eidenmüller soon realized he’d been lucky; life in the SS training barracks wasn’t exactly a plate of Zwetschgenkuchen1 but neither was it backbreaking. The men were bored, they had money in their pockets, and Eidenmüller had a way about him. He became the one who always knew how to obtain the myriad small items that would make life in the barracks easier. It wasn’t that he delved or poked around or made lists; he simply had the knack.
He was appointed squad leader. He never had to bawl at the men. Because he always seemed able to find the things they wanted, they tried to please him – most of the time. At the end of training his promotion was made official, and Rottenführer Eidenmüller was posted east.
In Auschwitz, he was assigned to the pharmacy as a driver. He would collect medical supplies intended for the SS in the camp from the rail depot in Kraków, and, when required, make deliveries to the satellite camps. Medicines for the civilian population were in short supply and he set about getting friendly with one of the camp pharmacists and then acted as a go-between with a pharmacy in Kraków. His duties were light and soon he was running all sorts of errands for officers and senior NCOs. Collecting, carrying, delivering; his easy-going manner and his unerring nose won him friends in high places. Even Kommandant Höss had him collect packages from a warehouse in Birkenau to be delivered to an address near the railway terminal in Podgórze. Within months he had been promoted to Scharführer and more and more doors were opened to him.
When, late in the summer of 1943, Obersturmführer Morgen arrived, Eidenmüller knew the sleigh-ride was over. This was no ordinary SS officer, but an official of the criminal police, sent to investigate corruption in the camp. He ordered a raid on the NCOs’ barracks. Eidenmüller’s locker was crammed with soap and tubes of toothpaste. His explanation of how they had come into his possession was dismissed out of hand.
An SS court was quickly convened with the officer in charge of the Auschwitz-I camp, Sturmbannführer Liebehenschel, as its president and Morgen as the prosecuting counsel.
Liebehenschel had already heard two cases that morning. One of the NCOs brought before him had had over a dozen expensive fountain pens in his locker. Collecting them was his hobby, he had insisted. It was obvious they had been pilfered from the possessions confiscated on arrival from the Jews sent to Auschwitz, but – Liebehenschel asked the prosecutor – was it important enough to require a court hearing? He ordered that the man should be disciplined by his commanding officer, with no further action. The next case involved the discovery of foreign currency. This was far more serious. The NCO was demoted to the ranks and transferred to the Eastern Front.
Then it was Eidenmüller’s turn. Liebehenschel struggled not to laugh at the ‘suspicious items’ found in the NCO’s possession.
‘Soap, Herr Obersturmführer?’ he asked Morgen. ‘Suspicious? Really?’
The prosecutor drew himself up to his full height. ‘Indeed, Herr Sturmbannführer,’ he replied, his tone edged with astonishment that he should be asked such a question. ‘Such a quantity could not possibly be for his own personal use. It is clear evidence of black-marketeering; a low crime, I’m sure you’ll agree. Besides, the soap was of the type used by women and’ – he looked pointedly at Eidenmüller – ‘homosexuals.’
Eidenmüller winced. He was doomed.
Liebehenschel addressed him directly. ‘The evidence against you seems pretty damning, Scharführer. What have you got to say for yourself?’
‘Beg pardon, sir. The soap wasn’t for me. It was for my girlfriend.’
‘Your girlfriend? Just the one?’ The officer was tempted to wink at the accused. Liebehenschel could not find it in him to send a man to the Eastern Front for possession of perfumed soap, but he ordered Eidenmüller to be demoted and reassigned to a job where he would no longer be in temptation’s way.
Later, as Eidenmüller packed his kit to go back to the troopers’ barracks, somebody said to him: ‘Look on the bright side – at least you didn’t get sent to fight the Bolshevik swine.’ That much was true, but for days afterwards Eidenmüller could not stop hearing his father lecturing him in the gloating voice he had hoped never to have to listen to again: ‘. . . above all, the Nazis.’ He had been so right – the smug bastard.
&nbs
p; ‘Fuckin’ bastards,’ the driver mumbled under his breath.
‘What was that?’ the officer beside him asked, sharply.
‘Nothing, sir. I was thinking aloud, that’s all. Beg pardon, sir.’ Eidenmüller kept his eyes firmly on the road ahead, but his muttered imprecation seemed to have woken the officer up.
‘Where exactly are you taking me?’
‘To the Stammlager, sir. That’s where officers are quartered. They’re expecting you,’ he added.
‘They were expecting me an hour ago.’
‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.’
‘Out of interest, Rottenführer, why were you so late picking me up? Did you have an assignation over lunch?’
The driver reddened. ‘No, sir. It was the motor pool, sir. Always having problems with it, we are, sir. If there’s a big Aktion in Birkenau, they get priority.’
‘And was there a big Aktion in Birkenau this morning?’
‘Not that I know of, sir. Lack of spare parts is what I got told today. Still, you’ll see how hand to mouth we have to live once you get there, sir. The military gets priority for most things, and we have to make do and mend as best we can.’ When the officer did not reply, the driver continued: ‘If I’d left it to them, sir, you’d still be waiting. As it happened, the Scharführer in charge of the motor pool owed me a bit of a favour, if you know what I mean. A quiet word in his ear and this car suddenly became available. Cost me a couple of packs of cigarettes, though.’
Meissner did not seem convinced by the driver’s explanation, but said nothing more. It did not take long to reach the main camp, and the officer was pleasantly surprised at his accommodation: it was far more spacious and well appointed than he was used to. A servant had been assigned to him too, a short man with a shaven head. He wore a baggy, blue-striped uniform with a violet triangle sewn on its front.2
The Death's Head Chess Club Page 2
