The Death's Head Chess Club

by John Donoghue

  The small man lifted the baggage from the car and led the way to a small day room.

  ‘With your permission, sir, I will unpack and put your things away.’

  ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Oberhauser, sir, though it’s usual in the camp to use my number. I answer to 672.’

  ‘You’re German.’

  ‘Yes, sir. From Elsdorf.’

  ‘Really? I’m from Köln myself. It’s a small world, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Why were you sent here, Oberhauser? Political crimes?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘You’re not a Jew?’

  ‘No, sir. I’m a Jehovah’s Witness.’

  ‘A Jehovah’s Witness? I had no idea they were so dangerous.’

  ‘Me neither, sir. May I carry on now?’

  ‘Please do.’

  An hour later Eidenmüller reappeared, this time in a clean uniform. ‘Compliments of Sturmbannführer Liebehenschel, sir. The Kommandant asks would it be convenient for you to come to his office?’

  The Kommandant’s office was large but devoid of any personal effects, as if its occupant had only recently taken possession of it. Meissner brought himself to attention, raising his right arm stiffly in salute. ‘Heil Hitler.’

  The salute was returned with rather less enthusiasm; Sturmbannführer Liebehenschel held out his right hand. ‘Welcome to Auschwitz, Meissner. Please take a seat. Let me tell you I’m glad to have you here. I can use as many good officers as I can get.’

  ‘Pardon me for mentioning this, sir, but my orders are that I should report to Obersturmbannführer Höss.’

  ‘The Obersturmbannführer has been recalled to Berlin. He’s been appointed deputy to Gruppenführer Glücks in the Concentration Camps Inspectorate. I have taken his place, with immediate effect.’ The Sturmbannführer pushed his chair back and stood. ‘But I am forgetting my manners. Allow me to offer you some coffee.’

  The coffee was poured from an ornate silver pot, by another prisoner wearing a violet triangle. The Kommandant did not acknowledge the prisoner’s presence, but spoke as he withdrew. ‘Jehovah’s Witnesses. The enlisted men call them “Bible-worms”. We use them as servants. What else can you do with them? They could all walk out of here tomorrow if only they would sign the Gottläubig. We don’t even expect them to believe it – just sign the bloody form that says they have no religious belief.’

  ‘Are there many of them here?’

  ‘No. A couple of hundred perhaps. The vast majority of the prisoners are Jews.’

  ‘Is there any special reason why you use them as servants?’

  ‘Well, for a start, they’re good Aryans, but, to be honest, it’s because they’re the only ones in the camp who can be trusted not to rob us blind.’ He laughed. ‘I’m serious, Meissner. Probably the best advice anyone could give you is not to leave anything where it could be found by a prisoner. Turn your back on it for a second and it will disappear, I promise you.’

  The Kommandant picked up a file from his desk and opened it. He struck Meissner as an affable sort. ‘You’re younger than I thought you would be, Meissner – I was expecting a hardened veteran after reading your service record. Most impressive. It says you single-handedly destroyed three Russian tanks with a disabled Wespe field howitzer.’

  It was Meissner’s turn to smile. ‘That’s not quite how it happened. It wasn’t single-handed, the Wespe wasn’t damaged, and the third T-34 was actually killed by one of our Tigers that joined the action in the nick of time. If not for them, I wouldn’t have lived to tell the tale.’

  ‘Still, you got an Iron Cross for it.’

  ‘And this—’ Meissner raised his walking stick.

  The Kommandant closed the folder. ‘Modesty. I like that in a man. I think you’ll fit in well here, Meissner. In fact, I think I have the perfect challenge for a man of your obvious tenaciousness.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘I need someone to oversee the satellite camps. Not the day-to-day running of them – they’re spread too far afield for that – but we have constant problems with personnel and transport; in fact, it’s a bloody nightmare, a nightmare that we’ve been doing our best to ignore. Up to a few months ago our main concern was to increase capacity in Birkenau, but that’s no longer a problem – we’ve got it running as smoothly as the Swiss railways. But now my orders are to increase armament production, and that means getting more out of the labour camps.’ Liebehenschel stood and beckoned for Meissner to follow him to a map pinned to the wall. He tapped his forefinger on a particular point. ‘Our biggest problem is here – the IG Farben Werke. It’s one of Himmler’s pet projects and it’s months behind. I need people in place who will teach the Jewish scum what hard work really means. And that’s where you come in. I need someone who’s prepared to be single-minded, who will ignore the egos and tantrums of his colleagues – someone who will get the job done. This has top priority and you’ll have my full backing. What do you say?’

  Meissner’s reply was immediate. ‘I say yes, naturally.’

  ‘Excellent. If you do only half as well as I think you can, you’ll be a Hauptsturmführer by next summer – you have my word on it.’

  1 Plum cake.

  2 The status of prisoners in the camp was denoted by coloured triangular badges worn on the breast of the tunic: green was for criminals; red for political prisoners, usually Communists; pink for homosexuals; violet for Jehovah’s Witnesses; and, until the second half of 1944, a red triangle superimposed on a yellow triangle to create a makeshift Star of David was for Jews.

  4.

  THE BENONI DEFENCE

  1962

  Amsterdam

  The note was waiting in Emil’s hotel pigeonhole when he returned. He understood immediately what had lain behind the interviewer’s question.

  He had been paired with Schweninger.

  Emil waited until the next morning before seeking out Miss Pietersen at the Krasnapolsky. She sympathized, she told him, but the rules were the rules. If he wanted to play in the championship, he must face Schweninger. He insisted on speaking to Berghuis. With a small, self-satisfied smile on her face, she accompanied him to the chief arbiter’s office.

  ‘Mijnheer Clément,’ Berghuis said smoothly, ‘I agree it is a most unfortunate situation, but we cannot change the rules because one contestant has personal difficulties with another. Think of the precedent it would create. No, I’m afraid that you must go ahead with the match or forfeit it.’

  Before Emil could reply, a fourth person burst into the tournament office. Red-haired and overweight, he stood for a moment in the doorway to catch his breath, eyeing Berghuis accusingly. That he was furious was obvious.

  ‘Did you hear the radio this morning?’

  ‘No.’ Berghuis cast an alarmed glance at his assistant but her eyes were fixed on Emil. Berghuis swallowed anxiously. ‘Why?’

  ‘Clément was interviewed by Piet de Woert on his culture show. He was asked if he maintained his view that there were no good Germans. He said that not only did he maintain it, but he gave his reasons why. It is an outrage!’

  Lijsbeth Pietersen could see a disaster unfolding before her very eyes. Standing stock-still, her lips compressed into a rigid smile, she felt compelled to interrupt. ‘Herr Schweninger, may I present Monsieur Clément?’

  Her words had an effect similar to a car being driven off a cliff at high speed: they seemed to hang silently in mid-air while the people in the room struggled to understand what had happened.

  Emil was the first to recover. He addressed the German in his own language. ‘An outrage, you say, Herr Schweninger? If you consider freedom of speech an outrage, then I suppose you are right – what I said is an outrage, though I should have expected no less from one such as you.’ He shook his head. ‘But let me tell you what an outrage really is. It is when millions of people are murdered for no other crime than being born a Jew, including my mother and my children. That is what I
consider to be an outrage, Herr Schweninger.’

  ‘Perhaps it—’ But Lijsbeth Pietersen did not get to finish.

  ‘How dare you?’ Schweninger bellowed, then turned on his heel and stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

  The arbiter, the administrator and Emil Clément looked at one another.

  ‘Well, I suppose it might have been worse,’ Berghuis remarked.

  ‘How?’ Lijsbeth asked, shaking her head. ‘How could it possibly have been worse?’

  ‘Twenty years ago he could have had us sent to a concentration camp,’ Emil said, acidly.

  Berghuis could not hide his exasperation. ‘Will you please stop saying things like that?’

  Emil turned to face him. ‘Why? Because they are true?’

  ‘No. Because it is 1962. Hasn’t anyone told you – the war is over. It is time to move on.’

  Only Lijsbeth Pietersen remained calm. ‘What is important is what we do about the situation. Mijnheer Clément, is it your intention to withdraw from the competition?’

  Something had changed in Emil: minutes before he had been on the verge of quitting, but not now. ‘Certainly not. I will play him and I will humiliate him and it will serve him right.’

  Emil hurried back to Leidseplein, not seeing anything or anyone as he pushed his way past shoppers and office workers, not slowing his pace until he arrived, breathless, at the café.

  The barman recognized him and smiled. ‘Good morning, mijnheer. Coffee?’

  ‘No. Something stronger. Cognac.’ The barman glanced at the clock but said nothing. ‘Is there anyone in who will give me a game this morning?’ Emil asked when he had recovered his breath.

  ‘I think so. By the way – did you know there is a big chess tournament in town? It was all over the radio this morning.’

  Emil took the brandy and swallowed it in one. ‘Yes, I knew.’

  In the parlour a board was already set up, with an elderly man seated behind it, waiting.

  ‘May I?’ Emil asked. The old man nodded and, taking a white and a black pawn in his hands, held them out for Emil to choose. ‘If you don’t mind,’ Emil said, ‘I would like to play black.’

  ‘Not at all.’ The old man turned the board so the white pieces were on his side. He advanced his queen’s pawn two squares.

  Emil did not make a move but closed his eyes, allowing his hands to fall to his lap as if in prayer. He was still for a moment. ‘Forgive me,’ he said, when he opened his eyes. ‘It’s a little ritual I must go through before every game.’ He moved his king’s knight so that it stood in front of its bishop.

  The old man immediately moved his queen’s bishop’s pawn forward two squares. Emil responded with the same move. The old man ignored the gambit and moved his first pawn forward one square. Emil moved his queen’s knight’s pawn forward two spaces. The old man took it.

  ‘If you don’t mind my saying so,’ he said, ‘that is a most unusual defence. I don’t think I’ve seen it before.’

  ‘No,’ Emil replied. ‘It is called the Benoni Defence. It means “Son of Sorrow”.’

  5.

  A QUEEN’S PAWN GAME

  January 1944

  Solahütte, SS country club, German-occupied Silesia

  Despite the chill, Meissner did not feel quite ready to quit the veranda and go in for dinner: he had wanted a few moments of solitude to add a brief observation to his journal. His fellow officers enthused constantly about the SS country club and what a fine place it was for winding down after the rigours and stresses of camp duty, but this was the first time he had visited it. They had not exaggerated. Set on a hillside with spectacular views of the surrounding hills and forests, it was a haven of tranquillity; at least until the evenings, when, inevitably, after a few drinks, somebody would start on the piano, or an accordion, and the songs would begin. It put him in mind of happier days, before the war. There were even women here, SS-Aufseherinnen, supervisors in the women’s and family camps. Meissner smiled to himself. They had taken quite a shine to him: his Iron Cross was like a magnet. He wondered if they would be quite so enamoured of his wooden leg. Taking a last drag on his cigarette, he flicked it over the balcony and went inside.

  Dinner at Solahütte was informal, and he took a place at a table with Vinzenz Schottl, the Monowitz Lagerführer, and Erich Weber, one of the SS doctors. To their surprise, they were joined by the Kommandant, recently promoted to Obersturmbannführer. They stood as he pulled out a chair, but Liebehenschel insisted they should not stand on formality.

  ‘Gentlemen, please. Here we are all comrades in the SS, no?’

  Dinner was served by ranks of Polish waiters in immaculate white jackets. The dinner service was Königliche porcelain and the glasses Bohemian crystal. Afterwards, cigars and cognac were served.

  A relaxed Paul Meissner exhaled a stream of grey smoke, appreciating the exquisite flavour. ‘Where on earth do these come from?’ he asked.

  ‘Havana, I believe,’ Weber said, whose father was in the diplomatic service. ‘Via Portugal and Spain.’

  ‘One of the privileges of serving in the Totenkopfverbände,’ Schottl broke in. ‘After all, there have to be some compensations for what we are forced to put up with.’

  Meissner had heard such observations before. This time he demurred. ‘I must say I find life here rather easy compared with fighting the Russians.’

  ‘For you, maybe,’ Weber said, tapping his cigar and letting the ash fall to the floor. He fixed Paul with a supercilious smile. ‘My duties are perhaps a little more . . . taxing than yours.’

  The hours Paul had spent in the field hospital were burned deep into his memory: the dirt, the blood, the cries of pain, and the ever-present sound of gunfire. ‘Really? You are a surgeon, are you not?’ The doctor nodded in assent. ‘I wonder,’ Meissner continued, ‘when you last performed surgery under fire?’

  Weber reddened and shot the Waffen-SS man an angry glare.

  The Kommandant intervened. ‘Gentlemen, please. Let us have no harsh words here. We are all doing our duty in the different ways that are demanded of us. Let us leave it at that, eh? Obersturmführer Meissner has not been here very long. It takes a while to get used to our ways, especially after the privations of the front.’ He stood and raised his glass. ‘I’m afraid I can’t stay, as much as I would like to, but before I go, a toast.’ He pinged his glass with a silver teaspoon. Officers at every table rose to their feet and raised their glasses. ‘The Führer.’ He drained his glass.

  Walking past Meissner, he placed a hand on the junior officer’s shoulder. ‘A quiet word before I leave, if I may?’

  The Kommandant waited in the empty bar next door for his subordinate to catch up.

  ‘I apologize, sir, if I . . .’ Meissner jerked his head in the direction of the dining room.

  The apology was waved aside. ‘That? Don’t worry about it. Weber is a patronizing ass. No, Meissner, all I wanted was to say is that even though it’s been only a few months since you took over their administration, I’m aware of the improvement that has come about in the performance of the labour camps. Well done.’

  A smile of relief crossed the junior officer’s face. ‘Thank you, sir. I’m glad to hear it.’

  The Kommandant fished in his tunic pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. ‘There was something else.’ He handed the paper to his subordinate. ‘As director of Abteilung I, your duties include responsibility for morale. I received this on Friday.’ He indicated the slip of paper in Meissner’s hands. ‘It is a directive from the Reichsführer-SS himself, stressing the importance of morale and instructing that it should be improved. He is of the opinion that SS officers should take an active interest in higher culture.’ He paused as an orderly approached with his greatcoat and cap. ‘Now, I’m not suggesting that we go so far as to try and create an interest in opera or anything like that,’ he continued, draping the coat over his shoulders, ‘but we must do something to demonstrate that we have taken these orders seriously. I�
��ll leave it in your capable hands.’

  Meissner limped back to the dining room reading the orders. He resumed his seat. ‘Look,’ he said, looking at the men around him. ‘I’m sorry if I, well . . . if I said anything out of turn before.’

  Schottl clapped him firmly on the back. ‘Forget about it. You’ll soon learn. What’s that you’ve got?’ he asked, pointing at the paper in Meissner’s hand.

  ‘Bloody WVHA.’1

  ‘What do they want?’

  ‘Seems the Reichsführer-SS is worried about morale in the camp system. We’ve been ordered to improve it . . . I’ve been ordered to improve it – in Auschwitz, at least.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Culture, so it would seem. We’ve all got to become more cultured. And I’m the one that has to make it happen.’

  Schottl started to laugh. ‘And you thought life here was rosy, didn’t you? That’ll teach you.’

  Meissner could not help a sheepish grin. ‘Touché. But if either of you has any ideas, I’m open to suggestions.’

  ‘I have one,’ Weber offered. ‘How about a chess club? The idea struck me some time ago. I play myself, but I never got round to asking if anyone else did.’

  Meissner was doubtful: he had been thinking more along the lines of a choir. After all, singing seemed to be very popular at the country club. He turned to Schottl. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Well, it’s certainly cultural, no doubt about that.’

  ‘Do you play?’ Weber asked.

  Schottl shrugged but said, ‘Of course. Who doesn’t?’

  Meissner pressed him: ‘But do you think it would catch on?’

  Weber was already warming to his suggestion. ‘Yes, yes. The more I think about it, the better it gets. Officers who already play’ – he indicated himself and Schottl – ‘could take those who don’t under their wings and show them the ropes. It could even be opened to the lower ranks. That would definitely be good for morale, wouldn’t it – officers getting to know their men better?’ He leaned back and took a mouthful of cognac. ‘What could be better than chess? Wasn’t it invented by a German?’