The Death's Head Chess Club

by John Donoghue

  Two weeks later, he returns to Block 46. Again he asks to speak to the Blockältester. When he comes to the doorway Emil shows him the watch he has repaired. ‘I forgot to say that as well as making knives, I’m also a watchmaker.’

  The Ältester is bemused. ‘You’ll give me this if I let you play?’ He can hardly believe it – the watch is worth a lot of bread. ‘Fucking Jews,’ he says. ‘I’ll never understand them as long as I live.’ But he stands aside and lets Emil in.

  SS-Obersturmbannführer Liebehenschel leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on the desk, the chair teetering on two legs. Eidenmüller, newly promoted to Unterscharführer, having deposited two cups of coffee on the desk, came to attention, about-turned smartly, and marched briskly out of Meissner’s office.

  Meissner opened a filing cabinet and took out a bottle of Armagnac. He poured a generous measure into each cup.

  Liebehenschel smiled as he watched the NCO’s retreating back. ‘I must say, Meissner,’ he said, as a cup was passed to him, ‘you’ve wrought quite a transformation in this place. As for that fellow, I thought he was incorrigible, but he’s a new man. I’ve never seen him looking so smart. I don’t suppose you’ve managed to put a stop to his thieving, too?’

  ‘One thing at a time, sir, one thing at a time.’

  The Kommandant laughed. ‘Fair enough. Rome wasn’t built in a day.’ He took a sip of his coffee. ‘Now, about this chess club. When you suggested it I thought you were mad, but I’m amazed at the way it’s taken off. Everywhere I go there are people playing – according to my orderly, even the enlisted men and NCOs. It’s extraordinary. How did you know it would be so popular?’

  Meissner thought back to the confrontation he’d had with the Kommandant over the idea for the chess club. His suggestion had been met with a frosty response: ‘When I asked you to take this on, Meissner, it was because I had gained some respect for your abilities and devotion to duty. And you come to me with this? A half-baked notion about some chess club? This is the SS, not the Boy Scouts. I passed you a serious order, endorsed by Himmler himself, and this is how you respond? Did you know that at Majdanek they have started a choir? Next time the Reichsführer visits, they’ll be able to regale him with a bit more than the fucking Horst Wessel song. Here, he’ll be able to watch a game or two of chess – if doesn’t fall asleep.’

  But as the Kommandant had already observed, one of the young Obersturmführer’s qualities was tenacity. He had stood his ground: ‘With respect, sir, the order was to improve morale, not to provide entertainment for the Reichsführer.’ He had been dismissed with a dire warning that it had better work.

  And it had – not least because of the widespread and sometimes heavy betting that went on.

  ‘It was Obersturmführer Weber who convinced me, sir,’ Meissner replied. ‘After all, what could be more German than chess?’ Now Meissner wanted to speak to the Kommandant about how the idea could be augmented by instituting an annual camp championship. Eidenmüller had come up with the suggestion, inspired – Meissner was sure – by the fact that it would greatly increase the turnover of his gambling monopoly.

  But although pleased at the initial success of the chess club, the Kommandant needed convincing that a competition was a good idea. ‘How exactly would it work? I’m not keen on the idea of the enlisted ranks getting cosy with their superiors over a chessboard.’

  ‘No, sir. I thought we could run two parallel championships – one for the enlisted men and NCOs, and one for the officers. We could have a supreme camp champion, with the winners of the two competitions playing in a grand final.’

  ‘What about prizes?’

  ‘I think there should be prizes, yes, sir.’ Meissner had already worked out what the prizes should be: for the runner-up, a five-day pass to Berlin, and, for the champion, two weeks’ home leave.

  Now he added the final twist, which he was sure the Kommandant’s vanity would find irresistible. ‘Once we have our two Grand Masters, we can issue a challenge to the other camps. The SS-Totenkopfverbände Chess Championship could become an annual event, hosted by K-Z Auschwitz. Would that not more than fulfil the directive to boost morale?’

  1 Slang used in Auschwitz to refer to prisoners who were so debilitated by starvation and abuse that they had lost the will to live: little more than skin-covered skeletons, wrapped in tattered blankets, they would sit or stand and stare vacantly, unaware, lost in the emptiness of their wretched existence, drifting aimlessly in the place between life and death, impervious to shouts or truncheon blows from Kapos to make them move. The word is thought to have come from a supposed resemblance to the kneeling posture adopted by Muslims in prayer.

  9.

  BISHOP’S OPENING

  1962

  Amsterdam

  Apart from the first-round games that had yet to be concluded, Sunday was a day of rest for the contestants. Emil had a late breakfast and went out for a walk.

  He had never been to a place like Amsterdam before. Its canals gave it a tranquillity that he had not expected – a quiet presence that had crept up on him, especially when the wind was still. The last flourish of winter was past and the trees that lined the canals were coming into bud. The sun peeked through the branches, throwing dappled shadows along the banks. People were up and working on house barges, giving them an airing and a fresh coat of paint, and the stalls at the flower market were full of daffodils and tulips.

  Emil’s walk led him further than he had been before, to Vondelpark. There, he rested for a while on a bench, watching the city go by. The young people on their bikes seemed particularly attractive, so carefree and full of life. It was well past noon when he decided to resume his journey, heading back towards Leidseplein.

  The café, where he had become a regular visitor, was full of people out for a drink before Sunday dinner. On a row of tables outside, games of chess were in full swing. The old man he had played a few days before was standing by one of them, in animated conversation with a priest, a tall man with silver-grey hair.

  When the old man saw Emil he waved. ‘Good afternoon, my friend,’ he said affably. ‘We were just talking about you – about the strange defence you played, you remember? The Son of Sorrow.’

  The priest turned. His face was drawn, its complexion sallow. Emil’s first impression was that he looked tired, that he was somebody who had become old before his time. But a smile transformed his features, making it warm and welcoming.

  The priest pulled off a black woollen glove and extended a bony hand. ‘Hello,’ he said, in a voice that was unexpectedly soft. No, Emil realized almost immediately, not soft – sickly. ‘I was hoping I might meet you. Old Marius here has been telling me all about you, and the game you played. You made something of an impression on him. And your picture was in the paper – did you see it? Your victory over the German Grand Master made quite a splash. I’m a fan of chess, though I’m not much of a player. I think it requires a mind with more subtlety than mine.’

  Emil took the proffered hand, but his greeting died on his lips. He had met the priest before, he was certain of it. His eyes were shockingly familiar: a blue as deep as the summer sky over Tel Aviv; clear as crystal.

  ‘Hello,’ he stammered finally, speaking in German without thinking. ‘Emil Clément.’

  A waiter was taking orders and the priest beckoned him over. ‘Have you tried the advocaat?’ he asked. When Emil shook his head he said, ‘You should. They make their own here – a family recipe. If it were not sacrilegious, I should be tempted to say it was divine.’

  He ordered three glasses.

  ‘Forgive me,’ Emil said, ‘but I am sure we have met before.’

  ‘Yes,’ the priest replied, in a tone that suggested this was something he did not wish to discuss, ‘we have. But, if you’ll permit me to say, I think that this is not the time nor place to talk about it. For now, let us enjoy our drinks and perhaps watch a game or two of chess.’

  ‘My parish is where the bisho
p lives,’ old Marius announced proudly. ‘He was sent here to convalesce – from the missions,’ he added.

  ‘Bishop?’ Emil raised an eyebrow. There was no hint of exalted rank in the priest’s apparel, which was plain black with the usual clerical collar.

  ‘Here it’s purely an honorary title,’ the priest explained. ‘My see is a long way from here – a province in the Belgian Congo.’

  There was something in the priest’s manner that Emil did not like, while his admission that they had met before was like an itch that he could not resist scratching. ‘You said we had met before—? I know for sure I’ve never been to the Belgian Congo. Have you ever been to Israel?’

  ‘No – but I think you might like the Congo if you were to visit. Leopoldville can be quite lively, and the interior has a reputation it tries hard to live up to.’

  ‘Reputation?’

  ‘Africa – dark and mysterious.’ The waiter arrived with the advocaat. The priest raised his glass in a toast. ‘To Africa.’ He sipped appreciatively. When Emil left his untasted, the priest continued, ‘I’m sorry – is it not to your liking?’

  Emil set his glass down on a nearby table. ‘No. What is not to my liking is a pointed refusal to answer a perfectly straightforward question.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ the priest replied. ‘I didn’t intend to give offence. I thought it was for the best. It was a long time ago.’

  ‘But where?’

  ‘Auschwitz.’ The word was like an electric shock. Their eyes locked and suddenly Emil knew. He barely heard the rest of what the priest said: ‘My name is Meissner. Paul Meissner.’

  Memory can play strange and sometimes unfortunate tricks. For Emil, the name was like a key that unlocks a door that leads to another, which in turn leads to another, then another, and so on, back, year after year, to the point in time before which his memory could not bear to travel: the spring of 1944. He saw the bishop as he had seen him then; and again, before he had disappeared. He remembered the crystalline blueness of his eyes, the certainty of his superiority, his imperturbable confidence. And now he had reappeared, as if the illusionist who had made him disappear nearly two decades ago had, at this very instant, decided to bring him back. Time stopped, anticipating the applause that would surely follow such mastery of the art of conjuring. And he was wearing the garb of a man of God – surely another trick? If Meissner had turned up wearing his SS uniform, it could hardly have been more shocking. Meissner had been a prince in the kingdom of liars, so this new identity also had to be a lie. No other explanation was conceivable.

  Emil froze. He looked uncertainly from the bishop to the old man, to the other people milling around the front of the café. His brain sought frantically to find the words he had wanted to say to this man for nearly twenty years, but they would not come. Instead, he felt light-headed. The pavement seemed to take on the properties of a fairground mirror pulling his vision in and out of focus. He put out a hand to steady himself on a table edge but it slipped and with an almost inaudible gasp he fell, knocking drinks and plates from nearby tables onto the paving stones. At the edge of his consciousness he was aware of shouts of alarm, but they were distant, not part of his universe, from creatures that inhabited a dream world whose cries were foreign and unintelligible.

  He heard again the lamentation that was the cry of Auschwitz.

  10.

  THE DESTINY OF A POISONED PAWN

  April 1944

  Kommandantur building, Konzentrationslager Auschwitz-I

  Eidenmüller drove the Kübelwagon through the entrance to the Stammlager, passing beneath the blackened iron arch wrought with the words ‘Arbeit Macht Frei’, before turning left to follow the road to the Appelplatz. He stopped to allow Obersturmführer Meissner to step down outside a two-storey building above which flew the emblem of everything the camp stood for: a black swastika in a white roundel on a scarlet banner.

  The officer leaned heavily on his walking stick to push himself out of the car. ‘Wait for me,’ he said. He had an appointment with the Kommandant. He did not expect it to take long.

  Inside, Meissner got quickly to the point: ‘I have a suggestion to make, sir, that some may find shocking. Some might consider it disloyal but, please believe me, my motives are purely to do with the efficiency of the camp.’

  Liebehenschel was intrigued. ‘Shocking and disloyal? And all in one day. I can’t believe that of you, Meissner.’ He smiled and opened an intricate silver box that stood on his desk. ‘Cigarette?’

  Meissner took one and lit up. He exhaled a cloud of smoke upwards. ‘The thing is, sir, that in order to sustain an acceptable work output, a certain amount of food is necessary. This holds true whether the worker is a German, a Russian, a Pole or a Jew. I’m afraid that the physical condition of many of the prisoners is poor at best, and this affects their ability to do strenuous work.’

  Meissner’s words prompted a searching look from his superior. ‘You are quite right, Meissner,’ the Kommandant replied. ‘That is why our doctors work tirelessly to identify those who are no longer capable of doing what is required of them and have them eliminated.’

  Meissner drew deeply on the cigarette. ‘You’ll forgive me for saying so, sir, but that approach is inefficient. It means that at intervals – which occur far too frequently – new workers must be inducted who have to learn skills that their predecessors had already acquired.’

  ‘I take it you have a suggestion?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I propose that the food ration be increased. That way we could get more work out of them for longer. It would be much more productive than the present system.’

  The Kommandant flicked at the sleeve of his tunic, removing specks of ash that had fallen from his cigarette. ‘You were right to bring this to me, Meissner,’ he observed. ‘With food at home strictly rationed, some of your colleagues would undoubtedly consider the idea of giving more food to Jews to be disloyal, and would be shocked that it had been suggested by a fellow SS officer. But I fully appreciate your motives.’

  Meissner nodded, but did not tell his commanding officer what had brought about this sudden interest in prisoner rations. He had been taking some air a few days before, at the same time that the prisoners were being marched back from the Buna factory. A man had stumbled and fallen. The Kapo in charge had halted the squad and kicked and beaten the fallen man unmercifully.

  Meissner had intervened. ‘You won’t get any work out of him if you kill him,’ he’d said.

  The Kapo had removed his beret and stood to attention. ‘With respect, Herr Obersturmführer,’ he had retorted, the sneer in his voice imitating that of many of the SS NCOs, ‘that’s all they’re fit for. He’s nothing but a dirty, lazy, idle Jew. Plenty more where he came from.’

  Meissner had stared at the Kapo, his eyes drawn to the green triangle on his jacket: a criminal. So serious were his crimes that he had been sent to Auschwitz, where, in accordance with the perverse rules of the camp, criminals were put in charge of honest men and women.

  Meissner had addressed the prisoner. ‘What have you had to eat today?’

  The prisoner had hung his head and not replied.

  ‘He doesn’t speak much German, sir,’ the Kapo said. ‘Italian.’

  ‘Then translate, goddammit.’

  The prisoner’s voice could barely be heard. He’d had a ration of bread and a bowl of soup. No doubt the soup had been taken off the top of the cauldron and was thin, not like the thick soup at the bottom, where the chunks of potato and turnip settled. The Kapo and his cronies kept that for themselves.

  Meissner had been furious. He had been charged with increasing the output of the labour camps but the poor food and capricious brutality were working against him all the time.

  Now, Liebehenschel steepled his fingers thoughtfully. Meissner had a point, but the system for feeding the prisoners was long established – calculated to induce slow starvation among the Jewish slave labourers. There was nothing he could do to change it, no
matter how much it might improve productivity. But he had to give the appearance of taking Meissner’s concern seriously.

  ‘Very well, Meissner, I’ll speak to Dr Wirths about it. More than that, I cannot do.’

  ‘He’s the Standortarzt?’1

  ‘Indeed.’ Liebehenschel gave his subordinate a look that said he was dismissed, but Meissner did not move. ‘There’s more, Obersturmführer?’

  ‘I’ve been checking the documentation relating to the acquisition of food. The records indicate that, in fact, enough food is purchased every day to provide an adequate number of calories for each prisoner. If the food isn’t going to the prisoners, where is it going?’

  The Kommandant sighed. Meissner was certainly tenacious, like a dog with a bone. Rather than answer immediately, he stood up and walked to the door, gesturing for Meissner to follow. In the doorway he paused and, turning to face the junior officer, said: ‘You’ve never been to Kanada, have you, Meissner?’

  April 1944

  Konzentrationslager Auschwitz-III, Monowitz

  Alarm is spreading through the camp. Typhus. It skulks in the shadows at every door looking for a way in. It is a pestilence feared by all. In the washrooms, there are signs in many different languages: One louse is enough to kill you – for that is how typhus ensnares its victims and spreads its foulness through the camp. The signs are among the many absurdities of Auschwitz, because the procedures for the prevention of lice are laughable. For the inmates, hot showers and soap are as rare as a visit from the Pope, yet lice are a deadly enemy, so when the inmates have time, they scour each other’s bodies for the tiny creatures, squeezing the life out of them between two fingernails. But now, it seems, there is an outbreak in Block 51.

  Of course the camp is better informed than the SS doctors: all the inmates know the outbreak started two days ago. A man from 51 went to the infirmary after evening roll call. At first the symptoms are inconclusive. A day later, there were two more men from 51 with the same symptoms.