The Death's Head Chess Club

by John Donoghue

  ‘It’s not a question of remembering or not remembering. Everybody called him the Watchmaker. But you must be able to trace him from the number.’

  The lawyer was sceptical. ‘If the records were preserved, and if he survived.’

  ‘Yes,’ Meissner agreed, dejectedly. ‘If he survived.’

  But no trace had been found of Häftling number 163291. He had not been included in any records of inmates who had eventually turned up at other camps, like Mauthausen or Bergen-Belsen.

  The lawyer yawned again. The case was hopeless.

  The president of the court addressed Meissner’s lawyer. ‘Before the verdicts are read out and sentence is passed, does the defendant have anything to say?’

  The lawyer stood. Drawing himself up to his full height, he adjusted his robes, grasping them in his right hand in a pose he imagined to be reminiscent of Cicero addressing the courts of ancient Rome.

  ‘With the court’s permission, my client would like to read a statement.’

  In the dock, wearing trousers without a belt and a collarless shirt, ex-SS-Hauptsturmführer Paul Meissner rose to his feet. Only weeks before, his ex-commanding officer, Arthur Liebehenschel, had been condemned to death by hanging in this same court-room. But when Meissner spoke, his voice was clear and unwavering.

  ‘I have not attempted to hide from the court the nature and extent of my activities in Auschwitz. Terrible crimes were committed there – unforgivable crimes. I do not seek to diminish the part I played, nor do I seek to evade my responsibility. I acknowledge that I am guilty of grave crimes, but I would like to put on record that I believe I did what I could to maintain my honour. Before I went to Auschwitz, I had no idea of what was going on in Birkenau. I learned about those events only gradually. I had nothing to do with anything that occurred there. I never set foot on the unloading ramp, and took no part in any of the Selektionen. Not one prisoner in Auschwitz died because of me. Once I realized I had no ability to change what was going on, I took what I considered to be the only honourable course of action – I requested a transfer back to active service, even though my old regiment was at that time fighting on the Eastern Front. All of this was recorded in my personal journal, which the court has graciously acknowledged. Many thought I was going to certain death, but that was preferable to being an accomplice in mass murder. When I surrendered, I did so as an SS officer and, unlike others, made no attempt to hide it. That, too, was a matter of honour for me. I did my duty. I do not ask the court for clemency and I am ready to accept whatever sentence is deemed fitting.’

  It took only minutes for the president of the court to deliver the verdict and sentence: ‘On the charge of genocide – not guilty; on the charge of complicity in genocide – not guilty. However, on your own admission, you are guilty of the hideous crime of slavery. You administered a system in which tens of thousands, mainly Jews, were used as slave workers, and although they did not die at your hand or at your command, still many of them perished. This is a crime that demands exemplary punishment.’

  Meissner braced himself. The court did not have a history of leniency.

  ‘You are sentenced to six years’ penal servitude with hard labour. The sentence is to commence immediately.’

  1962

  Kerk de Krijtberg, Amsterdam

  ‘Six years with hard labour. Little enough reparation for the part you played,’ Clément said, breaking chunks of white bread into a thick vegetable broth.

  ‘Little enough,’ Meissner conceded. ‘But not easy, especially with an artificial leg.’

  ‘Not easy? Is that what you tell people? You should listen to yourself. Not easy?’ Emil stared at him in disbelief. ‘Easier than we had it every day in Auschwitz, that’s what I would say. Did they feed you sawdust bread and pig-swill? You should be grateful you had a wooden leg.’

  ‘The leg lasted less than two months. The best craftsmanship German engineering could produce, and it fell to bits.’

  Clément held his spoon before him, like a weapon, punctuating his sentences with it. ‘You know what this sounds like to me? It sounds like you’re feeling sorry for yourself. Did you know that when the Russians liberated Auschwitz, they found thousands of artificial limbs from Jews who were killed in the gas chambers? Thousands. Maybe you should have asked for one of those.’

  ‘How could I? I had no idea they were there. Besides, the Poles had no intention of finding me a replacement. And it’s pretty nigh impossible to do hard labour on crutches. They did try, of course, but no matter how often they beat me, I kept falling over. After a while the beatings stopped. In the end they put me in the kitchens. I was given a stool and a knife and I spent my days peeling and chopping vegetables. I got pretty good at it.’

  ‘How the mighty are fallen.’

  Paul did not respond to Emil’s irony and they finished the soup in silence. Afterwards, the bishop busied himself clearing the dishes from the table.

  ‘Six years,’ Clément mused. ‘It’s no time at all. Who decided on six years? Not a Jew, I think.’

  Meissner resumed his seat at the table. ‘Actually, in the end I served only four years in prison. I think they were tired of me. I was unceremoniously deported to the British occupation zone, where I had to undergo de-Nazification.’

  ‘What did that involve? Making you wear tefillin to see if you were struck with apoplexy, or eat matzos to see if you choked?’

  Meissner sighed. ‘No. They made me complete the Fragebogen – a questionnaire – and a series of interrogations. The British were suspicious of me. By then, relations between the West and Russia were at a low and they suspected I was a Communist plant; it was months before I got my Persilschein – my official exoneration. Only then could I look for work. I was offered a job in a ticket office on the railways, but I had already decided what it was I wanted to do. I asked to train as a priest in the Catholic Church.’

  ‘So you swapped one organization that would look after you and tell you what to do, for another. Not exactly a hard life, it seems to me – being a priest.’ Emil turned in his chair. ‘Take this place, for example. You’re not exactly living in ruinous poverty, are you? Quite the opposite, in fact.’

  Meissner demurred. ‘You can choose to see it that way if you want to, but that’s not the reason I wanted to become a priest and I think you know it. If I’d wanted an easy option, I could have spent my days punching tickets at the Köln Bahnhof.’

  ‘No.’ Emil’s fist came down hard on the table. ‘For your information, I don’t know. I don’t know anything about you. For nearly two hours you’ve been parading your self-justification but without answering the most important question – why?’

  The bishop shook his head. ‘The same question as before. And I only have the same answer – the inner voice that will not be denied.’

  ‘And such a voice – that only you can hear. Does the Church have no qualms about accepting convicted war criminals into its fold?’

  ‘Of course it does. But the very foundation of the Church is in forgiveness.’

  ‘Father forgive them . . .’ Clément intoned.

  ‘Yes. The Church rejoices in every sinner who repents.’

  ‘Is that why you wanted me to come here, so you could ask my forgiveness? Let me tell you right here and now – you won’t get it.’

  The bishop reached across the table to grasp Emil’s hands. The Frenchman pulled away as if fearing to be contaminated. ‘Your forgiveness cannot help me, Watchmaker,’ Meissner said. ‘For me it is too late. The only forgiveness that counts is my own, and after nearly twenty years I am still unable to forgive myself. I tell myself better that I had been put in front of a firing squad than I should have stood by and done nothing. I know that I have God’s forgiveness, but that is not enough for me. You must think me arrogant, but I promise you I am not. I am guilty. I am ashamed. And I will carry the guilt and the shame to my grave.’ He looked keenly at Emil. ‘What I hope is that I can help you to understand that the power of forg
iveness will bring healing for you – not me, not anyone else.’

  Clément’s face soured. ‘You sound suspiciously like all the people who have wanted me to find a good German, who insist that the war is over, that it is time to forgive and forget.’

  ‘I am not here to tell you to forget. Nor do I want you to find a good German. But I beg you to listen to me when I tell you it is time to forgive – if you can find it in you.’

  Emil found Meissner’s reasoning impenetrable. ‘You say I must forgive, but if it’s not you I have to forgive, then who?’

  ‘You must learn to forgive yourself.’

  Again a silence fell between them. The bishop rose. ‘Please wait here. I will bring coffee. That is one thing the Dutch are very good at.’

  Emil surveyed his surroundings. The kitchen was large, with a big refectory table that would easily sit ten. It was true it was not exactly luxurious, but it had everything that might be needed to serve a large household, and it was spotlessly clean. On one wall was a photograph of a pope, though he had no idea which one; on two others, portraits of saints: he could tell by the golden halos that adorned their heads. He could find no connection between these representations of sanctity and Meissner’s stubborn insistence on forgiveness. The priest clearly had little understanding of what Emil had gone through, still less of why he might think the very idea repellent. And yet . . . He was both intrigued and irritated: irritated that he had been put in a position where he felt he was not in control; intrigued despite himself to know more of what Meissner had done since being freed from prison. He wondered what he could have been doing in the Belgian Congo.

  Meissner returned bearing an earthenware coffee pot decorated in garishly coloured tribal motifs, and matching mugs. ‘I brought these back with me from Africa. If I have any prized possessions, it’s these.’ He set everything down and poured two cups of thick, dark liquid.

  ‘Many Nazis escaped after the war to out-of-the-way places, mostly South America,’ Emil observed. ‘You fetched up in Africa. Some might see that as more evidence that you were trying to evade responsibility for what you had done.’

  Meissner sipped his coffee, closing his eyes briefly, thinking. ‘Some might, I suppose, if they were in an ungenerous frame of mind. But it wasn’t my idea to go there, not at first. I was sent to a leper colony.’ He paused, then continued softly: ‘I was happier there than I have ever been. In Africa, where the people have so little, where one’s grip on life is so tenuous, where ignorance kills more than any disease and famine can pounce without warning, there is a joy that has to be seen to be believed – the simple joy of living, of loving, and accepting the Lord’s gifts without question. I didn’t want to come back. I wanted to live out my days with those people.’

  Emil had listened without interruption. Now he said, ‘Why did you come back?’

  ‘Malaria. I tried to accept it as a trial sent to me by the Lord, but it was so severe I was incapable of doing anything. I was sent back to Europe to recuperate. But once I was here, it became clear that I have something more serious than malaria.’ The bishop leaned forward, his face earnest. ‘Watchmaker, I am dying. I have been sent home to die, and this is not even my home. I have leukaemia. I don’t understand it fully, but it is a cancer that affects the blood. I have a matter of months, perhaps less, to live. But I still believe that God has a definite purpose for my life. Watchmaker, that purpose is you.’

  12.

  ALEKHINE’S GUN

  April 1944

  Konzentrationslager Auschwitz-III, Monowitz

  The evenings are lighter now and Yves has taken to sitting on the ground outside the entrance to the block, not coming in until it is almost time for lights out. The poor food and strenuous labour have reduced him almost to a walking skeleton. He is staring at the sky, fearing he may not awaken to see it again.

  Inside, the Stubendienst1 finds Emil rocking slowly back and forth, praying, as he often does when he is alone.

  ‘Watchmaker,’ he says. ‘Bodo sent me to find you. He wants to speak to you.’

  Watchmaker – the name has stuck. Emil does not like it: it singles him out when his best protection from unwanted attention is anonymity.

  Bodo Brack is the Blockältester, a thick-set man who is serving a life sentence for murder. He has never shown any interest in Emil before.

  ‘What does he want with me?’

  His errand done, the Stubendienst shrugs. ‘What am I – his secretary?’

  Emil walks slowly to the day room. He can’t think what Bodo could possibly want with him, but it can’t be anything good.

  Emil removes his cap and stands to attention before the block elder. Brack has been in the camp for over two years, longer than anyone else. Everyone knows he is the kingpin among the Prominenten – the favoured prisoners who run the camp for the SS. He can arrange better food and even the vouchers that can be used to visit the brothel that the SS runs for the Blockältesten, Kapos and even the Scheissministers.2 But not Jews. Brack does not like Jews. Ten minutes pass before he deigns to notice Emil.

  ‘Watchmaker,’ he says, pausing to lick his fingers after chewing on a lump of cheese. ‘Is this block not to your liking? Do I not see to it that your every need is provided for?’

  ‘Yes,’ Emil replies anxiously, wondering where this is leading. ‘This is a good block and you are a most considerate block elder.’

  Without warning, Brack springs to his feet and with a back-handed blow to the face knocks Emil to the floor. ‘You lying Jewish pile of shit,’ he yells.

  Emil struggles to his feet. ‘Please,’ he says, ‘what have I done?’ A second blow falls. Now Brack signals to his cronies who are standing nearby and they lay into Emil, kicking him repeatedly. All he can do is curl into a ball and try to protect his head with his arms. After a while the kicking stops and he is dragged to his feet. He stands unsteadily. Blood is flowing from his nose, and from the wounds inflicted by the Scharführer only days before.

  ‘That,’ Brack says menacingly, ‘is only the beginning – unless you start to cooperate.’

  ‘Yes. Of course I will cooperate, only please – tell me what I have to do.’

  ‘Where were you the other day when Block 51 was cleansed?’

  ‘I was in Block 46.’

  Bodo exchanges a knowing look with one of his cronies. ‘And what were you doing in Block 46?’

  ‘I was playing chess.’ Emil looks beseechingly at his tormentor. What harm can there be in chess?

  But Bodo is oblivious.

  ‘Who did you play?’

  Emil shakes his head. ‘I don’t know. The game was arranged by the Ältester in Block 46.’

  ‘I happen to know the elder in Block 46. He’s not as tolerant of Jews as I am. Yet he lets you play chess. What did you give him so that he would let you play?’

  There is no point trying to lie. Brack already knows the answer to the question or he would not have asked it. ‘I gave him a watch.’

  ‘And where did you get the watch?’

  ‘I did a favour for one of the German technicians in Buna. He gave me an old watch that was broken. I fixed it and gave it to the Blockältester.’

  The German brings his face to within inches of the Frenchman’s. ‘But you forgot something, didn’t you, you stinking Kike?’

  Emil shakes his head. ‘I don’t know.’

  The Blockältester hits him again, though this time with less force. ‘Don’t fucking lie to me, you Jewish pig-fucker.’

  ‘Please. Tell me. What did I forget?’

  ‘You forgot that before you make a gift to a Blockältester in another block, you must first make a gift to your own.’

  One of Emil’s teeth has been loosened – when he touches it with his tongue, he can feel it move. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. A distant, fleeting thought occurs to him of how perverse it is that he should apologize to the person who has just inflicted a beating on him. ‘How can I make amends?’

  If he hopes that th
is will serve to mollify Brack, he is disappointed. ‘I think you already know what you need to do,’ Brack says, his words laden with contempt.

  ‘Yes,’ Emil acknowledges. ‘May I go now?’

  ‘You’ll go when I say and not before. I haven’t finished with you yet.’

  Nervously, Emil swallows the blood that has pooled in his mouth and waits for the next blow to fall.

  ‘From now on, you will not play chess unless you have my permission.’

  Emil is not expecting this. It is as if a death sentence has been passed. But to protest would be to invite another beating.

  Brack senses the effect of his words. ‘I did not say you could no longer play chess. I said you could play only when I give my permission. From now on, you are playing chess for me.’

  April 1944

  Ministry of Public Enlightenment and Propaganda, Berlin

  With a flick of his fingers, Wilhelm Schweninger launched the still-glowing butt of his cigarette into the street and pulled open the door to the Propaganda Ministry. His level of seniority did not entitle him to enter the building through the imposing portico of the Leopold Palace on Wilhelmplatz; instead, he passed beneath one of the tall, stone doorways that opened directly from Wilhelmstrasse.

  With a nod in the direction of the uniformed doorman, he headed for the stairs that would take him to his office on the second floor.

  For nine years, Schweninger has worked in Section III under State Secretary Hermann Esser, his every working day taken up with the propaganda opportunities offered by tourism. Unlike most of his contemporaries, a career in the armed forces or the SS had never been open to Schweninger. His father, Otto, was a farmer. At fourteen years of age, helping with the harvest, Wilhelm had trapped his hand in a baling machine. It had been so badly injured that amputation had been the only option. With a future working on the land impossible, the young Wilhelm had been encouraged to study, and he had gone to university in Heidelberg, where he had studied English. It was there that he had discovered his true calling: chess, giving himself over to the game so completely that he failed to complete his studies.