In order for any chess player to compete at a higher level, it was necessary to become a member of the Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei. Wilhelm’s Nazi Party membership had proved doubly useful when, in 1935, in the run-up to the Berlin Olympics, the Propaganda Ministry had been looking for young Aryan men with a flair for languages to brief the foreign press. It had seemed the perfect solution for the twenty-two-year-old, who was already gaining a reputation as a fearsome chess player. The Propaganda Ministry was the biggest of the Reich ministries, so he had seemed set for an interesting career.
Even the war had not dampened his ambitions to become an international chess champion – not at first. Working in Section III afforded ample opportunities for travel, and having a position in the ministry meant that his talents in chess were encouraged, if only for their value as propaganda. Before he was thirty, he was the undisputed champion of Germany and had beaten several national champions from countries occupied by, or allied to, the Reich. But then had come the Allied landings in North Africa and the reverse of Germany’s fortunes at Stalingrad. The work of Section III had become much more limited in its scope, as had international travel.
Of all the institutions in the Reich, the Propaganda Ministry was the most intolerant of defeatist talk and attitudes. But even so, now, at the beginning of 1944, the writing was on the wall for any but the most stubbornly myopic to see.
Wilhelm had never given voice to any of this, but, just lately, had decided that his career needed a new direction – one that would stand him in good stead after the war. He had learned that Herr Schweitzer, the graphic artist so favoured by Reichsminister Goebbels, was looking for an assistant. Under the pseudonym ‘Mjölnir’, Schweitzer’s work could be seen all over Germany – striking posters that urged ordinary Germans to heroic feats, whether at the front or at home. The artist was held in the highest regard by all in the ministry. If Wilhelm got the job, it would transport him to the giddy heights of Section II, with its myriad opportunities in radio, film and the arts. His interview had been three days ago; he expected to hear the outcome today.
There was a definite spring in his step as he entered the office he shared with Georg Wetzel. Georg was in his fifties, a dour widower whose wife had been killed in a bombing raid. He now lived in constant dread of a letter from the army to tell him his son had been killed in action; so much so, his hair had gone completely white. Still, he saw himself as a father-figure to Wilhelm, and tried, in his clumsy way, to nurture his protégé’s career.
With the insouciance of a circus performer, the younger man threw his hat on the stand and took his seat.
Georg spoke. ‘Late again, Willi. It won’t do. If Falthauser gets wind of it . . .’ He jerked his head in the direction of the supervisor’s office at the end of the corridor.
Wilhelm had heard it all before and shrugged it off. ‘Couldn’t be helped, old man. It was the bombing again. Tramlines are gone all along Hohenzollerndamm. Anyway, I won’t be having to worry about him for much longer.’
‘If things carry on like this, there’ll be nothing left to bomb, soon.’ Georg looked longingly at the photograph on his desk of a woman and a teenage boy. ‘If only the damned Luftwaffe did what they’re supposed to do. It’s every night now – every fucking night stuck in a cellar waiting for the one that’s got your name on it and next day we’re still expected to be at work on time. It’s ridiculous.’
Wilhelm shot a warning look at Georg. ‘Be quiet, you old fart, or you’ll get us both in trouble. You know what the official line is.’
‘I know what fat fucking Hermann’s official line is . . . and he can stick it up his fat fucking arse.’
Schweninger made a show of opening his diary and going through it.
‘And I don’t know why you’re bothering with that, either,’ Georg continued. ‘Word is, the Allies will be landing in France before the summer’s out. How long do you think we’ll be able to hold out after that happens?’
‘Stop it, will you?’ Wilhelm looked up in exasperation. ‘You’ll end up in a bloody concentration camp the way you’re going. I heard the speech Doktor G gave from the Sportspalast. You should have too. “Total war is the demand of the hour,” that’s what he said.’
Georg snorted at the mention of Goebbels. ‘Yes, and he also said that workers in government offices will work longer hours so that more of us can be sent to the fucking front.’
‘Well, there’s no chance of you being sent to the front – or me, for that matter. Anyway, as the Doktor said, it stands to reason that once the British and Americans are in France, they’ll join with us and turn on the Russians – or face the prospect of Europe being overrun by the Bolshevik swine.’
The older man shook his head. The entire staff of the ministry had congregated to listen to Goebbels’ New Year’s speech on the radio, supposedly an act of solidarity. It had been a Friday and, instead of closing early, as it usually did, the ministry building had remained open; food and drink had been laid on, and wireless sets placed throughout the building so that everybody could listen. Timed to perfection, the dramatic final words of the speech had come only a minute before church bells across Germany started to ring in the New Year. The enthusiastic applause of the thousands of staff had changed to embraces, kisses and handshakes and cries of ‘Happy New Year!’ Georg had had to admit that the Reichsminister was very, very good: he had almost been convinced himself. The applause seemed genuine and spontaneous, though it was not always easy to tell.
Now, with bitter irony, Georg quietly echoed the Doktor’s final words: ‘Now, people, rise up and let the storm break loose!’
April 1944
Konzentrationslager Auschwitz-III, Monowitz
The camp is in darkness. All the doors are locked and the SS patrol the perimeter with their dogs and machine guns. In the bunk they share, Emil asks Yves what he thinks the Blockältester is up to.
Yves is more worldly-wise and astute than Emil, but he is completely exhausted and falls asleep mid-sentence. Emil prays he will make it to summer. Now that the biting cold of the Polish winter is past, he might have a chance.
Emil has an idea. It is common knowledge that Bodo has contacts with the SS. Emil will offer to repair their watches in return for extra food, which he will give to Yves. It seems a good plan, but Bodo is sure to want something in return.
Sleep comes slowly to Emil. He is aware of the night sounds of the block, the stirrings of his fellow inmates, the heavy, breathy sighs of hungry men sleeping, snoring; the occasional cry and the continuous to-ing and fro-ing of men to the toilet bucket. Emil needs to go to the bucket too, but waits. By now it must be nearly full, and he does not want to be the one who fills it and is then sent by the night guard to empty it into the latrine. At last he hears the sound of the door opening and the clang of the bucket against the doorframe as it is lifted out. In ten minutes he will be able to use it safely.
When the camp bell rings in the morning, it is still dark. The night guard switches on the light.
Although he has not slept well, Emil feels better. He has a plan, and he is sure it will work. He knows this because of the rules of Auschwitz: those who run the camp for the SS are all corrupt. They will agree to almost anything as long as there is something in it for them.
1 Block orderly: a prisoner responsible for keeping the block clean and tidy. He was not expected to work outside like his fellow prisoners.
2 Latrine superintendents.
13.
A CLOSED GAME
April 1944
Solahütte, SS country club, German-occupied Silesia
Obersturmführer Paul Meissner stood on the veranda looking out over the valley and inhaled deeply. He loved this time of year, and, standing there in the midst of the pine forest, it was difficult to imagine there was a war on.
Officers and NCOs were already arriving for the grand final of the camp chess tournament. Competition in the heats and the two semi-finals had been intense. Even
Eidenmüller had tried his hand: ‘I know what the moves are,’ he had said. ‘How difficult can it be?’ Fortunately, he’d had the good sense not to bet on himself. Meissner had made an amusing entry about it in his journal. As far as he could tell, his Unterscharführer had made a killing, but this final game was more difficult to predict.
To everyone’s surprise, among the officers, Otto Brossman, the taciturn Hauptsturmführer in charge of the first and second guard companies, had excelled. The SS had a reputation for being anti-intellectual, so Meissner had been surprised when Brossman had confessed that he had read widely about chess theory, and at Heidelberg in the 1930s had even taken lessons from the university champion.
‘It’s all about tactics,’ he told Meissner. ‘Attack, defend, entrench, retreat. Have you read von Clausewitz’s On War?’ Meissner admitted that he had. ‘It’s as he says – “War is very simple, but in war even the simplest things are very difficult.” Chess is the same. The individual moves are very simple, but combining them to create a winning strategy is a different matter. And,’ he continued, ‘no two games are alike. Each one has its own personality, as individual as the players pitted against one other. It’s so intriguing.’
Meissner was impressed. He liked Brossman. ‘You’ll make a worthy champion of the SS,’ he said.
The other contestant, from among the non-commissioned ranks, was an even greater enigma. Oberscharführer Hustek was in the Gestapo, in the camp’s political section. About forty years of age, with dark, greased-back hair and a heavily lined face, he had swept all competition aside. Little was known about him other than his reputation for brutality with the prisoners and his hatred of Jews.
‘He’s an evil bastard, that one,’ Eidenmüller told Meissner.
The officer raised an eyebrow. ‘Is that so? That’s probably an advantage if you’re in the Gestapo,’ Meissner replied.
‘And another thing – he’s a sly one. You’ll never know what he’s thinking. I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him.’
Eidenmüller’s judgement proved to be a sound one: Hustek had chain-smoked his way through every game, unnerving his opponents by staring at them unblinkingly until they made their move.
‘I reckon that’s something he’s learned from interrogating prisoners,’ Eidenmüller opined. ‘More effective than any torture, I’d say.’
‘Well, I think he’ll find Hauptsturmführer Brossman a somewhat different prospect,’ Meissner replied. ‘He puts chess on a par with von Clausewitz.’
‘Sorry, sir – von who?’
Eidenmüller was offering odds of two to one against Brossman. For the first time, Meissner bet on the outcome – a week’s pay. That will teach Eidenmüller a lesson when he’s forced to pay up, he thought with a grin.
The game was due to start at 19:30 hours. Twenty minutes before the appointed time, Brossman eased his way through the ranks of SS who had made the trip out to the country club. ‘Hustek not here yet, then?’ he asked Meissner.
Meissner shook his head, but before he could reply, the Kommandant entered the room, followed by a visiting senior SS officer.
Liebehenschel called out, ‘Achtung!’ The hum of conversation ceased as the men in the room snapped to attention.
‘Gentlemen,’ the visitor said, ‘please be at your ease. No need for any formality on my account.’ The hum of conversation quickly resumed.
He surveyed the occupants of the room. ‘You are to be congratulated, Liebehenschel,’ he said in a confidential tone. ‘I had my doubts that your chess club was really as popular as you had said, but now I’m here, I’m most impressed. The effect it’s had on the morale of your men is obvious. I will tell the Reichsführer myself what a success it is.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ The Kommandant inclined his head. ‘But credit must go to Obersturmführer Meissner. It was his idea and he is the one who organized everything. An excellent officer, if I may say so; it’s a pity we do not have more like him.’
‘I’d like to meet him.’
‘Of course.’
Moments later the Kommandant was making the introductions: ‘Herr Gruppenführer, may I present Obersturmführer Paul Meissner, head of operations for the satellite camps and the organizer of this competition.’
The Gruppenführer appraised Meissner. ‘You are Waffen-SS? How is it that you ended up here?’
Meissner raised his walking stick. ‘I was wounded in action, sir. Sadly, I’m no longer considered fit for active service.’
‘And your Iron Cross. Where did you get that?’
‘Kursk, sir. The Voronezh front.’
‘Meissner rarely talks about it, sir,’ the Kommandant interjected. ‘He’s far too modest. He took on four Russian tanks with only a Wespe field howitzer, and killed two of them before our Tigers came to the rescue. His action saved the other two Wespes that were under his command, one of which had already been hit.’
The Gruppenführer extended a hand. ‘Well done, Meissner. It is a privilege to shake hands with you. You are a credit to the SS.’
‘Thank you, sir. I did my duty, no more.’
‘Gruppenführer Glücks is head of the Concentration Camps Inspectorate,’ the Kommandant explained. ‘He has travelled all the way from Oranienburg to watch the final, and I have asked him to present the prizes to our champions.’
Meissner smiled and glanced at his watch. ‘With your permission, Herr Gruppenführer, the final match is due to start shortly. May I invite you and the Kommandant to take your seats?’
As Meissner spoke, Hustek arrived. Without acknowledging anybody, he took a seat at the game table that had been set up in the centre of the room.
Meissner was indignant – Hustek’s insolence was insufferable. ‘Oberscharführer Hustek,’ Meissner barked, in his best parade-ground voice. ‘Attention!’
Slowly Hustek raised his head and looked coolly at the officer. ‘I don’t have to take orders from you, Herr Obersturmführer,’ he said. ‘I’m Gestapo.’1
The room fell silent. Meissner’s knuckles turned white as his hand tightened on his walking stick.
A voice came from the side. ‘Really? Then perhaps, Oberscharführer, you’ll take orders from me.’ All eyes were on the Gruppenführer.
Hustek sprang to attention and saluted. ‘Heil Hitler.’
‘Don’t “Heil Hitler” me. You dare to insult a hero of the German people? Where’s your Iron Cross, eh? I’ve half a mind to have you sent to the Russian front. Then we’ll see what you’re made of.’
Hustek swallowed. ‘No, Herr Gruppenführer. I beg your pardon, sir. My behaviour was unacceptable. It won’t happen again.’
The Kommandant glowered at the Oberscharführer. Everything had been going so well. ‘Herr Gruppenführer,’ he said, in a voice that was menacingly quiet, ‘I would consider it a personal favour if you would permit me to deal with the Oberscharführer myself – after the conclusion of the competition.’
With a final glare at Hustek, the Gruppenführer took his seat. The game could begin.
1 The Gestapo had a presence at Auschwitz because there were many political prisoners there, mainly Communists. In practice, the Gestapo operated above and outside the German legal code and were accountable only to themselves.
14.
TWO KNIGHTS
April 1944
Konzentrationslager Auschwitz-III, Monowitz
After roll call, Emil needs the latrine. Yves goes with him. The arrangements are primitive – a plank rigged above a pit, on which the Häftlinge must sit, shoulder to shoulder – and the stench is foul.
Yves settles beside Emil. He is worried about his friend after the beatings he has taken. ‘Your face is a bit of a mess.’
Emil explores the scab on his cheek with his fingertips. ‘I’ve been in better shape,’ he admits.
Yves laughs hollowly. ‘Haven’t we all.’ He holds out a bony hand for inspection. ‘Look at me – I’m fading away to nothing. Jacqueline wouldn’t recognize me if she saw me
now.’
‘Jacqueline?’
Yves looks away. The hurt inside had settled to a constant ache but now, in an unguarded moment, it has risen to the surface. ‘My daughter.’
Emil finishes emptying his bowels. He pushes himself away from the plank and pulls his trousers up. He steps over to the tap to wash his hands. There is only a trickle of water but it will have to do. He is wiping his hands dry on his shirt when Yves joins him.
Gently, Emil puts a hand on Yves’s shoulder. ‘Jacqueline – it’s a lovely name,’ he says quietly. ‘I wish you would tell me about her.’ He squeezes the shoulder, every bone shockingly sharp under his hand. ‘You know, here we are – we even share a bed . . . you would think we would know everything about one other – but we don’t, do we? Not really.’
‘She was . . .’ Yves stops, an agonized travesty of a grin on his face. ‘I can’t.’
‘It’s hard to talk about them, isn’t it?’ Emil makes a point of looking his friend in the eye. ‘But we must, otherwise they will be forgotten.’
Together they walk back towards the block. Their progress is painfully slow. Haltingly, Yves tells Emil something of his life before Auschwitz. ‘My wife’s name was Annette. We would have been married ten years in September. Jacqueline was our only child. She was eight when we got picked up in one of the mass arrests. There was only the three of us – no other family, you understand – Annette and I were both orphans. Funny that, isn’t it? Both of us, orphans, I mean.’ He pauses for breath; the simple effort of speaking is telling on him. ‘Jacqueline was a beautiful child. Clever, in a quiet sort of way, and caring – always helping her mother. And then we got taken to Drancy. Annette was pregnant. The Germans didn’t give a damn. We were put in a room with I don’t know how many other people. And then Annette went into labour, about two months too soon. She haemorrhaged.’ Yves runs a hand over his face. ‘A doctor came. He said perhaps if she had been in hospital, she might have been saved. He was terribly sorry, he said. The baby didn’t make it either. It was a boy – not that it makes any difference. So that left me and Jacqueline. She became very quiet after her mother died. It was like she had died too, inside, but was somehow managing to carry on, on the outside. I think she did it for my sake. After that, we were inseparable.
The Death's Head Chess Club Page 8
