The Death's Head Chess Club

by John Donoghue

It was the first time that Meissner had entered the section of the Monowitz camp in which the prisoners were confined. At the administrative office, he learned the number of the block where Häftling number 163291 had his bunk. Accompanied by the Blockführer – an SS NCO – and Eidenmüller, he walked briskly through the camp.

  At the Blockführer’s shout of ‘Achtung! ’ the inmates in the block sprang to attention.

  At the rear, a small man slipped unseen into the dormitory. His eyes lit on a boy, perhaps fifteen years old, said to be Brack’s Piepel,1 though nobody mentioned it openly. The man grabbed the boy by the scruff of the neck.

  ‘Where’s Bodo?’ he rasped.

  ‘Block 39.’

  ‘Not so loud. What’s he doing there?’

  ‘The Watchmaker is playing the one they call the Flying Dutchman.’

  ‘Right. I need you to get him. Tell him I sent you and that there’s an SS-Hauptsturmführer in his block. What he wants I don’t know, but Bodo better get back here fast. Got it?’

  In the day room, Meissner looked around, amazed. He had not realized how primitive the interiors of the blocks were. He had imagined them to be somewhat like the barracks of the SS enlisted men: basic, functional, but not completely bereft of any comfort. What hit him instantly was the smell. He knew that in the Buna factory many of the civilian workers used the word ‘Stinkjude’ when they spoke of the camp inmates; Meissner had thought it a term of derision. It was not. It was a reference to the sickly sweet stench of men who lived packed tightly together and who had not had a proper wash for months.

  ‘Where is the Blockältester?’ the SS NCO roared. Nobody seemed to know.

  ‘Send somebody to find him,’ Meissner said, before jerking his head to Eidenmüller to follow him back outside. ‘Jesus Christ Almighty,’ he spluttered once they were out. ‘How do they manage to live like that?’ The officer fished in his tunic pocket for his cigarette case.

  His orderly struck a match, cupping his fingers to protect it from the breeze. ‘Thank God we get plenty of fags, eh, sir? They’re the only thing that makes the smell bearable.’

  Before they had finished their cigarettes, they were approached by a clean-shaven prisoner. He stood to attention, pulled his cap smartly off his head and announced himself: ‘Häftling 11442, Blockältester Brack, Herr Hauptsturmführer. At your service.’

  Meissner was astonished. It was the first time he had ever seen a prisoner wearing an immaculately clean uniform. The green triangle looked as if it could have been sewn on that morning.

  Before Meissner could say anything the SS NCO joined them. ‘Where the hell have you been?’ he yelled. Brack did not flinch. This was another first for the officer. He had only ever seen prisoners shrink with fear whenever they were addressed by an SS man.

  ‘Beg pardon, Herr Unterscharführer. I was . . . watching a game of chess.’

  ‘Chess? What the fucking hell are you talking about, chess?’

  ‘It’s all right, Unterscharführer,’ the officer said. ‘That’s why we came. I wanted to see this particular game of chess myself.’ Smiling, he let the still-glowing remains of his cigarette fall at his feet and gestured for Brack to lead the way.

  They followed the immaculate, blue-striped uniform for about 200 metres. Meissner noticed that Brack had well-polished boots rather than the rough wooden clogs that the rest of the inmates had to wear.

  The Blockältester stopped at a block with a small plate bearing the number 39 nailed to its front. He pulled open its rickety wooden door. Meissner peered inside. What he saw was identical to the block they had left moments before, with a brick stove offset from the centre, and a narrow window set in the roof to let in a little light. The only difference was to his right, where a chessboard had been placed atop a wooden crate, with two men seated on smaller crates, one to either side. Crowded around them were perhaps thirty or forty men: some on the floor, some on makeshift chairs, some standing.

  With a groan of rusting hinges, the door opened, flooding the interior with light. Brack held the door open for the SS men, shouting ‘Achtung! ’ as he did so. All eyes turned to the door. At the sight of Meissner’s uniform, the prisoners sprang to their feet.

  The SS NCO pushed his way to the front. ‘What’s the meaning of this?’ he screamed. ‘I’ll have you all flogged!’

  Meissner stood watching the scene in an almost detached way. Most of the spectators bore green triangles on their jackets, with one or two red triangles among them. The two men at the chessboard each had a red triangle over a yellow one – Jews.

  The players stood rigid, eyes straight ahead. Senior officers rarely entered the prisoners’ barracks. When they did, it was usually SS doctors come to make a Selektion of the sick and exhausted to be sent to the gas chambers. No Jewish inmate ever thought such a visit might be for their benefit. The presence of an SS officer was always an occasion for fear.

  ‘Unterscharführer,’ Meissner said crisply, ‘thank you for your assistance. You have been most helpful, but I’ll take it from here.’ He paused and turned to Brack. ‘Blockältester, I see there is a game of chess under way. I’m a great admirer of chess, and I would like to watch the rest of the game. Tell these men to carry on as they were and to pretend that we are not here.’

  1962

  Kerk de Krijtberg, Amsterdam

  ‘Is that how it happened?’ Emil said. ‘I had forgotten.’

  Schweninger could not help himself: ‘Forgotten? How could you forget something like that?’

  Shaking his head slowly, Emil turned to the German. ‘Only someone who had not been in Auschwitz could say such a thing. When an SS officer came to the block, the important thing was whether they were there for a Selektion. Fear drove all other considerations from your mind.’

  Schweninger frowned. ‘I do not understand what you mean by “Selektion”.’

  Keeping his eyes on the hearth, Meissner spoke in a low monotone. ‘Selektionen were how the SS carried out their mandate to maintain production in the armaments factories, while at the same time keeping the gas chambers operating. At regular intervals, SS doctors, accompanied by squads of soldiers, would be sent into the camp to pick out those who had been debilitated by ill health or starvation and who could no longer carry out the work that was required of them. They were sent to the gas chambers in Birkenau. There were so many Jews coming in on transports from all over Europe that there was never any problem replacing them.’

  ‘And you knew about this?’ Schweninger asked.

  Meissner nodded, his eyes fixed on the red-glowing coals. ‘Not at first, but eventually I came to realize what was happening. How could I not?’

  ‘And you went along with it?’

  ‘What else could I do?’ Meissner shrugged, then looked up. ‘At one point I tried to persuade the Kommandant that the arrangement was inefficient, that if we improved conditions for the prisoners, the productivity of the arms factories would improve. But it was made clear to me that if I persisted, I would be labelled as a Jew sympathizer and things would go badly for me.’

  ‘Badly for you?’ Clément was appalled. ‘We were starving. Freezing. Exhausted. We were outcasts. The suffering inflicted on us is beyond my ability to describe. Yet you thought things could go badly for you? What would they have done – take away your brothel privileges?’

  ‘I never visited the brothel,’ Meissner said, stiffly. ‘I tried to do what I could. Not one prisoner was sent to the gas chamber because of me. Not one.’

  ‘How noble of you,’ Clément mocked, his lip curling. ‘You were still part of a system that sent innocent people to their deaths. You have blood on your hands as surely as if you had herded them into the gas chambers yourself.’

  ‘Do not presume to think, Herr Clément, that I have not reproached myself for my failings.’ The priest’s voice was brittle with shame. ‘And I will continue to do so for the rest of my life.’

  ‘But still,’ Schweninger said, after a pause, ‘was there nothing yo
u could have done?’

  ‘I managed to save one life, and for me, that had to be enough.’

  ‘And whose life did you save?’

  The question was answered by Emil.

  ‘Mine.’

  1 Teenage boys were used as personal servants by some of the Prominenten. Some were exploited for sexual gratification.

  20.

  THE ALBIN COUNTERGAMBIT

  May 1944

  Konzentrationslager Auschwitz-III, Monowitz

  The result of the match was a foregone conclusion – the Watchmaker had defeated the Dutchman even before the arrival of the SS men, but was stringing it out for the benefit of Brack and the other Prominenten who had started to follow the games that were now being played.

  Everyone knew that the Watchmaker belonged to Brack, but he had let it be known that he had no objection to other block elders or Kapos taking an inmate under their wing to pit them against his champion. But it was not Brack who had spread the word that the Frenchman was unbeatable: that was Pasinski, a Pole who claimed to have beaten the German champion in the 1936 Chess Olympiad in Munich.

  Pasinski had been in the camp since the liquidation of the Warsaw ghetto in 1943. He had a gift for scrounging, and it was this that enabled him to survive when most of those who had entered the camp with him perished. Before the war, he had harnessed his natural shrewdness into a formidable talent for chess, and he had been looking forward to playing the upstart Frenchman he had heard about.

  Pasinski had drawn white and made a conventional enough opening move: advancing his queen’s pawn two spaces. The Watchmaker copied his move, blocking the pawn. The Pole had then advanced his queen’s bishop’s pawn two squares, offering a sacrifice to black. Clément had ignored the gambit and moved his king’s pawn two places, to stand beside its brother. The Pole had taken this second pawn, allowing the first black pawn to then advance one place to stand before the white queen, creating a wedge in the white defence.

  In only six moves, Pasinski had lost the initiative and, with it, the game. Later, he claimed to have known of the countergambit the Watchmaker had employed, but it was unheard of for it to be played at senior level – if any other player had made the same move, he would have lost, the Pole had insisted.

  According to Pasinski, the Watchmaker had an insight into the thinking of his opponent that was uncanny. That was what made him unbeatable.

  When the game with the Dutchman was over, Eidenmüller told Brack to have the Watchmaker brought to Meissner’s office. ‘But get him shaved and showered and in a clean uniform first. Is that clear?’

  It was an hour before Häftling number 163291 found himself standing nervously to attention in the office of an SS-Hauptsturmführer.

  The aroma of coffee in the room was tantalizing. The SS officer was stretched out in his chair, his feet up on the desk, watching the smoke from his cigarette as it rose slowly to the ceiling. An Unterscharführer poured coffee for the officer then took up position by the door.

  After surviving nearly five months in the camp, Emil Clément knew better than to utter a word to an SS man until he had been directly addressed, and so he stood, rigid, his eyes fixed on the wall behind the officer, with a strong urge to scratch where the rough cloth of his new uniform was making his armpits itch.

  1962

  Kerk de Krijtberg, Amsterdam

  ‘So you remember being summoned to his office?’ Schweninger asked, indicating Meissner with a tilt of his head. ‘But you had no idea why. Amazing.’

  ‘Not so amazing,’ Clément countered. ‘It was merely another of the absurdities we faced every day. I guessed – after the elaborate cleansing I had been forced to endure – that it was not to inflict any punishment on me. I assumed it was probably to do with my skill at repairing watches.’

  ‘Were you afraid?’

  ‘Of course.’ Emil shook his head in disbelief at the naivety of Schweninger’s question. ‘Always. Everyone who had not lost their senses was afraid. Every time you were spoken to by an SS man, it was like a game of cat and mouse. You weren’t supposed to look at the SS man, but you had to, to try and guess what he wanted. You tried to work it out from how he was looking at you, or the way he was holding himself, or the way he spoke. If he was shouting you knew he was angry over something and that you were likely to get a beating. And while a beating on the spot could be painful, it was not as bad as a whipping.’

  ‘Presumably for serious infringements of the rules?’

  Clément spread his hands. ‘Of course. Some men were so careless as to get mud on their trousers or lose a button from their jacket. I saw men flogged for that.’

  Schweninger winced. ‘But you didn’t think that was what was waiting for you this time?’

  The Frenchman nodded. ‘No, but it was always a possibility. You feared even to speak. Anything you said could be twisted and used against you. You listened hard to try and work out whether there was some hidden meaning that you needed to understand so that you could give the answer the SS man wanted to hear, but it was almost impossible – anything you were told could be a lie, and the SS man was like a rottweiler, eager to pounce on any unguarded word and punish you for it.’

  ‘And that was how you felt the first time we spoke?’ Meissner asked, his voice barely audible.

  Emil nodded.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ the priest said hoarsely. ‘I had no idea.’

  May 1944

  Konzentrationslager Auschwitz-III, Monowitz

  The Hauptsturmführer took his feet from the desk, stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray fashioned from a shell casing and addressed the prisoner: ‘Your name?’

  ‘Clément, Herr Hauptsturmführer. Emil Clément.’

  ‘And where are you from?’

  ‘France.’

  ‘I’m told you are an excellent chess player. Is that true?’

  For a moment Emil’s guard faltered: instead of staring at the wall, he let his gaze fall to look at the officer.

  ‘Chess player? I’m sorry, Herr Hauptsturmführer, I don’t understand.’

  ‘It’s a simple enough question. Are you a good chess player – yes or no?’

  ‘I think so. I mean – yes, Herr Hauptsturmführer.’

  ‘You speak good German for a Frenchman.’

  ‘Yes, Herr Hauptsturmführer. Originally I was from Metz.’

  ‘Almost a German, then, eh?’ Grinning, the officer reached across his desk for his cup and took a sip of coffee.

  Emil fixed his eyes once more on the wall.

  The coffee seemed to help the officer get his thoughts in order. ‘How long have you been playing chess?’

  ‘Since I was about fourteen years old.’

  ‘And have you ever played at national or international level?’

  ‘No, Herr Hauptsturmführer, I have not.’

  ‘Are you sure? That seems hard to believe, when I’m told that you have beaten at least one international-level player here in the camp.’

  ‘Who told—?’ Emil checked himself. ‘It should not be so hard to believe, Herr Hauptsturmführer. Before the war it was not so easy for a Jew to get onto the French team – after the fall of France, impossible.’

  ‘Did you know that we hold a chess tournament among the SS personnel here in Auschwitz?’

  ‘No, Herr Hauptsturmführer. I did not know that.’

  ‘How would you like to play against the SS?’

  The question did not make sense; Emil struggled to understand it. There was always a trick question; everyone knew that. Perhaps this was it, the question that would lead to a flogging, or worse. What was the right answer? If he said yes, they would tell him he was an uppity Jewish turd and beat him for sure. The correct answer was surely no. It would show them that he knew his place; that he was not so stupid as to think of challenging the established order, even if invited to do so.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘It is not my place to think I could play against the SS, Herr Hauptsturmführer.’r />
  Meissner leaned forward. ‘Not play? Are you quite sure? I could make certain privileges available to you if you did.’

  Emil licked his lips, his mouth suddenly dry. ‘May I have permission to speak frankly, Herr Hauptsturmführer?’

  The officer looked surprised that he should even ask the question. ‘Please do.’

  ‘Your privileges have no meaning for me, Herr Hauptsturmführer. How long do you think I would be able to hold on to them? And if I beat one of your SS men, I do not think I would survive for long – I would be pulled out of my work Kommando and beaten to death, or there would be a Selektion and I would be one of those sent up the chimney.’

  Meissner frowned. He had not anticipated such a flat refusal of the chance of better treatment. ‘So you refuse to play?’

  ‘Respectfully, Herr Hauptsturmführer, I must.’

  ‘What if I give an order that you must play?’

  ‘Then I will play, Herr Hauptsturmführer, but not to win.’

  Exasperated, Meissner stood. ‘Are you really so deluded as to think you have a choice in this matter?’

  But Häftling number 163291 stood his ground. ‘One always has a choice, Herr Hauptsturmführer, if you are prepared to accept the consequences.’

  1962

  Kerk de Krijtberg, Amsterdam

  ‘So you did refuse, after all. That took courage. Well done.’

  Schweninger’s words brought Emil up short. Was it approval he heard in the German’s voice? ‘It was not a matter of courage, Herr Schweninger,’ he replied coolly, ‘merely survival. I did not see how I could comply with this incredible suggestion and live.’

  The German reached across and patted Emil’s forearm. ‘Please,’ he said, his voice unexpectedly warm, ‘enough of the “Herr Schweninger”. Call me Willi – everybody else does.’

  The clock on the mantelpiece chimed ten. Meissner looked at Emil. ‘Do you have a match tomorrow?’

  ‘No. Not until the day after.’

  ‘Then may I offer you gentlemen a nightcap?’

  His offer accepted, Meissner left the room and returned minutes later with three glasses and a bottle of Kümmel. ‘It’s Dutch, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘Not as good as German, but not undrinkable.’ He poured three generous measures. ‘Prosit,’ he said.