The Death's Head Chess Club

by John Donoghue

Goebbels was said to be incandescent with rage. It was a propaganda disaster and Wilhelm Schweninger was its centre.

  1962

  Kerk de Krijtberg, Amsterdam

  ‘So Goebbels would not forgive you for being beaten by a Jew?’

  ‘To be fair, I think it was probably more than that.’

  ‘Fair? To the man who ruined your career?’

  A ghost of a smile crossed Schweninger’s lips. ‘It was never much of a career, really. I did a good job shepherding the English journalists around the Berlin Olympics, but that was pretty much it. After that I was never much more than a glorified pen-pusher. I think that what so enraged Goebbels was that I had used my contacts in the ministry not so much to create good propaganda for the German team, but to aggrandize myself. If I had been successful, all would have been well. As it was, I had the misfortune to come up against Najdorf.’

  ‘He’s here now, you know, in Amsterdam.’

  ‘Najdorf? Yes, I know. I had thought I might introduce myself, and apologize for my boorish behaviour all those years ago, though I doubt he’d remember now.’ Schweninger stood. ‘Excuse me, I need the bathroom.’

  When he returned, Meissner was at the sink, washing the dishes. ‘What happened after Munich?’

  Schweninger leaned on the counter, watching as the priest scoured a frying-pan. ‘I was determined not to let a single setback define my career as a chess player. By 1940 I was the undisputed champion of Germany, but by then Goebbels had more important things to occupy his time than a chess player who had allowed himself to be beaten by a Jew. I further developed my attacking style, which I had based on the writings of Spiel-mann, even though he was also a Jew. If I could have played against him there would have been no argument about my being champion of both Germany and Austria, but he fled to Sweden.’

  ‘It seems you were fated to have your career shaped by Jews, and now you get beaten by another one. Does it make you feel bitter?’

  ‘No. If I’m honest, I had only myself to blame for what happened in Munich. I was arrogant and simply not good enough. But in my defence, I was only twenty-three. What I can’t explain is how Clément managed to beat me so convincingly here in Amsterdam. I thought I was better than that. It’s quite chastening to discover otherwise.’

  ‘You should have seen him in Auschwitz.’

  *

  By midday, Emil still had not turned up, so Meissner suggested they walk to his hotel.

  ‘I’m afraid Mijnheer Clément is out,’ the receptionist informed them.

  ‘I think I know where he’ll be,’ Meissner said.

  1 Infirmary.

  22.

  THE MUNICH GAMBIT

  1962

  Leidseplein, Amsterdam

  It was a bright spring day. The two men retraced their steps along the Singel Canal. Dodging bicycles and trams, Meissner guided his companion over several bridges until they reached the open square that was the Leidseplein. Under trees that were coming into bud, a number of tables had been set out with chessboards. Meissner pointed to one that was opposite a café. ‘There he is,’ he said.

  They walked across. ‘I thought we might find you here,’ Meissner said, smiling broadly.

  Emil looked up from the chessboard, squinting into the sun.

  ‘May we?’ Schweninger asked, pointing to a chair.

  Emil didn’t answer; instead, he looked questioningly at his opponent. He was playing against a teenager who seemed a little anxious at the intrusion.

  ‘Please don’t mind us,’ Meissner said. ‘We are simply admirers of the game. If we’re putting you off please say so, and we’ll leave you alone.’

  ‘No, Father, that’s fine,’ the youth replied.

  The game proceeded slowly. With each move – both his own and his opponent’s – Emil explained what was happening. The key to winning, he explained, was to anticipate what your opponent was going to do four moves ahead, but to make your own moves unpredictable.

  After a while, the youth said, ‘In four moves you are going to win.’

  Emil smiled. ‘Excellent, though that’s not quite what I had in mind when I said you should think ahead. But may I say well done – you are thinking like a chess player already.’

  The teenager started to rise, but Schweninger reached out to grasp his arm. ‘Do you know who it is you’re playing?’ The youth shook his head. ‘Herr Clément is the champion of Israel, though he’s really French. In a week or so he is going to win the international championship.’ He looked at Emil meaningfully. ‘Some say he’s unbeatable.’

  The teenager was impressed. ‘Really? If I’d known, I wouldn’t have . . .’

  Emil chuckled. ‘Then I’m glad you didn’t know. Thank you for the game; I enjoyed it.’

  A waiter arrived. ‘That walk has given me an appetite,’ Meissner announced. ‘Shall we have some lunch?’

  Over a lunch of bread, cheese and beer, Schweninger said, ‘This morning I asked Paul why you changed your mind about playing chess against the SS. He said I should ask you.’

  Emil frowned. ‘Did he?’

  June 1944

  Konzentrationslager Auschwitz-III, Monowitz

  ‘You’ve changed your mind?’ Meissner looks closely at the Häftling standing to attention before him. His face is discoloured and when he opens his mouth, a tooth is missing. He looks like he has taken quite a beating. Meissner sighs. This is decidedly not what he had wanted.

  ‘Why?’ he asks.

  The reply astonishes him. ‘Pardon me, Herr Hauptsturmführer,’ Emil replies, ‘but last time we spoke you mentioned certain privileges that you could arrange if I agreed to play. I do not ask for anything for myself, you understand. I ask on behalf of a friend.’

  ‘A friend? And who would this friend be? Not Blockältester Brack, by any chance?’

  Emil shakes his head. ‘No, Herr Hauptsturmführer. It is the man I share my bunk with. His name is Yves Boudeaud. His number is 162870.’

  ‘And what do you want for this friend of yours?’

  ‘Something very simple. He is in the Krankenbau at the moment, recovering from an injury. The truth is he is starving and exhausted. He will die if nothing is done to help him. He is a good man. All I ask is that when he is discharged from the sick bay he is assigned to work in the kitchens. There the work will be lighter and he can get better rations.’

  Meissner shakes his head, puzzled. He had been expecting a request far more extravagant – this is too small a thing to ask. There has to be something more.

  ‘Is that it? Nothing else?’

  Emil hesitates before answering. When he speaks, his voice betrays him by cracking. ‘My wife and children, sir. I don’t know what has happened to them but if they are still alive, I would like similar arrangements to be made for them.’

  Meissner pauses, weighing his reply. ‘I’m afraid I can’t promise that. If they are alive they will be in Birkenau; I have no jurisdiction there. But I will grant your other request – your friend – on one condition.’

  ‘Certainly, if it is within my means.’

  ‘Oh, I have a feeling that it is well within your means. The condition is that you must win.’

  Emil takes a moment to consider what the officer has said. ‘I don’t understand. Why is it so important to you that I win?’

  ‘You mistake my purpose. It is not at all important to me that you win. However, it is essential that you play to win. Otherwise it would not be a true contest and the outcome would not be valid.’

  Emil finds the officer’s reasoning difficult to fathom. Surely the SS would want a Jew to be beaten? But does it matter? To him, it is simple: if – when – he wins, Yves will live; otherwise he will surely die. ‘I see,’ he says. He doesn’t see: what the officer has said makes no sense. Frantically, Emil’s brain rearranges the officer’s words, as if they were pieces on a chessboard, looking for some hidden meaning, a move he must see through. ‘But if I win,’ he continues, choosing his words deliberately, ‘Yves w
ill be assigned to the kitchens – permanently? And you give me your word that he will not be selected to go up the chimney?’

  ‘That’s an additional condition,’ Meissner points out. ‘What you are saying now is that you will be playing for your friend’s life. That is a heavy responsibility.’

  ‘Maybe so,’ Emil concedes, ‘but still I must do it. He would do the same for me.’

  ‘In that case, I will do as you ask. Your friend will be assigned to work in the kitchens and I will have it marked on his Häftling-Karte1 that he has been designated Schutzhäftling2 and exempt from the Selektionen.’

  ‘Then I will play.’

  The prisoner bows and walks out of the room.

  As soon as he is down the stairs, Meissner shouts for his orderly.

  ‘Did you have anything to do with that?’

  Eidenmüller’s face, as he stands in doorway, becomes home to an expression of pained innocence. ‘Me, sir? What, sir?’

  ‘The prisoner, Eidenmüller. He’s been beaten. I sincerely hope it had nothing to do with you.’

  ‘The prisoner, sir? You mean the one who was in here just now? The Watchmaker?’

  ‘“Watchmaker”?’

  ‘That’s what they call him, sir.’

  ‘Well, then, yes, you idiot, the Watchmaker.’

  The orderly gives a theatrical shake of his head. ‘No, sir. Definitely not, sir. It must have been that Blockältester, sir. Brack, I think his name was, sir. Nasty piece of work. Didn’t like the look of him, sir, not one bit.’

  ‘Well, do something for me will you, Eidenmüller? I want you to go and see this Brack yourself. I want you to tell him from me that from now on, this Watchmaker is to be left alone. He’s under my protection, and if anything happens to him I will make it my business to see that exactly the same thing happens to Brack. Got that?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Got that, sir. Loud and clear, sir.’

  1962

  Grand Hotel Krasnapolsky, Amsterdam

  Emil’s next game in the tournament found him pitted against a Hungarian who was playing on the American team. Emil drew white and started the game by moving his queen’s pawn forward two spaces on the board. The Hungarian responded by bringing out his king’s knight so that it sat two squares in front of its bishop. Emil advanced his queen’s bishop’s pawn to stand beside its brother. The Hungarian moved the corresponding pawn to block it, offering it as a sacrifice to white. Emil ignored the gambit and advanced his first pawn one space, offering a countergambit to the black knight. The exchange of a knight for a pawn is not equitable, so the Hungarian advanced his queen’s knight’s pawn in a third gambit. Emil took the pawn. His opponent moved his rook’s pawn one space and Emil took that too. The Hungarian fianchettoed3 his queen’s bishop to take Emil’s pawn.

  Watching from the sidelines, Schweninger whispered to Meissner. ‘What is he doing? Doesn’t he see he’s been led into a trap?’

  ‘A trap? How? He’s a pawn ahead in the exchange. That’s good, isn’t it?’

  ‘No. White always starts with the initiative but now he has lost it. Look how much more developed the Hungarian’s position is, and the threat his bishop poses along the diagonal.’

  Emil, however, was fully aware of what his opponent was doing. He was playing a variation of the Benoni Defence that Emil himself favoured when playing black. He had seen this variation before, in quite different circumstances, when there had been far more at stake.

  June 1944

  Konzentrationslager Auschwitz-III, Monowitz

  Emil has to wait until he has finished work for the day before he can visit Yves in the K-B to give him the news. Yves is still weak, but he is more alert and his eyes have lost the dull sheen of desperation. Emil tells him he looks better already, before excitedly telling him of the deal he has made with the SS officer.

  ‘So,’ Emil says, feeling easier than he has for months, ‘when it is time for you to be discharged you will be assigned work in the kitchens, and if there is a Selektion, you will not be among those sent up the chimney.’

  But Yves’s response is not what Emil expected.

  ‘And what if you lose?’

  ‘I will not lose.’

  ‘But you might. What you are saying, Emil, is that if you lose, in all likelihood I will be in the next Selektion, and if you win, I will owe my life to you.’

  ‘Yves, trust me – I will not lose.’

  With a fervour that Emil has not seen for a long time Yves says, ‘I do trust you, Emil, but that is not the point. Do you not understand? My life is not yours to bargain with. I am not a piece on a chessboard for you to play with.’

  Emil is shocked at his friend’s reaction. ‘But you said one of us had to survive to tell people about this place.’

  ‘I meant you, Emil, not me. I did not – do not – expect to survive. Look at me. I can’t go on for much longer. A few days, a few weeks, maybe.’

  ‘No. Yves, please. Listen to me. This will work. It will.’

  ‘No, Emil. I will not let you do this thing. I do not wish my life to be saved because of the whim of some SS officer. What he gives today he can just as easily take back tomorrow.’

  Emil is distressed by his friend’s stubbornness, and his fingers pluck unconsciously at the fraying hem of his sleeve. ‘I do not think he will take it back. He gave me his word.’

  Yves is incredulous. ‘He gave his word? To a Jew? And you believed him? Surely you know by now that none of the Germans can be trusted. They are liars, all of them. He is probably laughing at you as we speak.’

  Emil pleads with his friend: ‘Please, Yves. Let me try.’

  ‘No. I forbid it.’

  Emil is caught in a trap set by the kingdom of lies: to save his friend’s life he must abandon the truth, something he promised himself he would not do. He tells Yves he will do as he asks, that he will play for his own life. By the time Yves is out of the K-B it will be too late for him to do anything about it.

  Back at Emil’s block, Bodo Brack has been summoned by the Blockführer. He is handed a piece of paper.

  ‘What is this?’

  ‘Notification of a change of status of one of the Häftlinge. Prisoner 162870 Boudeaud has been designated Schutzhäftling on the orders of Hauptsturmführer Meissner. Your Blockschreiber will amend his record accordingly.’

  ‘Why has his status changed?’

  ‘I have no idea. All I have are my orders.’

  Back in the block, Brack hands the paper to Widmann. ‘Who is this Boudeaud?’ he asks.

  ‘He’s a Frenchie. Him and the Watchmaker share a bunk. Thick as thieves, the pair of them.’

  ‘And what’s so special about him?’

  ‘Nothin’ ’s far ’s I know. He’s in a bad way, though, has been for weeks. Not long for this world, I wouldn’t think. He’s been in the K-B for the past few days.’

  Later, when Emil returns to the block, Bodo grabs his collar and pulls him outside.

  ‘What the fuck have you been playing at?’

  ‘Playing at? I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Your bum-boy. Don’t pretend you don’t know who I’m talking about. The one who shares your bunk. Are you so stupid you thought I wouldn’t find out?’

  ‘I still don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  That earns him a slap across the face. ‘Don’t mess with me, you stupid cocksucker,’ Brack screams. ‘How the hell did you manage to get your arse-fucking friend designated Schutzhäftling on the orders of an SS fucking Hauptsturmführer?’

  Emil explains, bracing himself for a beating, but when he finishes Brack simply dismisses him. Emil does not know what to make of this but takes his opportunity to get away. ‘Scheming little bastard,’ Bodo says under his breath, to Emil’s retreating back.

  The game takes place two days later. Yves is still in the infirmary. Emil is cleaned up and taken in a truck to the Stammlager. He sits in the back with an SS guard. The driver does not seem to care and drives reckl
essly, throwing his vehicle around with no consideration for their wellbeing. Emil is shaken and nauseous when he arrives. He is marched to the enlisted men’s barracks, where a large room has been set up with a table and chessboard at its centre.

  Emil is left waiting in a corridor where he is told to remove his cap and face the wall. As people pass, some make a point of shoving him into the wall or punching him. He is on edge, not knowing when the next blow will fall, and time passes painfully slowly. Eventually, he hears a voice he knows.

  ‘Watchmaker.’ It is Hauptsturmführer Meissner. ‘Come with me.’

  The room is full of SS men, mostly NCOs, but there are one or two officers. Emil does not recognize any of them. He is led to the chessboard. ‘Your opponent will be here shortly,’ Meissner tells him.

  Emil has never been among so many SS men. He stands to attention and fixes his gaze on a wall.

  Somebody brings a stool. ‘Sit,’ he is told, as if he were a dog. Holding his cap in both hands, Emil sits.

  His opponent arrives, an SS NCO. On his collar he has the twin pips and bands that signify he is a Hauptscharführer. He is a heavy-set man with a wart on his chin and piggy eyes peering out from deep folds of fat.

  ‘Must I go through with this, sir?’ the NCO asks Meissner.

  ‘Yes, Frommhagen. This must be a meaningful contest and you were a finalist in the enlisted men’s championship. It is your duty to uphold the honour of the SS.’

  The NCO rolls his eyes. Meissner is called away and Frommhagen appeals to Eidenmüller. ‘Just ’cause someone said the Kike’s unbeatable? Doesn’t look that special to me. Why not just have him shot and have done with it? Happy to do it myself, if your boss is too squeamish to do it.’

  Meissner rejoins them. ‘Let’s get on with it, shall we?’

  Meissner holds out his hands in the usual manner of choosing which colour each player will get. Frommhagen chooses. He draws black. Emil starts the game by advancing his queen’s pawn two spaces.

  Emil’s confidence has withered away. The knowledge that he must win or Yves will almost certainly die weighs heavily. The stool is uncomfortable and after he has shifted his weight nervously for the third time his opponent growls, ‘Keep still, goddammit, you stupid Yid.’