The Death's Head Chess Club

by John Donoghue

  Emil recalls perfectly his words to Yves: ‘Yves, trust me – I will not lose.’ Now he is frightened he will not be able to keep his promise.

  After ten moves Emil is one pawn up but his opponent’s position is better developed and his bishop threatening Emil along the diagonal greatly limits the unpredictability that is Emil’s greatest strength.

  1962

  Grand Hotel Krasnapolsky, Amsterdam

  Emil watched blankly as his opponent pushed down the tab on the game clock. The Hungarian’s opening moves had been unconventional and disconcertingly effective. Emil peered at him, half expecting to see a resemblance with an SS-Hauptscharführer with a wart. He felt unsettled; no doubt because of all the time spent with Meissner raking over the past. Well, if he got through this stage, he would have to put a stop to that, at least until after the interzonal was over. Progress to the world championship was at stake. But first he had to beat the Hungarian.

  The night before, when Emil had cast the tiles, he had uncovered ח – Heth – which signifies the Benelohim, the Sons of God. He had taken that as a sign of God looking benevolently on him, and he expected it to mean that he would win again. Now he was reeling at how easily he had fallen into to his opponent’s trap. Luckily, progress from this stage in the tournament did not depend on the outcome of a single game, but on the best of three; still, he racked his brains for a way out of the position the Hungarian had created. The clock was ticking. If he advanced his king’s pawn, black would bring his bishop across to take the white bishop. Emil would take it with his king but that would leave his king exposed, which would concede the initiative to his opponent still further. He could bring out his queen’s knight, but that would still leave him without any immediate attacking options. Theory told him to play safe, but every fibre of his instinct told him that was what his opponent wanted. Without making a conscious decision, his hand settled on his queen’s bishop and moved it kingside to threaten the black knight still nestled on the back row. It was not a conventional move, but it might make his opponent hesitate. If he could just gain a little space, he might at least salvage a draw . . .

  Somewhere a floorboard creaked. In the hushed atmosphere it was surprisingly loud. The sound brought him back to another game.

  It was the last thing he wanted to be thinking of, but the memory sprang into his mind unbidden. He could see again the bright red tributaries in the nose and cheeks of the SS man; he could smell the sauerkraut and beer on his breath and hear the shouts as his comrades urged him to see off this nuisance Jew.

  The Hungarian saw the threat to his knight. He moved it, taking the lone white pawn in the middle of the board, but it was a fundamental error.

  With a silent whoop of delight, Emil advanced his queen to capture the knight. The exchange left him dominating the centre of the board. It was not the way he liked to play, but his chances of winning had improved markedly.

  Afterwards, Schweninger was voluble in his praise for Emil’s victory: ‘Such clever opening play by black,’ he said. ‘So unconventional. I can’t ever remember seeing it before. Respond to it as you ought – as Emil did – and you’re in trouble before you know it. Almost impossible to get out of it without a major concession. What Emil did was a master stroke: bold but eccentric; your opponent thinks they’ve missed something, and you’re able to take the initiative back.’

  ‘I’ve seen it before,’ Emil said. ‘It’s called the Volga Gambit. I never expected to see it here. It caught me by surprise.’

  ‘Where did you see it?’ Meissner asked.

  ‘In Auschwitz. In the first game I played, the Hauptscharführer used the same opening. I’ve no idea where he might have come across it. It took me by surprise then, too. It was the first time I had seen it and I remember thinking what a clever opening it was and wondering what I was going to do about it. There was an awful lot riding on that game.’

  ‘Fascinating,’ Schweninger said. ‘You know, it’s just occurred to me – I have an idea where he might have seen it.’

  Emil responded with a sceptical look. ‘Really? Where?’

  ‘1936. In the Munich chess Olympiad. I’m sure it was Thorvaldsson who played it, though it was taken up afterwards by Eliskases. It was called the Munich Gambit then.’

  1 Prisoner card.

  2 Prisoner in protective custody.

  3 The fianchetto is a developmental move where the pawn in front of a knight is moved forward one or two spaces and the bishop occupies the space behind it, giving the bishop freedom to move on the long diagonal that the move has opened.

  23.

  THE FRENCH DEFENCE

  From the journal of Hauptsturmführer Paul Meissner

  SUNDAY, 11TH JUNE 1944 It seems I have made something of a miscalculation. Sturmbannführer Bär is quite furious with me. He is adamant that I should have consulted him before pitting a Jew against a member of the SS. He wanted the Watchmaker shot out of hand for having the temerity to win. He was not mollified when I explained that I had put the Jew in a position where he could not afford to lose. Nor was he impressed when I tried to convince him that the game was essential because of an idea that has sprung up among the Jews in the camp that one of their number is unbeatable. An idea cannot be defeated by shooting bullets at it, I said. Hauptscharführer Frommhagen was the weakest of the finalists in the camp championship, and the Watchmaker had trouble beating him. It seems likely that if he is pitted against our stronger players he will meet his match, and the ‘unbeatable’ Jew will soon be forgotten. The thought of the Jew pitting his wits against the likes of Hustek almost makes me want to pity him. At least the Kommandant agreed that we now have to go ahead with the further games – though he is still not happy about it. I told him that if he finds what I have done is so objectionable, he could arrange to have me transferred. He said that with Aktion Höss running at full tilt there was no question of a transfer. It seems I am indispensable, at least for now. Even so, I will write to Peter Sommer to see if there is any chance of my old regiment taking me back. It seems likely they’ll soon be in the thick of the fighting in France – if they’re not already. Goebbels vowed the enemy would be pushed back into the sea within a week, but there’s precious little sign of that happening. The Führer promised Germany would never have to fight on two fronts again, and now we are fighting on three. Is this defeatist talk? If I knew what was good for me I would destroy this journal, but there is something that stops me from doing that. I tell myself it is the voice of reason. Heaven knows, that is a rare commodity these days, especially here. There is no reason, only orders. As for this Jew, I am reluctant to admit it, but there is something about him that is unsettling. His chief concern was for his friend, not for himself. That is what I might have expected from comrades who have faced death together in the heat of battle, not from a Jew mired in the filth of avarice. I begin to wonder whether all that has been said of this race is true, or whether, like Lot in the city of Sodom, the Watchmaker is the one good man among an evil multitude.

  1962

  Amsterdam

  Narrow though Emil’s victory had been, Meissner insisted they celebrate. He told them of a small, family-run restaurant on the Oude Turfmarkt that served marvellous Italian food. It was not far, perhaps a ten-minute walk. He would buy them dinner.

  Walking through the lobby of the Krasnapolsky they encountered Lijsbeth Pietersen.

  ‘Good evening, Mijnheer Clément,’ she said. She had a book in her hand. ‘I bought a copy of your book. I wondered if you would mind signing it for me, if it’s not too much trouble—?’ Her eyes lit on his companions. ‘Oh. Mijnheer Schweninger. I wasn’t expecting to see you. I thought . . .’ Lijsbeth trailed off.

  ‘You thought what, Miss Pietersen?’ Schweninger enquired.

  ‘I just thought . . . the two of you . . .’ Lijsbeth flushed.

  ‘Perhaps you thought that Herr Schweninger and I did not have so much in common that we would seek out each other’s company?’ Emil suggested g
ently.

  ‘No – that is, I mean . . .’

  ‘Let’s just say that we have reached an accommodation,’ Willi said. ‘We have found that it is better to talk to each other than shout at each other.’

  ‘So you . . .’

  ‘We are talking, Miss Pietersen, and that will have to do for now,’ Emil said, extending a hand for the book. ‘By the way, have you read it?’

  ‘Yes. It’s very moving. It’s hard to believe that people could have done such terrible things.’

  ‘Yes, it is, isn’t it?’ He wrote something on the first page and handed it back. ‘Au revoir, Miss Pietersen.’

  The three men descended the steps of the hotel and crossed Dam Square, going through the archway that led on to Rokin. The streets thronged with people and the air was filled with the tinkling of bicycle bells as their riders threaded their way through the crowds. The evening sun reflected off the windows of the bars, which were full of people having a drink after work.

  ‘It’s quite amazing, this city,’ Emil said, ignoring for a moment Willi’s discourse on the merits of an attacking style. He stopped to gaze at a row of ancient gables opposite. No two were the same. The occasional modern building intruded among them, looking clumsy and conspicuous. ‘Why would they do that?’ he asked, pointing at one. ‘You know – put such ugly concrete blocks like those where they don’t belong.’

  ‘It was the air raids,’ Meissner said. ‘If one of the old buildings was destroyed, the Dutch saw no point in trying to hide it by creating a replica. The new constructions are monuments to what they went through during the war.’

  ‘Makes sense, I suppose,’ Schweninger said, walking on. ‘As I was saying,’ he continued, ‘in my opinion, Capablanca will probably prove to be the greatest player of this century. The simplicity of his attacking play and the speed with which he made his moves were really quite . . .’ He realized he was talking to himself and stopped. Looking back, he saw Meissner doubled over, holding onto a lamppost for support, and Emil, concern etched on his face, standing beside him, a hand on Meissner’s shoulder.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Willi said, walking back as quickly as his bulk would allow.

  Meissner waved a hand. ‘It’s nothing,’ he said. His face was contorted with pain and his voice little more than an agonized whisper. ‘Only an affliction that comes on me from time to time. Don’t worry about it – it will soon pass. Malaria,’ he added.

  But it did not pass.

  They were not far from a bar with its ubiquitous green-and-white ‘Heineken Bier’ sign, so Willi went in to borrow a chair.

  Meissner smiled weakly. ‘So, “Watchmaker”,’ he said. ‘Now I am the one in need of help. I wonder, do you think we could forgo dinner? I would be grateful if you could help me to get back to the Krijtberg.’ Despite the coolness of the evening, beads of sweat stood out on the priest’s forehead.

  Willi returned with a chair. ‘I’ll find us a taxi,’ he said.

  Back at the presbytery, it took both men to help Paul from the taxi to the door. Willi rang the doorbell repeatedly. They could hear footsteps in the hall and the housekeeper calling, ‘All right, all right.’

  ‘Dear God,’ she said, when she saw them. Quickly she stood to one side so they could move past her. ‘What’s happened?’ She crossed herself.

  ‘He’s really not well,’ Emil said. ‘I think you should call for a doctor.’

  By the time they managed to get him to bed, his nose had begun to bleed. Having summoned the other priest in the Krijtberg, the housekeeper had taken up station at the side of the bed and was tearfully trying to stem the blood. Father Scholten, a dour Belgian, stood at the foot of the bed praying, his lips moving soundlessly as he passed a set of beads slowly between his fingers. When the doctor arrived they all moved downstairs to the kitchen.

  It seemed as if he was with his patient for a long time.

  ‘How is he, Doctor?’ the housekeeper asked when he came down, her voice tremulous with worry.

  ‘I’ve given him some laudanum and he’s resting now. You should let him sleep. What he needs is a bit of peace and quiet.’ He took one of the housekeeper’s hands in his own. ‘He’s very ill, Mrs Brinckvoort, but you knew that,’ the doctor said gently.

  ‘But he’ll make a full recovery, surely?’ Willi asked.

  The doctor shook his head slowly. ‘That’s highly unlikely. Of course, we all pray for a miracle, but I’m afraid there’s little more that medical science can do.’

  ‘For malaria?’ Schweninger’s voice had in it more than a little outrage. How could doctors in Holland be so far behind their counterparts in Germany?’

  A look of comprehension crossed the doctor’s face. ‘Is that what he told you? Yes, I can understand that. He would not want your sympathy.’

  ‘If it’s not malaria, what is it?’

  ‘It’s leukaemia,’ Emil said. ‘He’s dying.’

  June 1944

  Konzentrationslager Auschwitz-III, Monowitz

  It is two weeks since the Allies landed in France. After hard fighting, the British have advanced as far as Caen and the Americans have succeeded in reaching the western side of the Cotentin Peninsula, isolating Cherbourg. Hitler has forbidden the local commander, von Schlieben, to retreat to the fortifications of the Atlantic Wall, leaving him no option but to stand and fight until his men are exhausted or dead.

  Although it is isolated in the coalfields of Silesia, the camp is aware of what is happening over a thousand miles away: news is brought by Polish workers in the Buna factory. The camp is jubilant. In the years since it was established, it has not known a moment like this. In their compound beyond the wire, the British prisoners of war can be heard jeering at the guards.

  The inmates do not know how to celebrate but there is no stopping the slender seedlings of hope from germinating. The prisoners have an unaccustomed spring in their step as they are marched off in their work Kommandos, and the jaunty tunes played by the camp orchestra no longer seem so ludicrous. Emil is one who has already broken the rule that says hope is forbidden in Auschwitz, and for him the news adds substance to his optimism.

  Still, for some days he has been unhappy. When Yves was discharged from the K-B and assigned to the kitchens, he knew immediately that Emil had not been true to his word. Angrily, he accused Emil of betraying his trust. It was a strange form of betrayal, Emil told him, that saved the life of a friend, but Yves would not listen.

  There is a rift between them and Yves has moved his bunk. Emil now shares with an Italian, a tall, taciturn man who does not respect Emil’s space.

  The companionship that Emil shared with Yves is gone. Emil prays that his friend will soon forgive him. The news coming from France buoys him and he decides that when he gets back from the factory this evening, he will seek Yves out and ask again for his pardon.

  On their return from the Buna complex the prisoners sense a change. The camp is fearful. Dread and foreboding stalk its pathways as the inmates are made to wait on the parade ground after evening roll call.

  At the head of the Appelplatz is a gallows. Three empty nooses hang from its cross-beam. Several SS officers stand watching. The Watchmaker recognizes the tall form of Hauptsturmführer Meissner, leaning on his walking stick and looking distinctly like one who wishes he were somewhere else.

  The roll call is completed unusually quickly. The Rapportführer tallies the count. It is three short. Instead of ordering a re-count, he reports to the Lagerführer who responds with a curt nod. With a flourish, the camp orchestra strikes up Mozart’s ‘Rondo alla Turca’. They play well, and some of the officers standing around the platform smile appreciatively.

  There is a stirring among the men massed there, as three bruised and bloody inmates are led out, their hands tied behind them. They have ropes around their necks and they are pulled along by SS troops like dogs. The Lagerführer gives a sign that the orchestra should cease playing and mounts the steps to the scaffold. He shouts at the asse
mbled thousands. Though only the front ranks can hear him, he knows that before the parade ground has emptied his words will have been repeated a thousand times.

  ‘These men are thieves,’ he yells. ‘They have been caught stealing food. This is a crime against the generosity of the German Reich, which sees fit to provide you with your daily bread. It is also a crime against you. The food they took was your food. By filling their bellies there is less for you. Such a monstrous crime calls for exemplary punishment.’

  Emil is frantic. Yves was not present at the roll call. The SS men force the prisoners to lift their heads. Emil thinks he is going to be sick. The prisoner on the right is Yves.

  The Rapportführer reads aloud the names and numbers of the three men. The nooses are put in place and pulled tight. The orchestra resumes its obscene parody of jollity. Stools are kicked out from underneath the condemned men and the camp watches helplessly as they kick and writhe, choking in their death throes.

  Tears stream down Emil’s cheeks but he is no longer sure whether he is crying for himself or for his friend.

  And all for a few rotten potatoes.

  Meissner is angry. Walking away from the executions, he catches up with the Lagerführer and pulls him around. ‘Was that absolutely necessary?’

  Obersturmführer Vinzenz Schottl regards the superior officer with a disdainful smile. ‘Of course it was. They were caught stealing food. They said they had some ridiculous notion of doling out an extra ration to prisoners who were starving. An example had to be made.’ Schottl tilts his cap back and puts his hands on his hips in an attitude that, in an enlisted man, would be considered insolent. ‘But why would you care about the fate of a few worthless Jews?’

  ‘One of them had been designated Schutzhäftling – on my orders.’

  The Lagerführer sees his superior in a new and unflattering light. ‘Really? Why would you do that?’

  ‘I had my reasons. Why did you not respect his status, or at least speak to me about it?’