The Death's Head Chess Club

by John Donoghue

  ‘You want to choose whose life I play for? What if I say no?’

  Brack smiled, an unctuous leer. ‘You wouldn’t want to do that, Watchmaker. Think about your poor wife. Besides, that’s not the only way I can help you.’ He stepped away, expecting Emil to follow, but the Watchmaker did not move. Brack jerked his head in the direction of their block. ‘Come on,’ he said.

  Brack led Emil to the line for the evening soup ration. He took Emil straight to the front and said to the inmate who was doling out the soup: ‘In case you didn’t know, this is the Watchmaker and he’s a friend of mine. In future he’s to get his soup ration from the bottom of the pot, not the top, got that?’ He gestured for Emil to hold out his bowl. The ladle dipped to the bottom and came up heavy with chunks of potato and turnip. ‘Give him two,’ Brack ordered. He winked at Emil. ‘So, Watchmaker. Do we have an understanding?’

  Like a drowning man, Emil’s hunger rose instantly to the surface, gasping for air.

  He gave a little bob of his head.

  Later, Widmann asked Brack what he was up to. ‘Insurance,’ came the reply. ‘I’ve got a proposition for you. Some of the Yids in here are bound to have rich relatives in England or America, only they can’t get word out to them. But we can.’ He stepped closer to Widmann and lowered his voice, explaining the deal he had just struck. ‘Every time the Watchmaker wins a game, I’ve fixed it so that I get to choose which life he saves. So, we’re going to have an auction – the Yids can bid against each other for their lives. We get word to their relatives in return for a large deposit into a Swiss bank account.’

  Widmann grinned. ‘I like the sound of it. What exactly are you proposing?’

  Brack passed a bottle of Schnapps over. ‘A 70–30 split. I’ve got the Watchmaker, you’ve got the contacts. All you have to do is get word out to the relatives. What do you say – deal?’

  Schnapps or no Schnapps, Widmann was not to be bought so cheaply. He took a large mouthful of liquor and gasped appreciatively as it went down. ‘70–30 doesn’t sound like such a good deal to me. 60–40 sounds better.’

  Brack laughed and spat on the palm of his hand, extending it to Widmann. ‘It’s a deal. If we play this right, there’ll be plenty for both of us. By the time we get out of here, we’ll have made ourselves some serious money. But’ – he pulled Widmann close, his strong, heavy hand closing around the Blockschreiber’s, squeezing it until the other man winced. ‘Don’t ever think of double-crossing me,’ he growled. ‘If you do, you’ll wake up one day trussed like a goose ready for the oven – ’cause that’s where you’ll be going.’

  Widmann pulled his hand away, rubbing it gingerly, eyeing Brack with alarm. ‘Don’t worry, Bodo. You can trust me.’

  ‘Trust you? I don’t think so. But as long as you remember which side your bread’s buttered, we’ll get along fine.’

  1962

  Kerk de Krijtberg, Amsterdam

  After supper, the bishop insisted on coming down to the sitting room. The housekeeper fussed and muttered but Meissner would not be denied.

  ‘The doctor—’ she objected.

  ‘—has been wrong before, Mrs Brinckvoort, and will no doubt be wrong again. It makes me feel much better if I am able to sit and have a civilized conversation with my friends.’ He pointed at the antique cabinet that stood against the wall. ‘If you look in there, you will find what’s left of the bottle of Kümmel. I should be very grateful if you would pour me a large one.’

  ‘But the doctor—’

  ‘To hell with the doctor. If you won’t get it . . .’ He looked pointedly at Willi.

  Schweninger stood. ‘It will be my pleasure.’

  Not used to being on the receiving end of harsh words from the bishop, the housekeeper stalked out of the room.

  ‘A toast,’ Meissner said, raising his glass, an ironic smile playing on his lips: ‘To life.’

  *

  The next morning, Emil and Willi set off for the Krasnapolsky and the next game of the tournament.

  ‘Did you cast your tiles last night?’ Willi asked. When Emil nodded he asked, ‘What was the result?’

  Emil shook his head. ‘The tiles do not always give a clear answer. Last night was one of those occasions. I could not understand what they were trying to tell me. Today I will have nobody to rely on but myself.’

  ‘How does that make you feel?’

  ‘It usually makes me feel quite alone, but perhaps today not quite so much.’

  ‘You will win,’ Willi stated confidently. ‘I have a feeling about it.’

  This time Emil’s opponent drew white. He started innocuously enough, advancing his king’s pawn one square and his queen’s pawn two squares before bringing out his king’s knight.

  Schweninger had found a chair from where he could see the game. Half an hour later, Lijsbeth Pietersen sat beside him. ‘What’s happening?’ she whispered.

  ‘It’s very different from the last game,’ he told her. ‘The Hungarian is playing defensively, right from his first move. It’s as if he knows he can’t win but wants to avoid being humiliated. In my opinion, Herr Clément is certain to win.’

  ‘Mijnheer Schweninger, do you mind if I ask you a personal question?’

  ‘It depends on what the question is.’

  ‘Last week, you and Mijnheer Clément were at each other’s throats. Now you seem always to be together. What has brought about this transformation?’

  Schweninger leaned back in his chair, smiling. ‘Chess. That is what has brought us together.’

  Miss Pietersen pursed her lips primly. ‘Mijnheer Schweninger, if you didn’t want to tell me, all you had to do was say so. Please don’t mock me.’

  ‘I’m not mocking you, I promise. I don’t understand it myself but, for the first time in my life, I have been given a glimpse of the real power of this game.’

  ‘By Mijnheer Clément?’

  ‘Yes. By Mijnheer Clément.’

  Although the game dragged on for over two hours, its end was never in doubt. Afterwards, Emil and Willi walked without speaking along the Singel Canal. When they reached the Krijtberg, Willi walked straight up the steps but Emil loitered on the street.

  ‘If you don’t mind,’ Emil said, ‘I need to spend a little time alone.’

  ‘Of course. Are you going to the Leidseplein?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘I should have known.’

  Back at the Krijtberg, Meissner was in the sitting room, a shawl wrapped around his shoulders. He seemed to have aged years in a matter of days, though his eyes were bright and alert. ‘How did it go today?’ he asked, as soon as Willi entered the room.

  ‘Emil won.’

  ‘Naturally.’ Meissner twisted stiffly in his chair and peered down the corridor, like a naughty schoolboy keeping a look out for the teacher. ‘Willi, could I trouble you for a cigarette? Mrs Brinckvoort has hidden mine.’

  They sat in companionable silence, staring at the hearth and blowing smoke at the ceiling.

  ‘You know, if Mrs Brinckvoort catches us, there’ll be hell to pay.’ Meissner laughed and started to cough.

  ‘I suppose.’ Willi flicked his cigarette butt into the fire. He looked troubled.

  ‘Is everything all right, Willi?’ Meissner asked.

  ‘No. It’s not – not really.’ He paused, then announced: ‘I’m thinking of giving up chess.’

  ‘Giving up chess? In the name of God, why?’

  ‘Until a few days ago I thought chess was simply a game, a game with rules that could be understood and which, with sufficient dedication, could be mastered. I thought I was a master; fellow players in my own country honoured me by calling me “Master”. But it is an empty title.’ He raised his head to give Paul a quizzical look. ‘I wonder how well you really know Emil Clément. To him, chess is not a game or even an art – it is an act of worship. It is not something to be mastered, it is something to be lived. I do not think I can compete with that.’

  2
6.

  THE TROMPOWSKY ATTACK

  June 1944

  Konzentrationslager Auschwitz-I

  Unterscharführer Eidenmüller was fuming. Brack had been told to make sure the Watchmaker had taken a shower and was in a clean uniform. He had done neither. The prisoner stank; he could not be taken to the officers’ mess in that state – Meissner would have apoplexy. But Brack had insisted it was not his fault: there was no water in the prisoner showers and clean uniforms were unobtainable. Eidenmüller’s solution had been to use the showers in the enlisted men’s barracks, but there was nothing to be done about the uniform. He promised himself he would give Brack hell for dropping him in it like this.

  The Watchmaker stood facing the wall outside the entrance to the officers’ mess waiting for the Unterscharführer. He could scarcely believe his luck: a shower with hot water – and soap. It was as if he had been permitted to indulge himself in the most decadent of luxuries. For the first time in months he felt clean, and when he breathed in, it was the tang of soap he could smell, not the sourness of the Häftlinge. It was almost criminal that he had had to put his filthy rags back on.

  Inside, the Unterscharführer found his officer. Meissner looked at his watch. He spoke sharply. ‘Why are you so late? You should have been here a quarter of an hour ago.’

  Eidenmüller looked straight ahead. He could take no liberties here, in front of so many officers. ‘Beg pardon, sir. I had to take the prisoner to the enlisted men’s barracks for a shower.’

  An officer standing next to Meissner grimaced. ‘A Jew having a shower in SS barracks? I’m surprised you didn’t cause a riot.’

  ‘Me too, sir. But the Hauptsturmführer’s orders were that the Jew should be cleaned up before being brought here and the water in the prisoner washrooms has been cut off.’

  ‘Where is he?’ Meissner asked.

  ‘Outside, sir. Waiting for permission to come in.’

  ‘What are you waiting for? Bring him in.’

  The murmur of conversation stopped abruptly when Emil entered. SS officers lined the walls; most had been drinking. Malevolent eyes followed the Watchmaker’s progress to a table that had been set up in the middle of the room. Emil stopped close to Meissner and stood to attention. The silence was broken by a snigger. Meissner gave an angry look.

  Somebody spoke. ‘Well, for Christ’s sake, what are we coming to? A fucking Yid – in here?’

  Then there was a shouted ‘Achtung!’ and all eyes turned to the door where the Kommandant, Sturmbannführer Bär, was now standing.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, loudly, ‘what we are about to witness is evidence of the truth of National Socialist principles in practice – a practical demonstration of the superiority of Aryans over the Jews. For that we must tolerate this unpleasant intrusion.’ He wrinkled his nose as if offended by a smell. He looked directly at Meissner. ‘Herr Hauptsturmführer, I’d like to get this over with as quickly as possible.’

  The Watchmaker was given a small bench to sit on. He drew black.

  His opponent wore on his left collar patch the three silver pips of an Untersturmführer. He waited with an air of nonchalance until Emil had settled himself, then ground out his half-smoked cigarette beneath the heel of his boot before advancing his queen’s pawn. The Watchmaker responded by bringing his king’s knight to sit in front of its bishop’s pawn. The SS man brought out his queen’s bishop to threaten the knight.

  Meissner watched impassively. He could not see much of an advantage in what his fellow officer had done. If the Watchmaker did not move his knight, the white bishop would take it, but would then itself be taken. It seemed a careless move on the SS man’s part.

  Before the Watchmaker’s arrival, Meissner had tried to counsel the junior officer against being overconfident – in vain. Only six months before, Untersturmführer Kurt Dorn had been in the SS officer-training school; after two months in the Hundstaffel at Mauthausen he was sent to Auschwitz. Dorn was typical of the new breed of concentration camp officers: what he lacked in intelligence he more than made up for with unconditional obedience. Meissner did not think he had emerged so brainwashed after his time in officer school. Perhaps it was different for the Waffen-SS: they had to be able to think – their enemies could fight back. Dorn’s arrogance was monumental. He was delighted to play, he told Meissner; it gave him the opportunity to show a Jew pig where he belonged – in the dirt with all the other pigs.

  It is one of the cardinal rules of chess theory that the same piece should not be moved twice in succession in the opening phase of a game. Emil violated that rule now, and with his second move placed his knight to threaten the bishop. In only two moves Dorn had contrived to lose the initiative and was on the defensive. The game was already as good as lost.

  The last moves of the game were played in oppressive silence. Emil did not dare to take his eyes off the board so hostile had the air around him become.

  With a surly flick of a finger Dorn tipped over his king to concede defeat. ‘A fluke,’ he said, sulkily. He stared menacingly at the Watchmaker. ‘Either that, or you cheated.’ Emil said nothing. He dared not meet the SS man’s gaze. ‘Set up the board and we’ll play again,’ the officer ordered.

  Meissner strode over. ‘Are you quite sure you want to do that, Herr Untersturmführer? I saw no evidence of cheating. Perhaps you . . .’

  ‘There will be no second game.’ It was the Kommandant. ‘Get the Jew out of here.’

  Eidenmüller hustled the Watchmaker away. The Kommandant glared at Meissner. ‘Herr Hauptsturmführer, you will report to me first thing on Monday morning.’

  1962

  Kerk de Krijtberg, Amsterdam

  ‘So,’ Willi said, ‘you won your second game with ease. No wonder the SS officers were angry. You gave their noses quite a tweaking. You could at least have made it look difficult.’

  Emil pushed the remains of his breakfast away and reached for a cigarette. ‘It was not so easy as that,’ he replied. ‘For a start I was very afraid. It’s quite daunting to be in a room where every person really does want you dead. I could sense their eyes on me, imagining a pistol held to the back of my head. That’s all it would take, they were telling themselves, and this inconvenient Jew could be forgotten.’ He paused, unconsciously rolling the cigarette between his fingers. ‘If I had been matched against an experienced player, there might have been some pattern to his play which I could have used to delay the inevitable conclusion, but this man had little real idea of chess and there was no thought behind his moves. For him to have reached the final of the camp contest must have been sheer luck, no more. He was the author of his own defeat.’

  ‘He lost because of his own arrogant carelessness,’ Meissner said. ‘There were many like him in the Totenkopfverbände. What else would you expect, when all they had to do was watch over starving prisoners and herd women and children to their deaths?’

  His words had a sobering effect and for a while they sat in silence, until Willi asked, ‘What about the angels – did they come to your aid on that occasion?’

  ‘Angels?’ Meissner rasped.

  Willi levelled a finger at Emil. ‘Our Watchmaker believes he is able to call on angels for guidance. A most unfair advantage, I would say.’ He smacked his leg and laughed.

  Meissner gave Emil a curious look. ‘I always sensed there was more to you than meets the eye. Tell me about your angels.’

  With an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips Emil stood, picked up the kettle and carried it to the tap. He filled it and waved it at the others, spilling a few drops of water on the tiles. ‘Anyone else want more tea?’

  ‘Yes,’ Meissner said, ‘but stop avoiding the question.’

  Emil struck a match to light the gas. Setting the kettle on the flame he stooped to get a light for his cigarette, blowing out a cloud of blue smoke after it caught. ‘It’s not such a mystery,’ he said. ‘I have created a system based on the Kabbalah. Each of the orders of angels has a specific attribute. I me
ditate on the attribute and it guides my style of play.’

  Meissner nodded, as if he had stumbled on an insight that had long eluded him. ‘Going back to Willi’s question, what did the angels tell you on that occasion?’

  ‘It was not so easy to summon them in Auschwitz; I had no tiles to cast.’

  Willi leaned forward, eager to hear what Emil had to say. ‘So, what did you do?’

  ‘I had to find a number at random, to correspond with a letter from the Hebrew alphabet. I was with your orderly . . .’

  ‘Eidenmüller?’

  ‘Yes. I counted the number of times Eidenmüller called me a Yid. The number corresponded to Zebaoth, the God of hosts whose power is represented by the order of angels called Principalities. I knew immediately I should sweep my opponent aside without regard for any other consideration.’

  The whistle on the kettle started to shriek. Emil turned off the gas and made the tea, stirring the leaves to make it strong. He looked over at Meissner as he did so. ‘After seeing how angry the Kommandant was at the result, I could not understand why he let you continue with more games,’ he said, adding milk to their cups and, for the bishop, sugar.

  ‘Yes. That proved to be an interesting conversation.’

  June 1944

  Konzentrationslager Auschwitz-I

  Meissner was outside the Kommandant’s office at 7 a.m. He had spent most of Sunday working out what he was going to say, though what he couldn’t admit to his superior, or perhaps even to himself, was that he had started to feel a grudging respect for the Watchmaker.

  It was almost nine when Bär turned up, accompanied by a senior officer who followed Bär into his office. The Kommandant seemed preoccupied until he said, ‘Ah, Meissner. There you are. Good of you to come.’ He pointed at the other officer. ‘I don’t think you’ve met Obersturmbannführer Höss, have you?’ Meissner clicked his heels and brought his arm up in a salute. ‘The Obersturmbannführer was the original Kommandant of Auschwitz. He’s back temporarily to oversee the Aktion involving the Hungarian Jews. The results have been really quite impressive.’

  ‘A privilege, sir,’ Meissner said, with a deferential dip of his head towards Höss, wondering whether the Kommandant had completely forgotten the chess game.