The Death's Head Chess Club
Page 22
Instead, Paul asked, ‘What was it you wanted when you knelt before the cross?’
Emil was taken aback by the question. ‘What makes you think I wanted anything?’
Meissner smiled. ‘In my experience, prayer is something that most people reserve for times of great need. They stand before God as a supplicant, begging for His intervention.’ He sighed. ‘That’s not how it works, I’m afraid. Most of the time, the best you can hope for is an insight of some sort – a revelation, I suppose you could say. It seems to me that is what has happened to you. Something has been revealed to you, but it is up to you to decide what to do about it.’
Emil shook his head. ‘I think I was hoping for more than that.’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know. I thought that someone like you – a priest – would be on more intimate terms with God; that you would know what He wanted you to say.’
‘But there’s the very problem, don’t you see? It is not God’s way to be so direct. Both of us are searching for the same thing – forgiveness – but it seems determined to elude us. And when we turn to God for an answer, He is silent – but why? Since I met you again I have thought of little else.’ He leaned over and took Emil’s arm, looking at him intently. ‘But there is something I have come to understand. Forgiveness is bound up with hope. If you cannot hope, you cannot forgive. In my faith, to abandon hope is a grievous sin. It is hope that we must both rediscover, before we run out of time. And my time is running out.’
1 Reichssichserheitshauptamt: SS Reich Main Security Office. The delivery of the ‘Final Solution of the Jewish Question’ was in their remit.
2 Sicherheitspolizei: the State Security Police. Its officers were members of the SS.
3 SS death squads that followed the army into Poland and Russia and conducted mass killings of Communists and Jews.
28.
THE KING’S PAWN GAME
July 1944
Konzentrationslager Auschwitz-III, Monowitz
Nobody knows how news travels so quickly, but the atmosphere in the camp is transformed by the Watchmaker’s defeat of a second SS officer – for a few days, at least. There is a whiff of pride among some of the inmates, especially those in Emil’s block: one of their number has taken on the invincible SS and beaten them – again. And, as if good news is contagious, there is also a rumour that has spread around the camp – that there will be no more Selektionen. But it is no more than a cruel delusion.
Such false prophecies are common currency, but the Watchmaker is real and those Jewish prisoners who still harbour secret hope in their souls speak of him in a wistful manner, like some past glory that has all but been forgotten but which is suddenly remembered. It is no secret that when he wins a chess match against the SS, a prisoner – a Jewish prisoner – will cheat the gas chamber. Now, wherever he goes, he is hounded by a straggle of inmates who shamble in his footsteps, as if following their messiah, some of them bold enough to tug at his sleeve, hoping to attract his attention and become the next one to be nominated. He is their champion; his is the solitary act of defiance against the indignities that are heaped on them every day. He is even said by some to possess magical powers. Shouts of encouragement follow his every step. Even some of the Kapos greet him respectfully when he passes by, an unheard-of privilege for a Jew.
Brack is delighted with his protégé. Emil is given a bunk to himself, with clean straw and an extra blanket. When he leaves the block in the mornings, the Stubendienst inspects Emil’s tunic to ensure it has the prescribed number of buttons.
Emil is troubled by all the attention. Almost since he first entered the camp he has had a companion in whom he could confide, but now he is alone. He does not trust Brack. There is no honour among thieves, even less among murderers. He is only too familiar with Brack’s reputation for casual brutality. He knows of the incident last year when one of the newly arrived politicals pushed back angrily when the Ältester shoved him out of the soup queue. A red triangle on a prison tunic denotes a far higher status than does the crude star worn by the Jews, but that did not stop Brack from ordering his minions to hold the Communist’s head in the soup until he drowned. The soup men then continued to dole out the ration as if nothing had happened.
No, Brack’s newfound concern for Emil’s welfare is a patent pretence. His life has improved immeasurably, but for how long? Emil is still not sure exactly what Brack is getting out of this, but there must be some advantage to him or he would not be doing it. As soon as Emil’s usefulness is over, he knows he will be abandoned.
Emil is also more than a little worried that, since the game against Untersturmführer Dorn, he has heard nothing from Meissner.
One evening, Emil is stopped on the way back to his block from roll call by a Dutch Jew. He tries to give Emil his bread ration. When Emil refuses it, he says, ‘But there must be something I can do to thank you.’
‘Thank me? For what?’
‘For saving my life. I am the one whose life you won from the Germans in your last game of chess.’
Appalled, Emil steps back. ‘Do not try to thank me. Do not think for one moment that this is something I am doing willingly. I have been forced into this as with everything else in this place. As far as I am concerned, it is just another of the cruel tricks that the Germans like to play on us.’
The man shakes his head. ‘I cannot agree with you, my friend. Your courage strikes at the heart of this evil regime. According to the Torah, he who saves one life saves a thousand, and that is the truth of it.’
‘Courage?’ Emil says. ‘Please, do not mistake coercion for courage. When I entered the place where I played against the SS officer I was so full of fear that I almost lost control of my bowels. I do not know how I managed to win. That somebody’s life should depend on my performance in a game of chess is an outrage.’ He stops and raises his hand to point at the Kommandantur building beyond the electrified fence. ‘Only the SS could devise a scheme so monstrous that we, its victims, would consider ourselves its beneficiaries.’
But the Dutchman is adamant. ‘You are wrong, my friend. The very existence of this place is a contradiction. Every aspect of life here is the opposite of what it is on the outside. We cannot judge what happens here according to the rules of a civilized society. Here there is no right or wrong, only survival. It is a duty to survive, and every life that is saved is a victory.’
Emil can see that the man is not open to argument and tries to move past him, but the Dutchman catches Emil by his sleeve and holds fast to it. ‘I do not know your name, my friend – I only know they call you the Watchmaker. My name is Kastein, Avram Kastein, of Rotterdam. Before the war I was a wealthy man. When this is over, if you survive, come to Rotterdam and look for me. I will not be hard to find. You will find me more than generous.’
In his zeal to show his gratitude he tries to take Emil’s hand, but Emil is horrified by the Dutchman’s words. He cannot bring himself to collude in such a bargain. For him to accept payment would be an act of betrayal. How could he profit from the place where his family was exterminated? How has this man permitted himself to be so corrupted by the perversion that is Auschwitz to even think of making such an offer? Without a word he pulls out of the Dutchman’s grip and turns to run away. But Kastein calls after him: ‘Herr Brack said you might be difficult, but my word is my bond. If we survive this, remember, no matter what, no matter when; I pay my debts.’
But Emil is no longer listening. He understands now how Brack is choosing the people whose lives will be put at hazard during his games, and the knowledge chills him.
An orderly stepped into Sturmbannführer Bär’s office and waited for the Kommandant to acknowledge his presence. After some minutes, he was eventually forced to say, ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, sir. Hauptsturmführer Meissner is here. He’s asking to speak to you.’
Bär closed the file he had been reading. ‘Meissner? I thought he was still on leave.’ When the orderly made no reply he said,
‘Very well, show him in. And have that Bible-worm bring us some coffee.’
Bär observed Meissner closely as he limped into the office, leaning purposefully on his walking stick. He did not stand to greet his subordinate, but waved him towards a chair.
‘I wasn’t expecting you back so soon,’ he said. ‘Anything wrong?’
‘Nothing more than thousands of other Germans have had to put up with, sir.’ When Bär gave a quizzical look Meissner continued: ‘I went home on leave. It’s been bombed. There’s nothing left.’
‘Nothing?’
A muscle twitched in Meissner’s jaw. He shook his head.
A prisoner wearing the violet triangle of a Jehovah’s Witness entered bearing a tray with a jug and two cups. The Kommandant waited until he had put it down, then told him to get out.
‘How are you doing?’
‘I’ll manage.’
The terse tone of Meissner’s response prompted the Kommandant to scrutinize his officer more closely. He could not help but notice how tightly Meissner was gripping his walking stick and wondered whether it was to stop his hands from trembling. ‘I can arrange for more leave if it would help.’
‘No. Thank you, sir. But there is something else you can do for me.’
The Kommandant raised a cup to his lips and took a sip before replying. ‘Yes? What?’
‘You can approve my request for a transfer back to active service.’
Bär narrowed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. ‘There are many, including the Reichsführer-SS, who would say that what you do here is active service, and essential to the war effort.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Meissner, but it’s out of the question. The Hungarian Aktion is in full swing. You simply can’t be spared.’ He took another sip of his coffee, as if to indicate that the subject was closed, but Meissner was not deterred.
‘With respect, sir, I don’t really care what Reichsheini1 might have to say on the matter. It is my prerogative to request a transfer, and you have no good grounds for refusing it.’
‘No good grounds? You think so?’ Bär frowned. Meissner’s obstinacy was verging on impertinence. ‘Face facts, Meissner. Even if you could find a unit to accept you – bearing in mind that you are not fully able-bodied – have you any idea how difficult it would be to get a replacement for you? On the rare occasions I can get an officer sent here, all I get are the dregs – office clerks, schoolmasters and postmen with a grudge, who only want to wear a uniform to impress the women back home. They’re unreliable and ill disciplined. I’m sorry, but I cannot support your request. You’re far too good an officer for me to let go.’
Meissner stiffened. He had set his mind on getting away from Auschwitz. ‘I am an officer in the Waffen-SS,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘I enlisted to fight the enemies of the Reich, not to play nursemaid to Jews.’
‘If you’re referring to the problem of the chess player you seem to have adopted, there’s a simple answer: get rid of him. Make sure he is included in the next Selektion, then forget about him.’
‘I can’t do that, sir. It is a question of honour.’
There was a brief silence. ‘In that case, I can do nothing to help you.’
1962
Leidseplein, Amsterdam
Meissner had rallied and insisted he needed to get some fresh air. He said he would like to go with Emil to what he smilingly referred to as ‘the best chess club in Amsterdam’. He was not up to walking, so they took a taxi to the Leidseplein. Willi had some business to take care of and said he would meet them there.
When they arrived, Emil ordered coffee and rolls and then they went through to the lounge at the rear of the bar. Meissner eased himself into a chair at one of the tables with chessboards sitting on them and leaned his walking stick on the wall behind. Emil took a seat opposite and started to set out the pieces.
‘Would you like to play?’
‘Me?’ Meissner said. ‘Against you?’ He laughed.
‘Why not?’
‘I won’t give you much of a game, will I?’
‘It doesn’t matter. We’re playing for the love of it.’
‘In that case, yes. I would like to very much.’
Meissner drew white and moved his king’s pawn forward two spaces. ‘It’s hard to believe that, after all these years, I’m actually playing the famous Watchmaker at chess,’ he said.
‘Yes, who would have thought that a humble Jewish Häftling would come so far?’ Emil mirrored Meissner’s move.
As he did so, Willi came in, carrying a tray with their order. ‘The barman asked me to bring this through,’ he said, glancing at the board as he deposited the tray on a nearby table. ‘Aha. A double king’s pawn opening. Interesting.’ He pulled up a seat beside Meissner. ‘Did you know, Paul, that there are only twenty opening moves that white can make? The king’s pawn game is a powerful opening. You have a dominating position in the centre of the board and both the queen and the bishop are set free.’
‘That’s a nice thought,’ Meissner said.
‘What is?’
‘That a bishop could be set free.’
Willi smiled self-consciously. ‘I was thinking,’ he said. ‘We should get on with the story.’
‘In case I don’t make it to the end?’ Emil and Willi exchanged a worried look. Paul started to laugh but it quickly turned into a cough.
‘No, of course not,’ Willi said. ‘I want to know how our friend fares when he has the entire weight of the SS thrown at him.’
‘Well,’ Emil said with a grin, ‘as you can see, I’m still here, and the SS isn’t, so I suppose that must tell you something.’
‘It’s interesting,’ Meissner said, ‘the notion of freedom. It’s something I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about since the war, and not because of the years I spent in prison.’ His voice caught and he cleared his throat. ‘It’s not something I speak about much, but after Emil won his second game I went home on leave, to Cologne. It changed my life.’
Willi took a bite of a ham-filled roll. ‘Really? In what way?’
‘It set me free,’ Meissner replied simply, reaching for his coffee. ‘You must bear in mind,’ he continued, moving his king-side knight, ‘that I was no stranger to devastation. I fought at Kursk, perhaps the bloodiest of all the battles in the east. I saw plenty of action – real action – but nothing prepared me for what I found at home. I thought I had already seen hell on earth, but I was wrong. Cologne was the real hell, because it was my home. I have never seen anything like it. The destruction was terrible. Terrible.’
Paul’s voice had fallen to a whisper, so Willi said quietly, ‘And your home?’
‘Gone.’ Paul sighed heavily. He delved into a pocket, brought out a handkerchief and blew his nose loudly. When he continued, his voice was thick with emotion. ‘Everything – everyone – had been taken from me. I had nothing. No, that’s not quite true. I still had the SS. That was my home then. But not the SS of the camps – they were a disgrace, a squalid bunch of petty crooks out to make as much as they could out of the “Final Solution”.’ He winced at his own words. ‘I wanted no company with them, you understand. I wanted to make my escape, back to the Waffen-SS, back to my old regiment, back to where once again I could serve with honour.’
‘Honour?’ Emil broke in. ‘It seems incomprehensible to me that someone should talk about serving with honour in an organization like the SS.’
Meissner reached across the board to squeeze Emil’s hand. ‘I can understand why you would think that, Emil; and my service in Auschwitz does me little credit, I know. I confess I was convinced that National Socialism, with its values of order and unity and obedience, was the salvation of the German people. I thought I could contribute to the struggle without becoming tainted by it.’ He looked away. ‘I was wrong. I thought the SS was an elect order carrying out the work of Providence. I was wrong about that too, but I hoped that if I could get back to my old unit, I would be able to regain my self-respect.’
Meissner bowed his head. ‘No.’
1 Himmler’s nickname among the SS. It was not used in an affectionate way, especially among the Waffen-SS, where respect for Himmler was often scant.
29.
GIUOCO PIANO
Friday, 21 July 1944
Konzentrationslager Auschwitz-III, Monowitz
Rejoice, rejoice! Hitler is dead, assassinated in his field headquarters in East Prussia. For the first time anyone can remember, the inmates are not marched off in their work Kommandos after morning roll call, but are returned to barracks. The SS guards are out in force, patrolling the camp perimeter with dogs. Their weapons are not slung over their shoulders, but are held at the ready, fingers hovering over the triggers. They look jumpy and wary. The rumour mill is grinding away, its stories becoming more fantastic with every hour: Hitler was shot by his own guards, Göring has been killed by a bomb, Goebbels has been strung up in the street by an angry mob. Gradually the inmates come out into the sunlight and congregate along the wire, watching the guards, wondering.
Hours pass. The noon soup ration is delivered. This serves to pull the prisoners back into the body of the camp, for nobody can ignore the call of hunger, but they eat quickly, too curious about this unprecedented state of affairs to stay away from the wire for long.
They do not know that in Berlin a battle has been fought at army headquarters between soldiers loyal to the officers who plotted to kill Hitler, and Waffen-SS units whose allegiance to the Führer is beyond question. But now it seems that nobody is above suspicion: even senior members of the SS have been implicated.
The camp guards do not know any of this, either. They have been told they are on high alert for fear that Polish partisans may attempt to break into the camp and free the prisoners. Naturally, the guards regard the milling thousands along the perimeter fence with suspicion.