As the day lengthens, even though no prisoner has been permitted to exit the camp, the order is given for evening roll call. But the prisoners do not stray from the wire. A day spent in idleness scanning the horizon has given many an itch for freedom. By now they have heard the rumour that an attack by partisans is imminent and they do not want to let slip the chance to escape. They tell themselves the partisans must be concealed in the trees to the south, waiting until they are at full strength before they launch their attack, or perhaps they are waiting for nightfall, for it would be foolish to risk an assault in broad daylight.
The camp bell is rung, a signal for the inmates to return to their blocks. Some automatically start to walk back. Others turn their heads for a moment but are unwilling to relinquish the positions they have occupied. This day is like no other. They do not want it to end in another capitulation. Now a group of guards is walking towards the fence. They are waving their arms and shouting furiously for the prisoners to disperse, threatening them with dire consequences if they do not obey. Dogs are barking, straining at their leashes, fangs bared. Some prisoners, emboldened by the rumours, dare to shout back, hurling obscenities and curses. If words could kill, no guard would be left standing.
Without warning a machine pistol is fired, a long burst of automatic gunfire that does not finish until a metallic click indicates that the magazine is empty. The noise echoes through the camp, alerting prisoners, officers, and guards alike, but it is not the partisans attacking. Where the shots have been fired, men lie dead or wounded, some screaming, blood spreading across the patchy grass. A few prisoners run, but most look on stupidly, frozen into inaction. With an angry grimace, the guard who has fired his weapon releases the empty magazine and replaces it. In a deliberate gesture he tilts back his helmet and wipes his brow with his sleeve, as if he has completed a difficult task to his satisfaction. He turns to his companions and jerks his head in the direction of the remaining prisoners. With approving smiles the rest of them raise their weapons.
There is no need to give any order: when he fires again the others follow suit, a lethal hail that hits the defenceless mass and fells them instantly. Now all the prisoners are running for their lives without a backward glance to see how many have fallen.
In a matter of seconds, it is over.
The guards are laughing. ‘Fucking Kikes,’ one says, reloading his weapon as they walk away, leaving the carnage behind them. ‘They never learn.’
In his office, alerted by the sound of gunfire, Hauptsturmführer Meissner is inspecting his pistol, making sure there is a bullet in the chamber, before putting it into its holster. Calmly, he puts on his service cap, collects his walking stick and limps quickly to the outer office. Bewildered NCOs and men are away from their desks, peering out of the windows. None is armed or ready for action.
‘All of you,’ Meissner barks, ‘get away from the windows.’ Sheepishly the men return to their desks. ‘Who’s the senior rank here?’
A Scharführer calls out. ‘Me, sir.’
‘Grawitz, isn’t it? Send a runner to Hauptsturmführer Brossman. Tell him we’re ready to assist and await his orders. Then get the men armed and assembled downstairs. Quickly. I’ll be back in five minutes. Eidenmüller, you’re with me.’
Without another word Meissner heads for the stairs, the call to action too strong to resist, his orderly following in his wake. They reach the guard room next to the main gate without incident. There they find Obersturmführer Schottl, the Lagerführer. He is shouting into the mouthpiece of a telephone.
‘What’s happening?’ Meissner demands.
Schottl regards his superior with contempt. He has not forgotten their exchange at the hangings. ‘Nothing that you need to worry about, sir.’
‘Thank you, Obersturmführer,’ Meissner replies coldly, ‘but I think I’ll be the judge of that. It sounded to me like automatic fire, several weapons. Do you know where it came from?’
When Schottl does not reply, Meissner turns to an NCO. ‘You, Oberscharführer – where did it come from?’
‘The southern perimeter, sir, as far as we can tell.’
‘Thank you.’ Meissner turns to Schottl and gestures to the door. ‘Shall we?’
With a glare at the Oberscharführer, Schottl says, ‘Don’t you think it would be better to stay here, to have a central post of command?’
‘In my experience,’ Meissner replies, ‘nothing beats an on-the-spot assessment. But if you think . . .’
Schottl immediately grasps the veiled implication of the Hauptsturmführer’s words, as do the rest of the men in the guard room. ‘No, sir. Of course not. After you.’
It does not take long to reach the site. It is a massacre. A squad of four guards and an Unterscharführer are already there.
‘Do you know what happened?’ Meissner calls.
‘No, sir. We only just got here ourselves.’
Meissner rolls a corpse over with the toe of his boot. There are three bloody entry wounds across its chest. ‘Better see if any of them is still alive.’
But Schottl objects. ‘Sir, don’t you think we should be preparing for an attack? We were put on alert to expect a partisan raid. This could be part of it.’
‘I doubt it,’ Meissner observes. ‘If it were partisans, it would be dead Germans lying here, not prisoners. I think somebody has been a little trigger-happy.’
‘Sir,’ one of the guards shouts, ‘here’s one still alive. What shall I do with him?’
‘If he’s able to talk, ask him what happened, then get him to the infirmary.’
But Schottl will hear none of it. ‘There’s no point asking a prisoner what happened – all they know how to do is lie. And we’ll not waste our time taking them to the sick bay.’ He pulls out his pistol and strides over to where the wounded man is lying. Without a word he puts it to the man’s head and pulls the trigger.
Meissner is disgusted, but there is nothing he can do. He is only an administrator and Schottl is the Lagerführer. He turns away. He is not squeamish; he has seen many men killed, but never before in such a casual manner. ‘Let’s go,’ he says to Eidenmüller, ‘before I do something I’m bound to regret later.’
On their way back, Eidenmüller asks, ‘Is it true, sir? Has somebody tried to kill the Führer?’
‘I’m afraid it is. And from what I’ve been told, it seems there were many involved in the conspiracy. No doubt the details will come out over the next few days, but I am assured that although he has been injured, the Führer lives.’
They run into the guards commander, Brossman, leading a platoon of men. ‘I don’t suppose you have any idea what’s happened?’ Meissner asks.
Brossman stops, letting an NCO lead the men on. ‘It seems there’s been an unfortunate accident,’ he says, flinching as a shot rings out. ‘A loose finger on an over-sensitive trigger, shall we say?’
‘More than one loose finger, I would have said,’ Meissner replies, as another shot pierces the evening air.
‘What’s happening now?’ Brossman asks, referring to the gunshots.
‘More “unfortunate accidents”. Obersturmführer Schottl is proving to be particularly accident-prone.’
‘Little shit,’ Brossman says.
‘Yes.’ Meissner turns to Eidenmüller. ‘We’ve left the men waiting. You’d better go and tell them the panic is over. I’ll be back soon.’
As Eidenmüller hurries off, Brossman jerks his head in the direction of the sporadic gunshots. ‘Do I need to see it for myself?’
Meissner shakes his head. ‘No, not unless you want to see the scale of the carnage.’
‘How many?’
‘At least a hundred, and Schottl is doing his level best to add to the count.’ Meissner reaches into his tunic pocket and extracts his cigarette case. Opening it, he takes one and offers the case to Brossman, who pulls out a lighter. Both men inhale deeply, enjoying the bite of the smoke as it hits their lungs. They turn their backs on the slaughter and head back
towards the SS buildings.
‘How did you manage to end up here, Otto?’
Brossman puckers his lips and puts a finger to them to remove a strand of tobacco. ‘Fucked if I know,’ he says. ‘I was a Scharführer in Mauthausen. They sent me there because I was qualified as a mining engineer. But once I got there that didn’t seem to matter. I was put in the guard detail and the next thing I know, I’ve been sent to the Junkerschule in Bad Tölz.’1
‘Really? I was there myself. When were you there?’
‘1940. And you?’
‘Not until the autumn of ’41.’ Meissner takes up the thread again. ‘And after officer training, you came here?’
‘No. I was sent to Poland. Until September ’41 I was on Globocnik’s staff in Lublin. God, he was a vicious bastard, I can tell you. With the invasion of Russia I expected to be sent east with the Einsatzgrüppen, but luckily for me, I suppose, I found myself posted here. At that time there was only the Stammlager, and a few thousand Russian POWs that we put to work constructing the camp at Birkenau. I was put in charge of the guard company, and I’ve been here ever since. How about you?’
Meissner grins self-consciously. ‘I only ever wanted to be in the Waffen-SS. Death or glory, that’s me. I contemplated a career in the Luftwaffe, but in my last year at university a Waffen-SS officer came to speak to us. They were the Führer’s shock troops, he said, the imperial guard of National Socialism. That was good enough for me.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘Everything was so much clearer then than it is now.’ He let his cigarette butt fall from his fingers. ‘Otto,’ he continued, ‘I’ve been meaning to speak to you about this damned Jewish chess player. Will you take him on? I should warn you – he’s good. He struggled against Frommhagen, but I think it was only because of nerves. He beat Dorn easily.’
It is a warm evening. Brossman takes off his cap and wipes the sweat-band with a handkerchief. ‘Dorn? He’s worse than Schottl. I don’t know what the SS is coming to when they let pricks like those two in.’
‘So, how about it? Will you play against the Jew? Only make sure you beat him, or Bär will have me shot.’
Brossman glances at the sky and sniffs. ‘Can you smell that? It’s the crematoria at Birkenau. Never quite get used to the smell, do you? Between you and me, Paul, I’m sick of it. Sick of the war, sick of all the killing. I think we may have made a mistake about the Jews. We’re never going to get rid of them all, so why are we even bothering?’ He shakes his head. ‘Yes, I’ll play your Jew, and I’ll even do my best to beat him, but I’m not making any promises.’
‘For his sake I hope you do beat him.’
‘Why?’
‘Because after you he would face Hustek.’
‘Christ. I wouldn’t wish that on anybody. Not even a poxy Yid.’
‘Quite. But on the other hand . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘I’ve seen the Jew play. I’m no expert, but I think he may be quite exceptional. What if he beats you and Hustek, too? Then what?’
The sound of another shot breaks the calm. Brossman scowls. ‘Luckily for me,’ he says, ‘that’s not something I’m going to have to worry about.’
1962
Leidseplein, Amsterdam
‘I remember that night very clearly,’ Willi said. ‘Talk about panic. We didn’t know what was going on. The ministry building was surrounded by soldiers and we were told we couldn’t leave. Joey the Cripple was frantic, expecting to be hauled out and shot any minute. Then, at about seven o’clock, there was a telephone call from the Führer. The officer in charge of the men outside came into the building and spoke to him. Everything changed after that. We were ordered to tune in to the radio for an emergency broadcast. That’s when we learned what had happened. There had been a bomb, but Hitler had survived. The traitors were holed up at the General Army HQ. The people of Berlin were ordered to stay off the streets. We weren’t far from the army headquarters and, a little while afterwards, we could hear the gunfire, very clearly. Then, shortly after midnight, Skorzeny arrived with SS troops and it was all over.’
‘I have often wondered what would have happened if Hitler had not survived,’ Paul said.
Willi pondered for a moment. ‘The obvious thing would have been for the army to take over and negotiate a peace,’ he said wistfully. ‘We probably wouldn’t have been occupied by the Russians.’
‘Perhaps, then,’ Emil said, ‘it was better that he did survive. If Germany had not experienced such a catastrophic defeat as she did, it would have been only a matter of time before another Hitler emerged and the whole disaster was enacted again.’
‘I do not think we would have let such a thing happen.’
‘I wish, Willi’ – Emil’s voice was suddenly harsh – ‘that I could share your confidence, but having experienced what a person like Hitler and his henchmen could inflict first-hand, you’ll forgive me if I say that no price would be too high to make sure it could never happen again.’
1 Bad Tölz was one of three SS Junkerschules – officer training schools.
30.
THE CHIGORIN DEFENCE
August 1944
Konzentrationslager Auschwitz-III, Monowitz
It is not the place of a Häftling to seek an audience with an officer in the SS, but nearly two months have gone by since the game against Dorn, and still there is no word from Meissner. Even Brack is showing signs of unease. It is some relief then, when, finally, word reaches them that the Watchmaker must report to the Hauptsturmführer without delay.
A Kapo escorts Emil to Meissner’s office. Meissner is alone – even Eidenmüller is absent. The SS man seems distracted. He sends the Kapo away, and Emil stands at attention, waiting. Meissner limps to the outer office and returns bearing a pot of coffee and two cups. ‘Please take a seat,’ he says, and, filling a cup, hands it to the dumbfounded prisoner.
‘Thank you,’ Emil manages to say, as he sits. He takes a sip from the cup. It is too hot, but the smell of it is intoxicating. It is coffee, real coffee.
‘Cigarette?’ A pack is handed over. ‘Keep it.’
Emil’s hands tremble as he tears the pack open and puts a cigarette between his lips. He has nothing to light it with and waits, until the officer points to a box of matches on the desk.
Emil inhales deeply, savouring the first rush of nicotine. It is some moments before he realizes he is being watched. ‘Why are you doing this?’ he asks.
‘The last time we spoke you accused me of being uncivilized. That is far from the truth. Germans are a civilized people. But we have allowed ourselves to come under the control of a bunch of gangsters. That is our disgrace and your great misfortune. There is little I can do about that, but I have decided I can put up with it no longer. I am not permitted to leave my post, but I will no longer play the game according to their rules.’
‘Their rules?’
‘They used to be my rules too, but no longer.’
Emil looks away, stunned. He wonders if he is dreaming. For an SS officer to talk to him in this way is unthinkable.
‘Are you playing some kind of game with me?’
There is an edge to Meissner’s voice when he replies. ‘No. No more games, Watchmaker.’
Emil searches for a reply but can find nothing. He feels as if he is alone in a deep cave, groping blindly, trying desperately to understand the words that flit around him, like bats, in the darkness. He wonders if he is being tested and responds by saying, bitterly: ‘It does not matter whether you are playing a game with me or not – nothing can change my situation. Not until you Nazis and all you stand for have been utterly destroyed.’
The SS officer stiffens. For a moment his eyes rest on a photograph of Hitler that adorns the wall. ‘I know,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry. Truly.’
Meissner’s words are shocking, astounding. They hit the Watchmaker with the force of an earthquake: whole cities topple and fall into dust.
Emil is bewildered by the transformation that has come over
the SS man. He hears his own voice as if it were coming from the next room: ‘Sorry? Dear God. Do you expect me to believe that? You give the impression of being sincere, but for all I know this is simply some new and refined cruelty that you have dreamed up. How do I know there will not be some bolt from the blue – that all of a sudden, some punishment will descend on me without warning?’
Meissner does not reply. Instead, he pushes himself up and walks to the hat stand where his belt is hung. Taking his pistol from its holster he pulls back the action and puts a cartridge into the chamber. Then he hands it to Emil.
‘It’s loaded,’ he says, ‘so be careful with it.’
‘What do you want me to do with this?’
‘Whatever you like.’
‘But why?’
‘I want us to pretend, for a while, that this is not one of the circles of hell and that we are two civilized men having a civilized conversation.’
‘And which circle of hell do you think we are in?’
‘Isn’t it obvious? The ninth one.’
‘The ninth one? Heresy?’
Meissner shakes his head. ‘No. Treachery.’
Treachery. The word rumbles like an aftershock. Emil becomes aware of the pistol in his hand. It feels strange. It is heavy, its black metal smooth to the touch, and cool. He sees it as though through a magnifying glass: there are traces of grease around the moving parts and blemishes on the handgrip where it has been damaged, perhaps in battle. Gingerly, he rests a finger on the trigger. It would be child’s play to shoot the SS man; at this range he could not miss.
If Yves were alive, what would he do? The answer is certain: he would kill the German. But Emil is not Yves and the certainties that once guided his life have all been torn away: if he killed Meissner, would that mean he had descended to the same level? And – the most uncertain of all his uncertainties – what if Meissner is sincere?
There is a clock on the wall above the door. The Watchmaker glances at it. He has been here for thirty minutes and there has been no bolt from the blue.
Gently, he puts the pistol on the desk.
The Death's Head Chess Club Page 23
