The Death's Head Chess Club

by John Donoghue

Meissner smiles, but it seems out of place.

  ‘What do you want from me?’

  ‘I want you to fulfil the Führer’s direst warnings about the Jews.’

  ‘I don’t understand what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Watchmaker, you are one of the most dangerous prisoners in the camp. I’m surprised the Gestapo hasn’t taken an interest in you.’

  A look of alarm crosses Emil’s face. ‘Why would they? I’m not political.’

  ‘Of course you are. Every Jew is political, because, according to the Führer, every Jew is part of the international conspiracy against Germany.’

  ‘Ah, yes. The international conspiracy,’ Emil says scathingly. ‘I was an ordinary person doing what I could to make my way in the world, a watchmaker with a tiny shop in Paris. What danger did I pose to Germany? How could you even think that I could be part of a worldwide conspiracy? The idea doesn’t stand up to any rational examination.’

  ‘You would say that, wouldn’t you?’ Meissner opens a desk drawer and lifts out a bottle. ‘Cognac?’

  ‘No, thank you. In my state it would probably kill me.’ Emil inhales deeply, catching the warm aroma of the spirit as the officer pours himself a generous measure. ‘All right, then,’ he continues, ‘what about the poor, uneducated peasants in the Ukraine? Most of them have never set foot outside their villages. How could they be part of an international conspiracy?’

  Meissner taps his nose with a finger. ‘Ah. That’s the clever part. They were an enormous Fifth Column. For years they have been lying dormant, waiting patiently, lulling us into a false sense of security. But when they got the word, they would rise up and overwhelm the German people.’

  ‘How can you believe that?’ Emil asks in wonderment. ‘It’s nothing more than a hate-filled fantasy.’

  ‘I agree. But don’t you think it’s strange that among the nine circles of Dante’s hell, not one of them represents Hatred?’

  Emil’s eyes stray to the half-empty bottle of cognac. Meissner catches the look and smiles wryly. ‘I’ve not been drinking, Watchmaker. Not yet.’

  ‘I would like more coffee, if there is any left.’

  ‘Of course. Help yourself.’

  While the Watchmaker refills his cup, Meissner picks up the pistol and resets the safety catch. ‘I almost wish that you had shot me,’ he says.

  ‘Shoot you? Why would I do that?’

  ‘Because I am your enemy.’

  1962

  Kerk de Krijtberg, Amsterdam

  Emil brought the coffee pot from the stove and refilled their cups. ‘Every time I have coffee it reminds me of that time in your office,’ he said. ‘I have never known coffee to taste so good, before or since. It was exquisite.’

  ‘But what was it,’ Willi asked Meissner, ‘that you wanted Emil to do?’

  ‘It was quite straightforward, though I hadn’t thought it through fully at the time.’ Meissner’s face relaxed as he thought back, retrieving the memories. ‘It took a while to sink in how rattled the Kommandant was by Emil’s victories. As Höss said, this was a test of National Socialism, and a challenge to the complacency of the SS. Bär didn’t see it that way – he considered it a dangerous experiment that should be brought to an end. Then I realized they were both right. I knew that Emil had an extraordinary gift and that, no matter what we did, he would win. This would expose one of the fault lines in Nazism – that the idea of the master race was a myth; a fantasy built on nothing more solid than the sinister delusions of a megalomaniac. I remembered the ideological lectures we had in the SS training school. We were told that the Russians were sub-human, but then we saw what they were like on the Eastern front: they were the same as us. We had been lied to. What if we had also been lied to about the Jews? I think it was in Cologne that I realized none of it made any sense. That was when I knew I wanted Emil to win.’

  Meissner took a sip of coffee, putting his thoughts in order. ‘The next game was to be played in the middle of August. I wanted it to be in the officers’ mess again, but Bär vetoed that. He wanted it played in the prison block in the Stammlager, where nobody would see it. Hardly fair to Emil of course, but that was the intention – to intimidate him – all the prisoners knew what went on inside its walls. Naturally, none of this prevented Eidenmüller from taking bets’ – Meissner smiled briefly at the recollection – ‘which he told me were heavier than ever. But what came as a complete surprise was who turned up to watch.’

  August 1944

  Konzentrationslager Auschwitz-I

  A room on the upper floor of the prison block in the Stammlager has been emptied.

  Otto Brossman has heard tales of this place, though he has never been inside before: of cells below ground so narrow that it is possible only to stand in them; of prisoners locked in basement cells and left to starve to death in the darkness. It is said that some cells have been bricked up to entomb their occupants.

  The room itself is intimidating. The plaster on the walls is painted a pale creamy colour, but it is discoloured in many places by dark stains. It is not difficult to imagine what goes on in there.

  A single table and two wooden chairs have been set up in the middle of the room. A chessboard stands waiting for the players to arrive.

  ‘I think the Jew is going to find this place more than a little daunting,’ Brossman says in a low voice.

  ‘That’ll make two of us,’ Meissner replies.

  The Watchmaker is escorted in by Eidenmüller. Meissner nods to his orderly but pointedly ignores the prisoner.

  ‘Is that it?’ Brossman asks.

  ‘Yes. The Kommandant did not want any spectators. He also insisted that you have an advantage. There will be no draw to see who gets which colour. You get to choose.’

  ‘Then I choose white.’

  The SS man advances his queen’s pawn two spaces. Without hesitation the prisoner makes the same move. The SS man brings up his queenside bishop’s pawn to stand beside its companion. The prisoner brings out his queenside knight. The SS man brings out his kingside knight. The prisoner moves his queen’s bishop across the board. White pawn takes black pawn and the prisoner retaliates by taking the white knight with his bishop. Black bishop falls to a white pawn and with that the black queen is out to take the white pawn in the centre of the board. All this has taken place with almost unthinking rapidity.

  White is ahead, just, and Meissner is holding his breath.

  Play is interrupted by the sound of a heavy footfall on the stairs. A shadow looms on the landing and in walks Oberscharführer Hustek.

  ‘Oh,’ he says in mock surprise. ‘I didn’t think you would have started already. I’m sorry to be late, but then I didn’t receive an official invitation.’

  ‘What are you doing here, Hustek?’ Meissner asks, already knowing the answer. ‘The Kommandant wanted this game to be a quiet affair, not a crowd-puller.’

  ‘But I’m not a crowd, am I?’ Hustek replies. ‘I’m only me. When I heard what trouble you had gone to over this little game, I thought to myself it’s about time I took a closer look at this unbeatable Jew. So here I am.’

  ‘Clear off, Hustek. That’s an order.’

  But Hustek is not to be deterred. With a smile sweetly laden with disdain he says, ‘I thought we had already agreed, Herr Hauptsturmführer, that since I’m Gestapo, I’m not answerable to you. Besides,’ he says, almost as an afterthought, ‘seeing as how I will be the next person to play the Jew, unless by some miracle he manages to lose tonight’ – he sniggers – ‘I have Sturmbannführer Bär’s permission to be here. If that’s all right with you, Herr Hauptsturmführer?’

  Meissner fixes his eyes on the Gestapo man, taking in the cocky smile and pose of casual insubordination. He glances at Brossman to catch a look of resignation as it flits across the other officer’s face.

  The prisoner keeps his attention fixed on the chessboard.

  ‘Don’t worry about me,’ Hustek adds. ‘I’ll be quiet as a mouse. Pretend I’m
not here.’

  ‘Fine,’ Meissner says, making a tactical retreat. For now.

  Hustek takes up position against a wall, lights a cigarette and says not another word; but he watches. Unblinkingly.

  Before the game, Emil had sought out Brack. ‘I want to know whose life I’m playing for this time.’

  ‘None of your business,’ Brack says.

  ‘I think it is. I need to know the person who will go up the chimney if I’m unlucky enough to lose. I want him to look me in the eye and tell me he understands what a risk he’s taking.’

  ‘Oh, he understands all right,’ Brack says. ‘Same as every other Yid in this place. On the one hand, there is the certain knowledge that, sooner or later, one of the Selektionen will get them and they will never be seen again; or, on the other hand, they can gamble that you really are unbeatable – which is what they all think anyway – and that for reasons that frankly are beyond their comprehension, a life will be saved.’

  ‘I still want to see him.’

  ‘Afterwards,’ Brack insists. ‘You can see him afterwards.’

  1962

  Kerk de Krijtberg, Amsterdam

  ‘Those early moves were played at a breathtaking pace,’ Paul remembered.

  ‘I can imagine,’ Willi replied. ‘Such an unconventional response. The SS officer must have come with a well-prepared game plan, yet you took him by surprise. When did you pause for breath?’

  ‘Only after he took my bishop.’

  ‘It must have been a terrifying ordeal. In my wildest dreams I would never have thought of a game of chess being played in a torture chamber, with a man’s life at stake.’

  ‘It was very tense,’ Meissner said. ‘The stakes were extremely high – more so than we realized at the time. I knew that if Emil won it would create more trouble for me, but at the same time in my mind I was urging him on. Brossman gained the early advantage and I was more nervous than I would have been facing a Russian tank. I can’t speak for Emil, but the spectre of the Gestapo witnessing the whole affair made it difficult to draw breath. I could guess what Hustek usually got up to in that room. Eidenmüller had asked around about him, and what he discovered was not flattering, even by the standards of the Gestapo.’

  Willi shuddered. ‘I never met anyone from the Gestapo – not that I know of, at least,’ he said.

  ‘Lucky you. But Hustek . . . simply being in the same room with him made you feel uneasy. If you had met him on the street you would have known immediately that he was someone to avoid.’

  ‘I agree,’ Emil added. ‘I never felt such malice in any of the other Gestapo I encountered.’

  ‘Other Gestapo? You never mentioned that,’ Meissner said, with some surprise.

  ‘Why would I? You never asked me how I came to be in Auschwitz.’

  ‘I assumed you were sent there because you were a Jew. I’m afraid I never thought beyond that.’

  ‘No, I don’t suppose you would. There must have been ten thousand Jews in Monowitz, with ten thousand tales of how they came to be there. You had no reason to ask me about my story.’

  October 1943

  Annecy

  Emil returned from the town dripping wet from the downpour: another fruitless errand. Every time he went he ran the risk of being picked up. Annecy was not a large town and strangers were soon noticed.

  In the confusion following the fall of France, Emil had taken his family south, to Rosa’s parents in Périgueux. In late 1942, when the Germans moved to occupy the Vichy territories, Emil managed to get a letter to Meister Nohel in Basle asking for sanctuary. His old master had replied quickly: ‘Come at once,’ he had written, ‘before the round-up of Jews gathers pace.’ But Emil’s mother was ill. Her ankles were swollen and she had been feverish. The doctor said she could not possibly travel. So they had delayed until the following summer. Even then it had not been an easy journey, heading for the Swiss border shepherding two young children and an ageing mother, trying to avoid attention.

  Near Annecy, they had come upon a farmer out early to bring in his cows. Emil told him they were heading for Geneva. The farmer said they did not have far to go, perhaps fifty kilometres, but the border was heavily guarded. He offered them shelter in his barn and told Emil of a café in town where he could make contact with the Resistance, who might be able to guide them. He told Emil to ask for Jacques. If, in reply, he was told that Jacques had gone away to care for his sick mother, he should then say that he had heard that Madame Blanchard was making a good recovery and that he hoped Jacques would be back soon.

  Every day for four days Emil had returned to the café, asking its patrons if they knew Jacques. All he had got were blank looks. It did not bode well. They would have to move soon, before somebody told the Germans about the persistent stranger asking for a man he did not seem to know.

  When he got back to the barn, it was empty.

  Trying to bring his pounding heart under control, Emil inched around to the farmhouse. There were two vehicles in the yard: a small military car of the type used by the Germans and a black Renault. Emil smelt the acrid tang of cigarette smoke. A German soldier was lounging against one of the farm buildings, blowing smoke rings to ease his boredom.

  From inside the house Emil could hear his children crying. He had two choices: to save himself, or to try and bluff his way out of the situation.

  Ignoring the soldier, he strode into the house.

  The ground floor consisted of a single room, with a large fireplace and cooking range along one wall and a table opposite; in the corner was an ancient dresser crammed with various items of crockery.

  Although the room was large, it seemed crowded. In one corner was his mother, his wife and their two sons; in another, the farmer and his wife. Around the fire were four men: two in military uniform, one in civilian clothes and a French gendarme.

  ‘What the hell is going on?’ Emil demanded.

  The answer came from the man in civilian clothes. His French was adequate, though his accent was execrable. ‘Who are you, monsieur?’

  ‘My name is Emil Clément.’ He looked anxiously at his wife. The brave face that Rosa had been wearing for the sake of the two boys fidgeting nervously with her skirt, crumpled. Her eyes pleaded silently for him to find a way to rescue them. His mother was beside herself, her lips trembling and her hands twisting and re-twisting her handkerchief. The sound of Emil’s voice startled his children and they started to cry again. ‘And this is my family. I demand to know what is going on.’

  The gendarme intervened. ‘Monsieur,’ he said, almost apologetically, ‘this is Herr Hefelmann. I’m afraid you must go with him.’

  ‘Why? I have done nothing wrong.’

  The gendarme shrugged. ‘Nonetheless, monsieur . . .’

  ‘I demand to know what is happening!’

  Emil’s outburst brought a smile to the face of the man in civilian clothes: a mocking, insincere smile. ‘I am Obersturmführer Hefelmann. Gestapo,’ he added, with a touch of malice. ‘You, monsieur, are under arrest.’

  ‘On what charge?’ Emil appealed to the gendarme. ‘I have a right to know.’

  ‘You have no rights,’ the Gestapo man snapped. ‘You are a Jew.’

  1962

  Kerk de Krijtberg, Amsterdam

  ‘For nearly a week, off and on, we were interrogated by the Gestapo. Where had we come from? How had we travelled? Where had we stayed? Who had helped us? The same questions, over and over and over. First me, then my wife, then my mother. I think it hit my wife the hardest. She had never experienced anti-Semitism and simply could not comprehend what was happening. “Why?” she kept asking – over and over.’ Emil looked up. ‘To this day, if she were to walk in and ask me that question, still I would not be able to answer her.’

  ‘We were conditioned,’ Meissner said quietly. ‘Brainwashed, lied to and conditioned to obedience.’

  ‘But why were you conditioned? How did such a hatred of Jews arise?’

  ‘It was not
only Jews. The Nazis hated Communists, homosexuals, Gypsies.’

  ‘You still have not answered my question.’

  ‘That is because I do not know the answer.’

  Willi interrupted. ‘Were you tortured?’

  Slowly Emil shook his head. ‘There was no need. They had my children. I told them everything I could.’

  ‘What were their names? Your sons, I mean.’

  ‘Louis and Marcel. Louis had his fifth birthday while we were in the prison in Annecy. Marcel was three.’

  Emil lowered his head into his hands, unable to continue.

  31.

  THE JANOWSKI VARIATION

  1962

  Amsterdam

  In the morning the three of them took a taxi to the Krasnapolsky.

  Reaching the top of the hotel steps, Meissner pulled on Willi’s sleeve. ‘Hang on,’ he gasped. ‘I need a moment to get my breath.’

  Willi eyed him warily. ‘Are you sure you’re well enough to be out like this? The doctor said . . .’

  Meissner’s face creased – Willi could not tell if it was with pain or irritation. ‘If the doctor had his way, he would have me in an invalid’s chair in a sanatorium somewhere. I’m fine, really, so please stop fussing.’

  In the next round of the tournament Emil was drawn against an Englishman, David Abramson.

  ‘Is he a Jew?’ Willi asked.

  ‘I have no idea,’ Emil replied. ‘Does it matter?’

  Willi shrugged. ‘I was wondering whether your Kabbalah would be effective against another Jew.’

  The game was tough. The Englishman drew white and, in keeping with his nationality, played the English Opening, advancing his queen-side bishop’s pawn two spaces.

  ‘Good. An orthodox first move,’ Willi whispered in Meissner’s ear.

  Emil’s response was not: he brought out his kingside knight’s pawn.

  Willi smiled. ‘I should have expected this by now,’ he said. ‘Once again he knows his opponent will have a well-structured game plan, so he sets out to stymie it immediately with an unconventional move.’

  Two hours later, the game was still in progress. The two spectators moved to the hotel lounge for coffee and sandwiches. ‘Don’t the players get a break?’ Meissner asked.