‘Of course, if they request it. But Emil would not dream of joining us – he will want to maintain his concentration.’
The game continued almost to the time limits imposed by the competition and ended in a draw. The players parted amicably and would play again the next morning.
‘How many more rounds are there to play?’ Paul asked Emil, as the three of them waited on the hotel steps for a taxi.
‘If I beat Abramson? Only two.’
‘So this is a quarter-final?’
‘I suppose it is, yes.’
‘I hadn’t realized.’
‘Me neither.’
Back at the Krijtberg, Mrs Brinckvoort had left a stew for them to warm through for supper. Hungry after missing lunch, Emil wolfed his meal. After doing the washing up, he excused himself.
‘Where are you off to?’ Meissner asked.
‘It’s obvious, isn’t it?’ Willi called from the pantry, where he was drying the dishes. ‘He’s going to cast his tiles.’
‘Are you?’ Meissner asked. He continued in a mildly amused tone: ‘You know the Church has a strict injunction against fortune-telling and the like?’
‘It’s not really a question of simply casting the tiles,’ Emil tried to explain. ‘It’s not like a witchdoctor throwing bones or a fortune-teller reading tea leaves. It involves meditating on the will of God. I have to be open to the Divine will. If I’m not, then no amount of casting of tiles will help.’
‘I think I understand,’ Meissner replied. ‘And I would really like to see how it’s done sometime.’
‘More to the point,’ Willi said, ‘how did you do it before your match with Brossman? And how did the game end? I’ve been waiting all day to hear.’
‘It’s getting late, Willi,’ Meissner said. ‘It’s a long story and Emil has an important game tomorrow. Perhaps that should wait until after Emil has won this round.’ He glanced slyly at Emil. ‘But I should still like to see how you do it.’
Emil brought the tiles down from his room and placed them face down on the kitchen table. He arranged them vertically in a column of three, then a column of four then another column of three. ‘This is the shape of the Sephiroth,’ he said. ‘Put simply, each of the ten placements represents a different manifestation of the infinite will. But the different manifestations do not signify that God’s will might change or has changed; rather, it is our ability to perceive the Divine will that changes. The highest point corresponds to the infinite creative will. The others are aligned with wisdom, understanding, knowledge, compassion, judgement, beauty, eternity, submission and accomplishment. After I have meditated, I decide which of the tiles I should turn.’
‘Which one will you choose tonight?’ Willi asked.
‘None of them.’ He turned to Paul. ‘I would like you to choose.’
Paul had not expected this. ‘Are you sure? What if . . .’
‘I’m sure, Paul.’
Meissner stood over the table, pondering his decision. ‘Which one signifies compassion?’
Emil pointed to the third tile in the central column. ‘That is called Tif’eret,’ he said. ‘It balances the two positions above – Gevurah, signifying severity and Hesed, which is unconditional kindness.’
Meissner turned the tile. ‘What letter is that?’
‘Beth.’
‘What does it mean?’
‘It belongs to the order of angels called the Ophanim. In its most literal sense, it denotes the selflessness of wisdom. What it means tonight, I have no idea.’
August 1944
Konzentrationslager Auschwitz-I
Brossman was unable to maintain his early advantage. Once the opening flurry of moves was over, the Watchmaker found a way to strike deep into his opponent’s territory. At checkmate, Brossman stared at the board for several minutes, trying to work out where he had gone wrong.
At a gesture from Meissner, he and Brossman left the room. Eidenmüller followed with the Watchmaker. Not a word was spoken.
Oberscharführer Klaus Hustek stayed behind, musing over what he had witnessed. He did not share Meissner’s opinion of Brossman’s ability as a chess player, but there was no doubt the Jew was good. Well, he would have to do something about that. Hustek prided himself on being methodical. He did not prejudge the wretches who were brought to him for interrogation – that was merely a charade to put them off balance. Even so, in his estimation Meissner had been taken in by the Jew and would do his utmost to protect him. He would have to find a way to neutralize the Hauptsturmführer.
The next morning Hustek asked to speak to the Kommandant. He sensed that Bär was extremely uneasy about the chess games with the Watchmaker and adjusted his own attitude accordingly, making it almost the complete reverse of what it had been at the final of the SS championship: he was respectful and deferential.
‘Don’t get me wrong, sir,’ he said. ‘It’s not that I don’t want to play the Jew – I do. I want to put him in his place, good and proper. It’s just that I want to prepare thoroughly and, what with all the rumours flying around after the attempt on the Führer’s life, I need to be able to devote myself to hunting out any conspirators who may be hiding here. So what I suggest is that the game against the Jew is delayed for a month, or perhaps longer.’
Bär agreed. ‘Do you have a date in mind?’
‘Yes, sir. October the thirteenth. And I would like the game to be played at the Solahütte, with your permission, of course.’
When the news was relayed to him, Meissner was baffled. ‘Delayed until October?’ He checked the calendar. ‘Friday the thirteenth? What’s he playing at?’
Eidenmüller had noticed the change that had come about in his commanding officer since his return from leave: he was pensive and kept to himself much more. Eidenmüller had tried in his clumsy way to discover what was troubling his boss, but had been rebuffed.
About a week after the game between the Watchmaker and Brossman, Eidenmüller was in the SS barracks in Monowitz looking for Unterscharführer Hoven, one of the few SS men who had bet on the Watchmaker to win. Eidenmüller owed him money and he never welched on his bets.
Hoven was a hopeless gossip who was in charge of prisoner records for the Monowitz camp. As he watched his winnings being counted out, he could not suppress the urge to pass on his latest titbit: ‘Bet you don’t know who’s been taking an interest in your Watchmaker,’ he said, with a knowing smirk.
Eidenmüller looked up sharply. ‘He’s not my Watchmaker.’
‘But you’ve made a packet out of him, haven’t you?’
‘Business, purely business. Anyway, who is it that’s taking an interest in him?’
‘That Gestapo creep, Hustek.’
‘Hustek?’ Eidenmüller said, raising an eyebrow. ‘That’s not so surprising. He’s next in line to play the Watchmaker.’
‘I’d say the bastard’s been doing more than taking an interest, if you get my meaning.’ Hoven tapped a bony finger against his nose.
‘Bastard—?’ Eidenmüller asked, curious.
‘You’ve never been interrogated by the Gestapo, have you?’ When Eidenmüller shook his head, Hoven continued: ‘I have – by Hustek. Calling him a bastard is too good for him in my book. It was because of him I got demoted and sent here. I had a cushy little number, with benefits, you might say, before he shoved his nose in.’ He curled his lip in disgust. ‘Fucking Gestapo. They’re all of them bastards, if you ask me.’
Minutes later, a frantic Eidenmüller was outside Meissner’s office. But he couldn’t go in – the Kommandant had arrived before him, and Eidenmüller could easily guess what he was saying. He could not have been more wrong.
‘The planes,’ Bär was saying, ‘are American, apparently from bases in Italy. Now that we’re within their range, we can expect more than reconnaissance flights in future. What arrangements are in place for air-raid protection?’
Meissner stumped across to a filing cabinet and extracted a thick file. ‘The shelters f
or all the camps are listed and designated on maps in here, sir,’ he said, passing it across. ‘We have given priority to the Buna Werke, with concrete blast walls and underground shelters sufficient for the civilian and SS personnel.’
‘But not the prisoners?’
‘No, sir. In accordance with policy, they are considered expendable. With more shipments arriving daily, it is a simple matter to replace any casualties.’
‘Good. And what about your Watchmaker?’
‘My Watchmaker, sir?’ Meissner watched the Kommandant’s face carefully for what it might reveal, but his expression was stony. ‘Naturally, there is no special provision for him. In the event of an air raid he will have to take his chances, same as all the other prisoners.’
‘Good.’ The Kommandant stood and put on his cap. When he reached the door he said, ‘It would be ironic, would it not, if the Watchmaker became a casualty of what he might consider “friendly” fire?’
As soon as the Kommandant had left, Eidenmüller entered. Meissner was peering at a large map of the Buna complex pinned to one of the walls. He barely looked up.
‘Sir. Something important you should know.’
‘It’ll have to wait. I have to make an inspection of the air-raid-protection installations in Buna. If it’s urgent, get Untersturmführer Schneider to deal with it.’
‘I can’t, sir. It’s about the Watchmaker.’
*
Hustek had wasted no time getting on with his plan, and he was pleased with the progress he had made. What he had told the Kommandant about the need to hunt for anti-Hitler renegades within the camp was nonsense, of course – if they had been included in the conspirators’ calculations at all, the camps were no more than an embarrassment to them. What Hustek wanted was time to find ways to put pressure on the Watchmaker. And he thought he had found the perfect way.
Employing the simplest of police investigative procedures, he went to the archive of prisoner records. All slave-labourers in the camp were registered; when they died, that was also recorded and cross-referenced to the original entry. It would be easy for Hustek to discover the Watchmaker’s real name, the date he had entered the camp and where he had come from. Then all he had to do was to look for another prisoner with the same surname who had arrived on the same transport. They were almost certain to be related.
Unterscharführer Hoven had good reason to be wary of Hustek. A year earlier, he had been among those assigned to work in Kanada, where he had fallen under suspicion of misappropriating items of jewellery. He had been interrogated by Hustek. While it was out of the question that violence would be used against a fellow SS officer, still, the Gestapo man had frightened him. Hoven had indeed been purloining choice items for months, but he kept his mouth shut, and in the end nothing was proven. On Hustek’s recommendation, however, he had been demoted and transferred away from the source of temptation. Since then, he had nursed a grudge against the Gestapo in general and Hustek in particular, though he had been able to do nothing about it – yet.
When Hustek walked through his door, Hoven was so startled that it had registered immediately in Hustek’s finely tuned index of suspicion. Did Hoven have something to hide – again? It was possible – probable, even. Hustek made a mental note to follow it up.
‘I’m looking for information about the Watchmaker,’ Hustek said.
‘The Watchmaker?’
‘Don’t pretend you don’t know who I’m talking about.’
‘No. Of course not.’ Hoven licked his lips. ‘Everyone in Monowitz knows the Watchmaker. What did you want to know?’
‘Just get me his record and then forget I was ever here.’
‘What are you going on about?’ Meissner demanded irritably.
‘It’s Hustek, sir. Unterscharführer Hoven in the records section told me. Hustek has been nosing around for information about the Watchmaker.’
‘I don’t see what’s so shocking about that. Hustek’s Gestapo. It’s exactly what I’d expect him to do.’
‘Yes, sir. I mean, it’s more than that. Hustek wanted to know what his name was, where he came from, what transport he arrived on – everything. It’s not the Watchmaker he’s interested in, it’s who came to the camp with him.’
Realization dawned. ‘His wife.’
‘Exactly, sir. And I wouldn’t give much for her chances if Hustek finds her.’
‘No,’ Meissner reasoned, ‘that’s not what he’s up to. If he finds her, he’ll use her to make the Watchmaker throw the game.’ Angrily, the officer slammed his hand against the wall. ‘So obvious! Why didn’t I think of that?’ He gave his orderly an appraising look. ‘And what about your friend, Hoven – did he give Hustek the information he wanted?’
Eidenmüller had never seen his boss so agitated. ‘No, sir. Not yet. He said it would take a few hours to retrieve it from the archive. Hustek said he would go back tomorrow.’
‘Do you know where she is?’
‘That’s where we might be able to pull a flanker, sir. Hustek didn’t ask Hoven anything about the wife – must have his own way of finding out where she is. But Hoven has the records of all the prisoners assigned to the satellite camps – which come under your jurisdiction, sir.’
‘And?’
‘We found her. She’s in the munitions factory at Rajsko. If we move quickly, we can get to her before Hustek.’
Rosa Clément is not in the munitions factory. She is in the Krankenbau in the women’s camp in Birkenau. She has the durchfall – starvation-induced diarrhoea – and she is not fit for work. She will have rest and extra rations for two weeks in the hope that she will become fit for work again; if not, she will be selected for the gas chamber. Her fate is uncertain at best. Even if the durchfall resolves, the killing factories might be short of their daily quota and she will be selected anyway.
Rosa does not want to die, but she no longer fears it. She has seen too much death in the camp to be afraid any longer. Her overwhelming feeling is not of fear, but of weariness. When she first arrived she was employed in the Krankenbau, but after a few months somebody decided there were too many nurses and not enough munitions workers, so now she is assigned to a Kommando that is taken every day to a poorly ventilated factory where she and perhaps a thousand other women make shells for the artillery. It is summer and the heat inside is stifling. The air is dry and thick with dust from the gun-cotton, which gives all the women hacking coughs. Rosa is better off than many. Handling gun-cotton is not her job. She inserts fuses into the ends of the shells. At first, whenever she twisted a fuse into its mounting she would say a prayer that it would fail to go off. It was as far as she was able to take any attempts at sabotage. Now she is indifferent: her actions are purely mechanical; she saves her prayers for herself.
In the K-B Rosa knows she has a much better chance of recovering if she is able to wash her hands after she uses the slop bucket, but although the doctors and nurses have asked repeatedly for a supply of water, there is none for washing. If she wants that, she must struggle all the way to the latrine. Even then it is not certain there will be any water. It is easier for the camp authorities to assign new arrivals to work than it is to connect a supply of clean water.
There is a commotion at the entrance to the K-B. An SS officer has arrived and is demanding a roll call. Everybody – doctors, nurses and patients – must show their tattoo with their camp registration number. It takes time to check off every prisoner.
When Rosa holds out her arm to reveal her number, the SS man smiles triumphantly.
‘You,’ he says, ‘will come with me.’
32.
THE PHILIDOR POSITION
1962
Kerk de Krijtberg, Amsterdam
During the night Meissner’s condition deteriorated. He endured a fever without complaining, but as soon as Mrs Brinckvoort saw him the next morning she summoned the doctor.
‘How is he?’ Willi asked the doctor when he came downstairs.
‘Not good. It’s l
ike I said – he will have good days and bad days, but gradually he will have more bad days than good days until all he has left to him are bad days. All I can do is to make him as comfortable as possible. His main problem at the moment is pain in his bones and also in his abdomen, where his spleen has swollen. You will need to change his sheets – they are wet with perspiration. I will leave something for the pain, but it is only a matter of time before we have to take him into hospital.’
‘Can we see him?’ Emil asked.
‘You can go up, but only for a few minutes. He’s very tired.’ He looked at the housekeeper. ‘Mrs Brinckvoort, I expect you to make sure that the bishop follows instructions this time. If he insists on going out in his condition, I cannot answer for the consequences.’
They went up, but Meissner was sleeping. Back in the kitchen Emil pulled on his coat, for the walk to the Krasnapolsky.
‘I’ll come with you,’ Willi said.
‘No. It’s all right. I’m not intending to play. I’m going to ask for a postponement.’
‘What if they won’t agree to it?’
‘I don’t know. I haven’t decided.’
Willi reached into the closet for his own coat. ‘Then I’m definitely coming with you.’
By the afternoon, Meissner was sitting up in bed drinking sweet milky tea and gently scolding Mrs Brinckvoort for fussing over him. It was well into the evening before Emil and Willi returned.
Standing beside the bed Emil seemed subdued, but Willi was jubilant.
‘I take it,’ Meissner said between coughs, ‘that you beat the Englishman?’
‘Beat him?’ Willi smiled broadly. ‘Paul, you should have seen it. The Englishman is good – very good, as you saw for yourself, but Emil? Pah. Let me tell you, I have never seen such nuanced play. The way he forced the Englishman to concede was magnificent. This is Emil’s tournament, and, if he wants it, the world championship is his for the taking.’
Meissner turned to Emil. ‘A man who has done so well should look more pleased with himself, no?’
The Death's Head Chess Club Page 25
