The Death's Head Chess Club

by John Donoghue

  Eidenmüller was sweating. His head was pounding. He fumbled in his tunic pocket, but the Feldgendarmerie NCO knew when he was beaten. ‘No need for that, Herr Hauptsturmführer.’ He handed back Eidenmüller’s papers. ‘You’re clear to proceed. I’m sorry we detained you.’

  Meissner did not even glance at the NCO as he pointed a finger at the road ahead. Eidenmüller put the car into gear, gunning the engine to put as much distance between them as he could.

  Meissner placed a hand on his orderly’s forearm. ‘Not too fast, Ernst,’ he said, ‘or they’ll suspect they’ve been had.’

  ‘Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but you’re mad.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘All you had to do was show them your papers.’

  ‘No. That was too great a risk. Nobody must know we were here.’

  ‘But it was OK for them to see my papers?’

  ‘In an hour they’ll have forgotten your name, but an SS-Hauptsturmführer? That’s something they would remember and would be bound to report.’

  ‘And they won’t report what happened anyway?’

  A gleeful smile appeared on Meissner’s face. ‘Not likely. They would have to report that they let me go without seeing my papers. They’d probably end up on the Eastern front.’

  They had been told to look for a hamlet called Grünau. There, they would be met by an SS officer, a friend of Brossman’s from his days in Lublin. They concealed the car in a small wood and waited.

  At the appointed hour, they saw a Kübelwagon slowly making its way towards them. Meissner stepped out from behind the trees and waved it down. When the car stopped he called out, ‘Otto Brossman sends regards from Lublin.’

  The voice that came back was high-pitched and anxious. ‘Brossman? I think I may know him. Where did he do his training?’

  ‘Bad Tölz.’

  ‘When was he there?’

  ‘1940.’

  A harsh grinding sound came from the Kübelwagon as the driver botched putting it into gear again, then the car crept forward until it was almost touching theirs.

  The driver got out: an SS-Obersturmführer wearing thick-lensed glasses, which he took off and started to polish nervously. ‘Quickly,’ he hissed. ‘There’s not much time.’ He used the glasses to point at what looked like a heap of ragged clothing lying on the back seat. ‘I have to get back before this one is missed.’

  Eidenmüller bent to pull out the rags and grunted. They were heavier than he expected. His hands met resistance, cold and clammy. ‘Shit.’ He let go instantly and stood upright. ‘What is this?’

  ‘A body of course – one in, one out. That’s the only way it can work.’

  Eidenmüller looked aghast at the corpse. ‘Is it a woman?’

  ‘Of course it’s a fucking woman. What did you expect, a monkey?’

  ‘What happened to her?’

  ‘Died of a fever.’

  ‘Christ. Was it anything contagious?’

  Meissner brought Rosa Clément over. ‘How will you get her in?’

  ‘Easy. She’ll be passed off as this one.’ He jerked his head at the body that Eidenmüller was pulling out of the Kübelwagon. ‘Nobody knows she’s dead yet. I’ll have the new one allocated to a work Kommando in a different part of the camp. The prisoner count will tally and nobody will be any the wiser.’ The Obersturmführer peered short-sightedly at Rosa. ‘She’s about the same size. We’ll need to get their clothes switched.’

  With a rapid gesture Meissner indicated to Eidenmüller that he should remove the clothes from the cadaver. With obvious distaste he set to his task, rolling it onto its back to unfasten the jacket buttons. The corpse’s eyes were open and they stared at him accusingly. ‘Holy Mother of God . . .’ He jumped back, almost toppling over in his desire to get away from the body. Instinctively, he crossed himself. ‘Sorry, sir, I can’t do this. I really . . .’

  Rosa was there, a hand on his arm. She crouched down beside the woman’s body. Its limbs were stiff and the skin had a waxy quality, making it difficult to get the clothes off. Finally it was naked; she looked vulnerable and pitiable, like a lost child. A tear slid from Rosa’s eye and fell on the woman’s face, a connection between their two existences that crossed the barrier that death had put between them. Under her breath, Rosa said a quick prayer, the first in months: ‘Eternal rest give unto her, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon her . . .’

  ‘Well?’ the Obersturmführer demanded, looking at his watch.

  It was Rosa’s turn. In her months at Auschwitz she had suffered the humiliation of being forced to undress many times, not least during the frequent Selektionen. She had been stripped of her dignity along with her clothes to the unpleasant remarks of leering SS guards who openly ogled the women lined up for their inspection like vegetables on a market stall: ‘Nice tits for a Jew . . . too hairy . . . too bony . . .’ She had learned to make her mind go elsewhere so that she was not the one they were staring at, slavering over. But now, being told to undress by these men, this was different. These were her rescuers – had they restored her dignity, or was it only a loan that they could call in whenever they wanted?

  ‘Come on, you stupid Jewish bitch.’ The Obersturmführer was polishing his glasses again. The anger in his voice was palpable – or was it anxiety? ‘Get your fucking clothes off and get hers on so I can be on my way.’

  Rosa’s hand moved to the top button of her jacket. ‘Turn around,’ she said, not knowing where the courage to say these two small words came from.

  When Rosa was hidden in the foot well of the Kübelwagon, Meissner held out a hand to the other officer. ‘Thank you. I know you’re taking quite a risk over this.’

  ‘I only hope it’s worth it.’

  ‘It will be. After the war you can say you were one of the few SS who saved the life of a Jew.’

  ‘What now?’ Eidenmüller said, once the Kübelwagon had departed.

  ‘Back to Auschwitz, where our friend Brossman will have filed a report that, after freeing the unknown prisoner in the prison block, she was tragically shot trying to escape. And, lucky for us, we’ll have a body and the paperwork to prove it. Unfortunately, an administrative error will send the body to the crematorium before Hustek has the chance to see it. Shame, eh?’

  ‘What’ll happen to her?’

  ‘The Watchmaker’s wife? She’ll have to make do as best she can, same as all the other prisoners. But at least we’ve given her a fighting chance.’

  1962

  Kerk de Krijtberg, Amsterdam

  It had taken Meissner some time to get his story told, between frequent bouts of coughing.

  Emil sat transfixed, his supper untouched. ‘So that’s how she got to Mauthausen,’ he said finally.

  ‘You didn’t know?’ Willi asked.

  ‘I never told him,’ Meissner said. ‘If Hustek had found out, it would have been the end of her and everyone involved.’

  ‘I assumed that she had left Auschwitz with everyone else in January ’45. Quite a few prisoners ended up in Mauthausen,’ Emil said. ‘When I found her in the autumn, she was ill and confused. When she told me that an SS officer had broken into the prison at Auschwitz in the middle of the night and taken her away, I thought she was delirious.’

  ‘I have always wondered,’ Meissner said, ‘whether she survived. I’m glad she did, God be praised.’

  Emil could not hold back the wave of bitterness that broke over him. ‘Why would you praise your god for such a thing?’ he spat. ‘I cursed his name for what he did to her.’

  ‘But I thought you and she were—?’

  Emil stood, shaking his head, not bothering to wipe away the tears that had started down his cheeks. ‘Oh, yes, we were reunited. For six days. Then she was taken from me a second time.’

  Willi reached out to grasp Emil’s wrist but Emil pulled his hand away.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Willi said. ‘Truly. How—?’

  Emil slumped back into his chair, the an
ger leaving him as quickly as it had come. ‘Scarlet fever. She was too weak, you see, and by then she had lost the will to go on.’

  ‘Dear God, dear God,’ Meissner whispered, beating his chest. ‘Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.’

  33.

  KING’S INDIAN ATTACK

  1962

  Kerk de Krijtberg, Amsterdam

  The next morning Emil woke early. He wasn’t sure what time it was but daylight was filtering around the edges of the curtains. He had not slept well. His night had been spent wrestling with memories. He had wanted to recall the good times he’d had with Rosa, but his mind had refused to cooperate. Instead, it had taken him to the miraculous day he had found her name on a Red Cross list, then to all the bureaucrats in their petty fiefdoms whom he had had to fight in order to get to her; then how he had found her, in bed number 117 in the makeshift hospital in Sankt Georgen an der Gusen: such a pretty name to disguise the enormity of what had happened there.1 He remembered holding her hand, white and bloodless, so frail, like an old woman’s. At first she hadn’t recognized him; later, she could not trust herself to believe that he had also found a way to survive and that now he had found her. He had told her that he would never leave her side again. A smile had flickered across her face only to be replaced by pain. ‘Forgive me,’ she had said.

  He remembered his last words to her. ‘Louis and Marcel,’ she had asked, her eyes wide but not seeing, her fingers suddenly locking his hand in hers. ‘How are they?’ He hadn’t been able to bear telling her the truth. ‘They’re fine,’ he had whispered. ‘You’ll see them soon, very soon.’

  Another lie that had emanated from the kingdom of lies. Its intentions were good, but it was still a lie. He had vowed then that there would be no more lies in his life.

  Emil got up. Quietly he looked into Paul’s room, but he was in a deep sleep. He decided to go down to the kitchen, put on some coffee and have the first cigarette of the day on the bench overlooking the canal.

  Willi was already at the kitchen table, smoking and staring vacantly ahead, a half-empty cup in front of him. He looked as if he hadn’t slept, either.

  ‘Is everything all right, Willi?’

  ‘No. In fact, nothing is right at the moment.’ He spoke in a dull monotone.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘It finally hit me last night.’ Willi raised his head to look directly at Emil. ‘What you and Paul have been talking about. It’s all real, isn’t it? It’s not a story. It’s not ancient history. It happened, and you and Paul were in the thick of it. And now I find myself caught in it too, and I realize how horrific it was, how cold and calculating and evil it was, and that it was done by Germans and that the victims were innocent women and children, and I don’t know what to think about it and I don’t know if I can deal with it.’

  Emil sighed. ‘What you are feeling is the legacy of Auschwitz. It is a burden that Paul and I must carry for the rest of our lives, and now I think that it has fallen upon your shoulders too. There is nothing you can do but bear it as best you can.’

  Willi did not seem convinced. He ground out the stub of his cigarette in an ashtray and immediately took another from the packet. His hands shook as he lit it. ‘The thing is,’ he said, ‘when you were playing chess against the SS it was not like other games, with only an intellectual duel at stake – they were the most real and vital games that have ever been played. Only a few years ago there was a game so extraordinary it was dubbed the game of the century. You must know it – the American master, Byrne, against the young prodigy, Fischer. It was a masterpiece of sacrificial play. Breathtaking. But it is insignificant beside your games in Auschwitz, and yet the world will never know of them.’ He turned to look squarely at Emil. ‘And if Paul had not almost knocked down my hotel room door, I would not have learned of them either, nor would I have come to know you, and so I would have continued to convince myself that what you had to say about Auschwitz was the product of the embittered imaginings of a man who feels guilty because he survived.’

  Emil pulled out a chair and lit a cigarette for himself. ‘Surely enough evidence about the death camps has emerged since the war to convince you they were more than imaginings, Willi?’

  Willi stared at his hands, avoiding Emil’s gaze. ‘During the war I worked in the propaganda ministry. One heard things. We all knew that something was happening. We knew that the Jews of Germany had been sent east – but then they disappeared. Where could they have gone? Tens of thousands of people don’t just disappear into thin air. We were told they were sent to work camps. Then stories about the camps began to circulate. They were not told openly, you understand – that was not possible, the Gestapo had ears everywhere. But behind closed doors, between people who trusted one other, things were said.’ He drew deeply on his cigarette and let the butt fall from his fingers into the dregs of his coffee. ‘It’s not possible to keep such a secret. Men come home on leave and tell their families, and word gets out. I knew what was happening; everybody did.’ Absently, he reached for the cigarette pack again only to find it empty. He crushed it in his hand and dropped it onto the table top. ‘I told myself it could not be true,’ he continued, ‘it was too wicked, too incredible. Conditions in the work camps were harsh, but that was to be expected – we were at war with the Bolsheviks, a war to the death. Casualties could not be avoided. War is cruel . . . but death camps? It was not only unbelievable, it did not make sense – so much better to put the Jews to work than to kill them. Why kill them? There was no profit in it for the Reich. So I told myself the stories were not true. Could not be true.’

  ‘And now?’

  Willi bowed his head. Silent tears streamed down his face. When he spoke, his voice was tremulous. ‘Now I am ashamed. Ashamed of myself, ashamed of my country. For the rest of my life, I must live with the knowledge that we are a nation of murderers.’

  Willi’s hands were still shaking. Emil felt a swell of pity for him. ‘You’re right, Willi. And it’s painful to realize and difficult to bear.’

  ‘You said that no German who lived through the war could claim to be innocent of the death camps . . . that there were no good Germans.’

  Slowly, Emil shook his head. ‘Yes, I did say that, didn’t I?’ He stood and picked up the kettle, walking to the sink to fill it. ‘You’re not the only one who is learning how wrong he can be.’

  September 1944

  Political Section, Konzentrationslager Auschwitz-I

  The Buna Werke has been bombed. The bombers came in daylight, but instead of running for shelter as fast as their legs would take them, many of the prisoners waved their caps and cheered. The effect on prisoner morale is extraordinary: now they talk endlessly about how the Allies will bomb the gas chambers and crematoria in Birkenau.

  The Gestapo is convinced that the factory has become a target because Polish partisans have managed to get information to the Allies. Oberscharführer Hustek has been ordered to find the prisoners who are communicating with the partisans, and it has presented him with an opportunity. In the technical workshop where the Watchmaker works, he has daily contact with Polish workers; that makes him a suspect.

  Two of Hustek’s men have been sent to bring him for questioning.

  Hauptsturmführer Meissner is in the Kommandant’s office. For twenty minutes he has been on the receiving end of a barrage of questions about the midnight ‘inspection’ of the prison block. Sturmbannführer Bär is not convinced by Meissner’s insistence that he had nothing to do with it.

  ‘Sir. I wasn’t there. I wasn’t even in the camp at the time.’

  ‘Where the hell were you then?’

  ‘I told you, sir. I had a couple of days’ leave. You authorized it. I went to Kraków.’

  ‘Then why can’t you say where you went in Kraków, or who you saw? In fact, anything at all about your leave in Kraków?’

  ‘Because, sir, as I’ve already explained, I took a wrong turning and then my car broke down. I spent t
he night in the forest. The next day it took me hours to walk to where I could find a telephone and call for help.’

  ‘Hours? You could have walked to Kraków in a day if you had to.’

  Meissner holds up his walking stick.

  ‘Don’t get clever with me, Meissner.’ His superior’s voice is sharp. ‘How did you manage to find out the woman was in the prison block?’

  Meissner shakes his head wearily. ‘I knew nothing about it until after I got back. From what I have been told, Hauptsturmführer Brossman decided to check the block on the off-chance she might be there. That he found her was pure luck.’

  The Kommandant scowled. ‘Brossman, yes. I don’t know how you managed to involve him in your scheme, but I’ll find out.’

  ‘Sir, I’m sure you’ll find Hauptsturmführer Brossman’s motives were entirely genuine. The woman had gone missing. Brossman was duty-bound to search for her, and Hustek was holding her without authorization and for no legitimate reason. She wasn’t even entered into the log as being there. Holding a prisoner for personal reasons flies in the face of all sorts of regulations, and it’s against the law.’

  ‘Don’t be so ridiculous,’ Bär snaps. ‘Hustek’s Gestapo. He’s above the law.’

  Meissner can feel his anger rising. ‘But with the woman as his prisoner, he would have had a hold over the Watchmaker. Surely you can see that?’

  ‘Does it matter, as long as he wins?’

  ‘It matters to me, sir,’ Meissner retorts. ‘Hustek is a disgrace to the SS. He’s not fit to wear the uniform.’

  ‘That’s not for you to say, Meissner. I’m satisfied that Oberscharführer Hustek’s work makes a significant contribution to the war effort.’

  Before Meissner can stop them, the words are out: ‘If you think kidnapping a helpless woman makes a significant contribution to the war effort, then you’re as bad as he is. Don’t you understand? The war is over. Germany has lost. It is only a matter of time before the Russians are in Berlin. I’ve fought them, I know. There’s no holding them back. Not any more.’