The Death's Head Chess Club

by John Donoghue

  ‘Perhaps. But my heart’s no longer in it.’ Emil moved towards the door. ‘I’ll look in on Paul,’ he said. ‘There are more important things than chess.’

  When Meissner awoke, the two men took their places at his bedside. Emil told him of his decision.

  ‘It was the right thing to do,’ Meissner said, his voice weak and thready.

  ‘You think so? I thought you would have been disappointed.’

  Meissner shook his head. ‘No. You’ve already played the most important game of your life.’

  ‘You mean the one against Hustek?’

  ‘What else? How could anything ever come close to that?’ Wincing with pain, Meissner pushed himself up on his pillows. He looked ashen. The laudanum was untouched. ‘I’m so tired,’ he whispered. ‘You’ll have to tell Willi about it. But don’t leave anything out – I’ll be listening.’

  ‘The first thing to tell,’ Emil said, ‘is about the place where the game was played. It was the SS country club and, after nearly a year in the camp, it seemed I had been transported to paradise.

  ‘I was taken there by Eidenmüller. He had been promoted to Scharführer. His attitude towards me had changed quite a lot and he treated me quite decently. Whether this was due to Paul’s influence, or for some other reason, I really don’t know. Before we left he had me showered and given fresh clothes, and brought me some food – white bread and a little cheese and sausage. For a short while I felt better than I could ever remember. Then he drove me into the forest and up to the SS summer retreat.

  ‘It was built on the side of a hill above a river and looked out across a valley. You came upon it quite suddenly – one second you were in thick woodland, and the next there was this marvellous view. Eidenmüller escorted me inside and told me not to respond to anything that was said to me unless it was a direct and sensible question.’

  The bed creaked; Paul had moved to shift his weight, his face creasing with pain. Emil looked pointedly from Willi to the bottle of laudanum, but Paul motioned with a finger for him to carry on.

  ‘You should understand,’ Emil continued, ‘that after three games in which I had beaten their SS comrades, emotions were running high. I was not permitted to wait in the room where the game would be played. Instead, I was taken to a balcony and left there alone until it was time to start. The weather was glorious, not a cloud in the sky, but bitterly cold. As I stood there, it struck me as a cruel irony that there could be such an idyll so close to so much suffering and death.

  ‘After a while Eidenmüller came out. “It’s time,” he said. He seemed subdued, or perhaps he was angry. Inside, there was an air of almost desperate defiance, as if everyone knew the end was not far off but were determined to go out with a bang. After the previous games I thought I knew what to expect. I had steeled myself against the hostility, the jostling and the jeering, but nothing could have prepared me for the sight that confronted me.’

  Friday, 13 October 1944

  Solahütte, SS country club, German-occupied Silesia

  The country club lounge was packed. Standing room only, the air thick with cigarette smoke. Waiters in white jackets made their way to and fro carrying trays laden with drinks. The only space was at the centre, where a table and two chairs had been set up. On the table was a simple wooden chess set; only the players were missing.

  When the Watchmaker appeared in the doorway, a hush fell on the room. Emil hadn’t expected that – he had expected to be assailed with shouts of Kike, StinkJude, Jewish scum. The silence was worse. He followed Eidenmüller across the room, his head bowed and his eyes fixed on the floor. Still, the oppressive silence; the whole room waiting, holding its breath.

  He stopped at the table. Still no shouts, no threats, no sounds. Then, a snigger. Slowly, the Watchmaker raised his head. The SS men were struggling to hold back laughter. Emil followed their gaze; what he saw made his stomach churn.

  It was another prisoner. He was in heavy manacles and around his neck somebody had strung a cardboard placard that read: Don’t speak to me. I am already dead.

  With a start, Emil realized who the prisoner was: it was Daniel Farhi. He looked terrified.

  The room exploded in hoots of laughter and applause, and glasses were banged on tables in appreciation of the joke.

  Unseen by the Watchmaker, Hustek was on the margin of the crowd, watching his reaction, a scornful smirk on his face.

  Meissner was on the porch outside to greet the Kommandant. On his arrival, Meissner asked him to take a prominent place among the crowd, but Bär refused. He would observe proceedings, he said, from a distance.

  When Meissner entered the lounge he saw the Watchmaker standing next to the chess table. Hustek was speaking to him, but he couldn’t hear what was being said. Determined to prevent the Gestapo man from intimidating the Watchmaker any further, Meissner put all his weight into pushing through the crowd.

  ‘Take a good look, you piece of Kike shit,’ Hustek was saying, jerking his head towards Farhi. ‘You know who he is, don’t you? Aren’t you wondering how I know about the little scheme you and Brack have got going together? How you’re going to get rich after the war is over . . .? Listen carefully – I’m going to beat you, and when I do, I’m going to take that one over there and put him into the gas chamber myself. Then I’m coming for you.’ He paused to let his words take effect. ‘You’re not so cocky now, are you?’

  ‘What’s going on?’ Meissner demanded.

  ‘I was merely spelling out a few home truths for your Jew friend, Herr Hauptsturmführer,’ Hustek replied.

  ‘Ignore him,’ Meissner said to the Watchmaker. ‘Your protected status has been confirmed by the Kommandant. There’s nothing he can do about it.’

  Hustek grinned, a self-assured leer. ‘As you say, Herr Hauptsturmführer, but there’s more than one way to skin a cat, if you know what I mean.’ He took his seat.

  Meissner indicated the Watchmaker should do the same, and waited for the noise in the room to subside.

  As in the previous game, the Kommandant had insisted that Hustek be given choice of colour. He chose white and moved his king’s pawn forward two spaces. Immediately he lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply and blew smoke into the Watchmaker’s face. ‘Oh, pardon me,’ he said, before doing it again.

  The Watchmaker showed no reaction and calmly moved his queenside bishop’s pawn forward one square. The pulse pounding in his ears was deafening.

  Hustek advanced his queen’s pawn to stand next to its brother. The black queen’s pawn moved forward two spaces to meet it. Ignoring the gambit, Hustek advanced his king’s pawn one space. Emil brought out his queen’s bishop to the middle of the board. The white king’s bishop advanced to the third row. The black bishop swooped to take it.

  ‘Thought that was clever, didn’t you?’ Hustek said, and moved his queen forward to capture the black bishop.

  Emil said nothing. He moved his king’s pawn forward one square.

  Hustek responded by staring at Emil. He knew few people could bear the pressure of that gaze. But Emil looked back without flinching. At the front of his mind burned the Hebrew letter Zayin, representing the order of angels called Principalities and whose essence is in conquering. This was his shield against Hustek’s viciousness.

  The Gestapo man turned away, flicking ash from his cigarette onto the floor before advancing his kingside bishop’s pawn two squares. Emil brought forward his bishop’s pawn one more space. Again, Hustek ignored the sacrifice. Instead, he moved his queenside bishop’s pawn one space. Emil’s fingers hovered over his queenside knight.

  ‘I know about your wife,’ Hustek said, almost amiably, as if this were the most ordinary conversation imaginable. Emil looked at him sharply, but remained silent, advancing the knight so that with the next move he would threaten the white queen.

  Hustek responded by bringing out his kingside knight. ‘Did Meissner tell you – she was shot trying to escape.’ He sniggered. ‘At least that’s what the report said.
’

  Emil closed his eyes, forcing Zayin back to the centre of his consciousness. Seemingly of its own volition, the black queen moved diagonally three spaces.

  Hustek castled, pushing his king into a corner and releasing his king-side rook. ‘I did what I could to help her. I had her in protective custody, but your chum, Meissner, got wind of it and decided she needed to be rescued. Bungled it, of course.’

  Emil brought out the second black knight.

  Hustek seemed to have been leading up to a concerted attack, but now all he did was to advance his queenside knight’s pawn one space. Black bishop’s pawn took white queen’s pawn, stopping ahead of the white queen. With a contemptuous shake of his head, Hustek took the black bishop’s pawn.

  ‘She’d still be alive now if he hadn’t interfered.’

  Emil brought his kingside knight forward.

  Hustek moved his queenside bishop one square on the left diagonal. His attack was taking shape, with a phalanx of pawns dominating the centre of the board and a formidable triplet of queen, knight and bishop behind. Black’s position seemed disorganized and purposeless in comparison. Emil moved his queenside rook sideways two spaces.

  Hustek advanced his own queenside rook’s pawn one space. ‘Has he told you he’s applied for a transfer away from Auschwitz?’ Emil tried to keep his features impassive, but Hustek saw immediately that his words had struck home. ‘Oh, I see he hasn’t. No, it seems he craves a return to active service. Life in our little camp is not exciting enough for the good Hauptsturmführer. But if you ask my opinion, I’d say he was running away from something.’ He ground out his cigarette and lit another. Again he blew smoke into Emil’s face.

  Emil brought up his queenside knight to take the pawn standing before the white queen. The board now seemed set for a quick-fire exchange of pieces.

  Hustek lifted his kingside knight. ‘I wonder why he didn’t tell you. Do you think it’s because he knows he won’t be able to protect you when he’s gone?’ With a disdainful flick of his fingers he took the black knight.

  Emil brought up his kingside bishop to threaten the white knight. Hustek could not move it: it would put his king in check. For a moment his confidence slipped, then he smiled. ‘A little obvious, don’t you think?’

  He moved his kingside rook sideways until it stood behind his queen. Emil took the knight that was protecting the king. Hustek scowled. Without pausing to think, he advanced his remaining bishop to take the knight. Despite the loss of the knight he was still in a strong position, with his queen behind his bishop, and a rook in a direct line behind to support it.

  Black bishop immediately took the white bishop.

  ‘Check.’

  Angrily, Hustek took the bishop with his queen. Only then did he see the danger.

  The Watchmaker’s strategy had been masterful. He had made his moves look disjointed, disorganized, as if there was no real thought behind them, as if all along all he had been able to do was react to Hustek’s superior strategy. But now, out of nothing, he had conjured a winning move.

  The black rook moved the length of the board to the back row on the white side.

  Frantically, Hustek looked for a way to counter this move, but there was nothing. He did not understand. Only moments ago his had been the stronger position. How had the Watchmaker managed to reverse their positions without him seeing it?

  Meissner, seated to the side, sensed something momentous had happened.

  The Watchmaker spoke. ‘It’s your move, Herr Oberscharführer.’

  36.

  THE GREEK GIFT

  1962

  Kerk de Krijtberg, Amsterdam

  ‘Extraordinary,’ Willi breathed. ‘I was with you every move. So you beat the champion of the SS, and you won another life. But you must have known that Hustek would not honour the bargain that Paul had made with you. Was it true that Paul had requested a transfer?’

  Meissner raised a hand from the bed. ‘I’m afraid it’s true,’ he said, his voice frayed from coughing. ‘And I knew it was selfish of me: I was running away, but I did not expect to survive the war. Casualty rates in the Waffen-SS were horrific, much higher than in the Wehrmacht, and I thought that in death my honour would be restored.’ He was taken by another spasm of coughing. Willi helped him to sit up and Emil passed him a glass of water. After a few sips the spasm eased, but Meissner’s face was grey with pain.

  ‘Do you want some laudanum?’ Willi asked. ‘The doctor said it would help the coughing as well as the pain.’

  Meissner shook his head. ‘It was the Kommandant who, quite unwittingly, gave Emil the protection he needed after I had gone. And it was through him that the final character entered the Watchmaker’s story.’

  ‘Another character, so late in the game? Who?’

  Meissner took another sip of water before replying. ‘It was you, Willi. You also had a part to play, and you were probably instrumental in saving Emil’s life.’

  ‘Me?’ spluttered Willi. ‘It would be nice to think so, but I don’t see how. I never went near Auschwitz.’

  ‘Precisely.’

  Friday, 13 October 1944

  Solahütte, SS country club, German-occupied Silesia

  With a furious shout, Hustek up-ended the board. Chess pieces flew into the air and scattered across the floor. In the stunned silence that followed they could be heard rolling to a halt. Hustek was standing, with his arm extended and his pistol pointing at the Watchmaker’s head but, suddenly, the Gestapo man forced a smile and lowered the gun. ‘No,’ he said, his voice quietly menacing. ‘Shooting is too good for you, Watchmaker.’

  Without another word he forced his way through the packed ranks of spectators, not caring whom he pushed out of his path.

  Then there was uproar.

  Harsh words were shouted, and angry looks directed at the Watchmaker. One man spat at him; a woman threw her drink over him. Some stood, looking as if they intended to give him a beating, or worse.

  Emil tried not to look at them. He was scanning the room for Daniel Farhi, who seemed to have disappeared. Then he saw him – crouched down in a corner, his hands clasped over the top of a head, trying to hide. It was the best thing he could have done: the crowd continued to direct its fury at Emil until Meissner placed himself in front of him.

  Meissner stared down the crowd, daring them to include him in their invective.

  Across the room, Eidenmüller steered Farhi along the front of the bar towards the exit.

  ‘Let’s go,’ Meissner said softly, to Emil. Holding his walking stick before him, as if threatening to use it if necessary, Meissner edged his way through the crowd, the Watchmaker on his coattails.

  The doorway was blocked by the Kommandant, his face red with anger. ‘Well?’

  ‘Sir,’ Meissner replied, ‘I think this is not the time. We should wait until tempers have calmed.’ He glanced behind. The noise had not abated. Somebody yelled, ‘Jew-lover!’

  ‘I don’t think we have the luxury of that much time, Meissner. I will see you in my office first thing on Monday.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Heil Hitler.’

  Monday, 16 October 1944

  Kommandantur building, Konzentrationslager Auschwitz-I

  Sturmbannführer Richard Bär read and reread the file on the desk before him. He was searching for anything that would provide a clue to Meissner’s disloyalty. Before July there was no doubt that the Hauptsturmführer had been one of his best officers: conscientious, and capable; but he had changed. Where, Bär wondered, had Meissner’s defeatist attitude come from? More importantly, what had happened to transform him into a Jew-lover?

  Absentmindedly, he scratched a pimple that had erupted on the end of his nose and winced as he took the top off. A drop of blood fell onto the open page. He pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at it, but all he managed to do was smear blood across the neat, type-written words. It was Meissner’s request for a transfer: Bär took his pen and signed it.

  There was a knock
at the door.

  ‘Hauptsturmführer Meissner, sir,’ his orderly said.

  Bär was much calmer than he had been on Friday night: he thought he had found a solution to the problem of the unbeatable Jew. It would be Meissner’s last duty before he left.

  ‘Send him in.’

  Meissner entered and brought his heels together, raising his arm in salute. ‘Heil Hitler.’

  The Kommandant ignored the salute, and did not invite Meissner to sit down. Instead, he leaned back and observed his troublesome officer closely, as if by doing so he could discover the cause of his disaffection. ‘That was quite a stunt you pulled on Friday night,’ he said eventually.

  ‘You’ll pardon me for pointing it out, Herr Sturmbannführer, but it was not my idea for the game to be played at Solahütte, nor was I the one who arranged for a prisoner to be manacled in the corner. If anyone is to be accused of pulling a stunt, surely it is Oberscharführer Hustek.’

  ‘The funny thing is, Meissner, now that I’ve had time to think about it, I find I’m much less concerned with the uproar you caused than I am with your disloyalty.’

  Meissner was indignant. ‘Disloyalty? How have I been disloyal?’

  ‘You have been disloyal to your fellow SS officers, to the SS, and to the Führer; and above all, disloyal to the blood of the German Volk.’

  ‘Why? Because I arranged a few chess games against a Jew?’

  Bär pursed his lips and shook his head. ‘Of course not. You are disloyal because you have taken the Jew’s side.’

  Meissner’s eyes narrowed in anger, then he did a double take – was that blood on the Kommandant’s nose? ‘Sir, no. I will not take that,’ he replied. ‘I have never taken the Jew’s side.’

  A drop of blood fell onto the Kommandant’s tunic. He seemed not to notice. ‘No? Then prove it to me: have him liquidated. I don’t care if you do it yourself, or have him sent to the gas chamber.’

  Meissner’s reply was immediate. ‘No, sir. I can’t do that.’