The Death's Head Chess Club

by John Donoghue

  Another drop. ‘That’s what I thought.’

  ‘Sir. All I have ever sought was to maintain my honour in my dealings with him. I gave him guarantees if he won his games. Surely you would not have me break my word?’

  Only now did the Kommandant seem to notice the blood. Irritated, he held the handkerchief to his nose. ‘I don’t expect you to break your word, Meissner, but you helped him to win, didn’t you? That’s what is so unforgivable.’

  Meissner watched, fascinated, as the rich, dark blood of the German Volk seeped through the Kommandant’s handkerchief. He made himself look away, to the photograph of Himmler on the wall, so fond of invoking the Volksblut himself. ‘How?’ he replied, evenly, trying not to rise to the Kommandant’s provocation. ‘How did I help him win?’

  Bär removed the handkerchief from his nose to examine it. Meissner caught himself staring again. Yes, he thought, take a good look – it’s blood; and it’s about as close as you will ever come to being wounded in action.

  The Kommandant’s words cut across his musings. ‘You can’t deny that it was your actions, Meissner, that prevented Oberscharführer Hustek from beating the Jew.’

  ‘With respect, sir, I did nothing to prevent Hustek from winning. All I did was to stop him cheating. Look what he managed to do with me trying to stop him – what would he have done if he’d had a free hand?’

  The Kommandant dabbed at his nose again. The bleeding seemed to have stopped. He turned his attention back to Meissner. ‘I’ve seen this happen before, Meissner, where an unscrupulous Jew corrupts an otherwise blameless German. What you need to do is recognize what he’s done to you and get yourself out from under his influence.’

  Meissner had to work hard not to show his exasperation. ‘Sir, I protest. I am under no Jewish influence. If anything, my fault was having too much faith in the supremacy of the SS.’

  Bär regarded his subordinate coolly. ‘This is getting us nowhere.’ He picked up a sheet of paper from the desk and passed it across. ‘I’ve made my decision – two, actually. Here is your transfer request. I’ve authorized it. As soon as you’ve been assigned to a new unit you can leave. However, before you go, we must have a solution to our little local Jewish question.’

  There was a book on the desk. The Kommandant pushed it over to Meissner. ‘Do you know what this is?’ Meissner shook his head. ‘It’s a copy of the register of the Grossdeutscher Schachbund – the German Chess Federation. It contains the names and addresses of all its members. What I’ve decided is this – we will invite the chess champion of Germany to Auschwitz. He will play our unbeatable Jew and put an end to his pretensions once and for all.’

  Meissner was appalled. ‘That’s hardly fair, sir. The Watchmaker has never played chess at that level.’

  Bär slammed his fist down on the desk. ‘Fair?’ he roared. ‘I don’t care whether it’s fucking fair, Meissner! This thing has gone too far, so now I must put an end to it.’ He paused for breath before continuing more calmly: ‘Don’t you understand? Here in Auschwitz we are the front line fighting international Jewry. We cannot afford to lose a single battle, or we will be devoured. In war, everything is fair.’

  Meissner knew he had to choose his words carefully. ‘Don’t you think you’re taking this a bit too seriously, sir? Don’t forget, Obersturmbannführer Höss himself supported the idea. He said it was good for the SS to be challenged, that it would keep us from becoming complacent.’

  ‘I’m not interested in what Höss or anyone else has to say,’ the Kommandant said angrily. ‘I’m the one who will be held to account if anything goes wrong. I’m concerned only with the good order of this camp, which your ridiculous ideas and your notions of fair play have disrupted. We’ve already had to put down one rebellion this year – this Watchmaker has given the prisoners hope. They’ve seen him beat the previously unbeatable SS. Well, I have to take that hope away and remove their illusions. So you will find this chess champion and bring him here. That is an order.’

  October 1944

  Ministry of Public Enlightenment and Propaganda, Berlin

  Willi was late back from lunch. He was late for everything these days. With the relentless Allied bombing and all the shortages, even the Ministry of Propaganda could not guarantee food in the canteen. Besides, nobody cared any more, least of all him. The war was as good as lost, though nobody dared to say so.

  His colleague, Georg, was gone: an English bomb had taken out his apartment block one moonless night about two months ago. At first, Willi had missed the older man’s harping about his being late and how important it was to look busy, but that had passed. Now there was merely a pretence of work in the department, and the only men left were the cripples: Willi and others like him who weren’t capable of holding a rifle. He hadn’t had a woman in months. Women looked askance at men his age wearing civilian clothes. They would taunt him: ‘Why aren’t you at the front?’ He had been tempted, once or twice, to pull off the glove that covered his artificial hand and wave it at them, but in the end he couldn’t be bothered. What was the point? The war was getting to everyone. All he wanted now was for it to be over.

  There was a scrap of paper on his desk – a note from his boss, Falthauser. As Willi scanned the note, he mused sourly, Why hasn’t an Allied bomb taken him out, instead of Georg? There’s no justice.

  It made no sense. Apparently an SS officer had been looking for him. What could the SS possibly want with him? Pocketing the note, he set off to find his supervisor.

  The increased intensity of the bombing had not improved Falthauser’s temper. ‘I have no idea what they want with you,’ he told Willi, ‘but you are ordered to report to the SS economic-administrative sub-office on Prinz Albrecht Strasse, immediately.’

  Willi did not delay his visit. It wasn’t as if he had any work that couldn’t wait.

  The SS headquarters had been hit by the bombing, but people were still working inside. He was directed to a young Untersturmführer, whose office consisted of a desk in a passageway.

  ‘Are you Wilhelm Schweninger?’ the officer intoned.

  ‘Yes, that’s me.’

  ‘Wilhelm Schweninger the Reich chess champion?’

  Willi rolled his eyes. Like many in the Propaganda Ministry, he did not like the SS – perhaps a reflection of the prejudices of his master, Goebbels. ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘I am Wilhelm Schweninger, the Reich chess champion.’

  The SS officer peered at him as if he found it hard to believe that such a poor specimen could be champion of anything. ‘We have received a rather unusual request,’ he said, ‘from the Kommandant of K-Z Auschwitz. I have instructions to induct you as an honorary member of the SS, and arrange transportation to the camp.’

  ‘Auschwitz? What possible reason could there be for me to go to Auschwitz?’

  ‘Apparently your presence is required for a game of chess.’

  1962

  Kerk de Krijtberg, Amsterdam

  ‘I couldn’t believe my luck.’ Willi chuckled. ‘At last I had a uniform. True, it was an SS uniform, and people in my building would look down their noses at it, but outside the ministry it would stop all those sneers and muttered comments. I might even get a woman or two again, especially seeing as I was given the honorary rank of Sturmbannführer.’

  ‘When did this happen?’ Emil asked.

  ‘The end of October, beginning of November.’

  ‘But you never got to Auschwitz, did you?’ Emil asked. Willi shook his head. ‘Why not? Were you reluctant to come?’

  ‘Not at all – I would have done almost anything to get away from the bombing, even if it was only for a short time. No, every couple of days I would go back to the SS building – in my new uniform, of course – only to be told there was no transport.’

  Meissner lifted a hand from the counterpane, waving it feebly. ‘And it was because you were not able to come that Emil survived, of that I am sure,’ he said, his voice barely audible.

  ‘But why?’


  Meissner’s breathing was laboured and he struggled to reply. ‘My transfer was overdue. My old comrade, Peter Sommer, was now the Division commander’s chief of staff. I had been ordered to go west and take up duties as his adjutant in Koblenz in preparation for the Ardennenoffensive in December, but like you, Willi, I too was delayed by a lack of transport.’

  Emil didn’t understand the point Paul was making. ‘Why would Willi’s failure to reach Auschwitz have had any bearing on what happened to me?’

  Meissner tried to push himself up on the bed and groaned with pain.

  ‘Here,’ Willi said, reaching for the bottle. ‘For God’s sake, man, have some laudanum.’

  ‘Later. I’ll have some when it’s time for me to sleep.’ Meissner waved the bottle away. ‘Don’t you see, my friend?’ he continued. ‘Once I had left the camp, I could no longer protect you. But you were not harmed because Bär was waiting for Willi to arrive and teach you a lesson: the only way to destroy the legend of the unbeatable Watchmaker was for you to be defeated by one of the SS.’

  ‘When did you finally leave to rejoin your old unit?’ Willi asked.

  ‘Not until the tenth of November. It was a time of great confusion. Bär even asked me to reconsider my transfer request. The Russians had reached the suburbs of Budapest, which was only about four hundred kilometres away. I think by then even he could see what was coming. But I couldn’t stay. I knew Hitler would never give in, and I wanted to face the end with my old comrades, not a shameful surrender in a camp surrounded by thousands of starving prisoners.’ He took a ragged breath. ‘But there was one last thing I was able to do to protect Emil.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘Something I gave to Eidenmüller.’

  ‘What did you give him?’

  But all Meissner could do was to shake his head. He was exhausted and, with a muted gasp, fell back into the pillows.

  Emil and Willi exchanged a worried glance.

  ‘I wish he would take the bloody laudanum,’ Willi whispered.

  Emil nodded, but said, ‘I can understand why he won’t.’

  Meissner did not open his eyes but croaked hoarsely, ‘I can still hear you, you know.’

  Willi grinned. ‘Don’t worry, old man, we’re not going to force it on you. But you need to rest. We’ll come back later.’

  ‘Give me some now, before you go,’ Meissner whispered. ‘But promise me you’ll be back. I want to know how it ends.’

  Emil helped Paul to sit up while Willi measured a dose of the narcotic. Meissner choked on the bitter liquid, and a little dribbled down his chin. Emil took a handkerchief to wipe it off. Meissner reached up a hand to grasp Emil’s arm. The strength of his grip took Emil by surprise.

  ‘Promise me,’ Meissner hissed.

  ‘Don’t worry, Paul. I promise.’

  A minute later, Willi reached across to touch Paul’s arm.

  ‘I think he’s asleep,’ he whispered. He stood and crept towards the door. Emil followed.

  But Paul is not asleep. He is striding through the Buna Werke frantically searching for somebody, though he doesn’t know who. Then it comes to him: the Watchmaker. He must speak to him urgently. He calls to everyone he sees: ‘Where is the Watchmaker?’ Nobody has seen him. He should be in the instrument workshop, but he is not there. Paul turns into a blind alley. Facing him is one of the wooden watchtowers that are usually spaced at intervals along the camp perimeter. There is a man standing on the platform at its top; a man in a long black leather coat and wearing a SS cap. Paul shouts to him: ‘Where is the Watchmaker?’ The man turns to face him. It takes a moment for Paul to recognize him. It is Hustek, but not Hustek. His face has turned into a death’s head, its lidless eyes staring, and the teeth and jaws locked in a hideous grin. ‘The Watchmaker?’ it says. Hustek’s voice echoes along the alley, filling the air, as if coming from a loudspeaker. ‘He is not here; he has gone up the chimney. Where he belongs.’

  37.

  ENDGAME: FOUR KNIGHTS

  1962

  Kerk de Krijtberg, Amsterdam

  Though his bedroom is warm, Meissner cannot stop shivering. He is not sure where he is. He raises his head expecting to see the familiar items that define his life: the prie-dieu, the crucifix, his breviary at the side of the bed, but there are none of these things. He is in a large room where the walls are covered in maps, with arcane symbols drawn across their surface. Light comes from antique crystal chandeliers suspended from the ceiling and through large mullioned windows, where each small pane of glass is taped to prevent it from splintering in the event of an explosion. He can hear the shrill sound of telephones ringing and all around there are men in military uniform. Now he knows where he is. All night he has been trying to get through to the logistics command in Dietrich’s VI Panzer Army HQ. The Second SS Panzer Division has performed miracles: they have broken through the Allied lines and are advancing fast, but now, less than forty kilometres from Namur, they are running out of fuel. The field telephone is down. No matter what he does Meissner cannot get through, yet he must get fuel for the Panzers.

  There is only one thing for it: he will have to go in person. He looks for Sturmscharführer Schratt, who’d saved his life at Voronezh. Like him, Schratt is a survivor, wounded and then assigned to administrative duties. Schratt hates it; he tells everyone it is like serving a prison sentence.

  ‘Schratt!’ Meissner yells. The NCO appears out of nowhere. ‘Find us some transport. We’re going to Dietrich’s HQ.’

  The only available vehicle is a motorcycle and sidecar. Schratt drives it through the freezing mud like a man possessed. Meissner crouches low in the sidecar, a machine pistol cradled across his knee in case they meet the enemy. But the enemy they encounter is not one that can be fought off so easily: an American Mustang fighter zooms in low over the trees and strafes them with a long machine-gun burst. Schratt veers from side to side and Meissner empties the magazine of his weapon ineffectually. The aeroplane turns for a second pass. This time Schratt cannot avoid the hail of bullets. His body is cut almost in two and the bike somersaults into a ditch. Meissner is thrown clear and comes to hours later in a field hospital.

  Miraculously, Meissner’s injuries are superficial. The doctor says he can go. But there is no transport. Meissner is furious. The outcome of the offensive depends on getting fuel for the Panzers. Eventually he manages to reach his division on a field telephone.

  ‘I was trying to get through to the logistics group at Dietrich’s HQ,’ he says, ‘but I didn’t get there. We were strafed by an American plane.’ Then he remembers. ‘Schratt is dead.’ Old Schratt – old, indestructible Schratt. No time now to mourn. ‘Somebody must get through to them. Without fuel, the attack will grind to a halt.’

  ‘Calm yourself, Paul.’ It is Peter Sommer. ‘I’m sorry Schratt is dead. We’ll have to manage without the fuel. There’s none to be had.’

  ‘Manage without . . . but how?’

  ‘Just get yourself back here, Paul. You’re needed.’

  *

  Emil jerked awake to find himself still in the chair beside Paul’s bed.

  Father Scholten was at its foot, quietly telling his beads. ‘He’s delirious,’ Scholten said.

  Paul was shivering with fever, muttering and mumbling. He cried out: ‘Schratt!’

  ‘What time is it?’ Emil asked, blinking away sleep.

  ‘Late.’

  ‘It’s all right, Father,’ Emil said. ‘I’ll look after him. Just give me a minute to wake Willi. I’m sure he would want to be here too.’ He went to Willi’s room and knocked. ‘Willi? Paul’s not too good. I think you’d better come.’ He went back into Meissner’s room.

  Willi arrived, pulling a robe around his rotund stomach.

  ‘Dead . . .’ Meissner muttered. ‘. . . manage . . . needed here . . .’

  ‘What’s he talking about?’ Willi asked.

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘He’s raving. How much laudanum did he hav
e?’

  The next morning Meissner was pale, and his skin had taken on a waxy hue. His breathing was laboured and he could speak only with great effort. Mrs Brinckvoort insisted he take more laudanum. He was too weak to argue, but would not take all that she measured out.

  ‘Emil,’ he murmured, ‘my part in your tale is done. But I want to know what happened in the last days of the camp, and on the death march.’

  ‘Death march?’ Willi asked.

  ‘The SS did not want the prisoners to fall into the hands of the Russians,’ Emil explained. ‘As far as they were concerned, we were still capable of work. So, days before the Russians arrived, the prisoners were marched out of the camp.’

  ‘In the middle of winter? How did they manage to survive?’

  ‘Thousands didn’t. They either fell by the wayside and froze to death or were shot if they couldn’t keep up.’ Emil stopped. The air in the room suddenly seemed stale. He crossed to the window to raise the sash a little. ‘Nobody knows how anyone managed to survive,’ he said, resuming his seat. ‘Least of all the survivors.’

  ‘And you were on this death march?’

  Meissner reached out a hand to tug feebly at Willi’s sleeve. ‘Why don’t you let him tell his story?’

  16 January 1945

  Konzentrationslager Auschwitz-III, Monowitz

  It is cold. In the three years he has spent at Auschwitz, Eidenmüller cannot remember it being so cold. A thick blanket of white hoar frost covers the trees, and icicles hang from eaves and window ledges. It snowed a couple of days ago and the roads and paths are covered in dirty slush. They are short of everything: food, fuel, even coal, and Eidenmüller is getting sick of tinned beef or pork. In the distance he can hear the booming of guns. He is not sure how close they are, but he is getting nervous; he does not want to hang around to meet the Russians. Meissner has told him that when they encounter the SS they do not take prisoners.

  A new officer, Untersturmführer Walter, has taken over Meissner’s duties, but he is fresh from the Hitler Jügende1 and has no idea of anything apart from shouting and throwing his weight around. Fortunately, it is not difficult for Eidenmüller to keep out of his way.