The Death's Head Chess Club

by John Donoghue

  Even the prisoners know the end is near. The gas chambers have been shut down and explosive charges have been placed ready to demolish them.

  The Buna factory is a deserted wasteland. It was bombed repeatedly in the autumn and, with the Russians so near, there is no point attempting repairs. Until a week ago, work Kommandos were sent every day to salvage what could easily be dismantled and shipped out, but no longer. Even if it were possible to remove more material, there is no transport. The prisoners are shut up in their blocks in enforced idleness, an intolerable situation for the camp authorities but one they are powerless to remedy. The SS have their belongings packed, awaiting only the command to abandon the camp. But though they have been expecting the order for days, it has not come.

  The SS barracks have become like the front line: most of the NCOs are drinking heavily, and arguments are frequent occurrences. Eidenmüller seeks refuge in the empty Monowitz administration offices. The files have all been burned and most of the equipment removed. All that remains is the furniture – desks and chairs – which he has been breaking up and putting into the stove for fuel. He wonders how Hauptsturmführer Meissner is getting on. He has heard about the offensive in the Ardennes that will throw the Allies back to the coast, and he knows that the Hauptsturmführer’s division is in the thick of it. He hopes Meissner does not get killed. He is the best officer Eidenmüller has ever had.

  He hears footsteps on the stairs. Quickly he folds a cloth over the pistol he has been cleaning and puts it into a drawer. It was a parting gift from the Hauptsturmführer – a Russian Tokarev T-33 semi-automatic, a souvenir from the Eastern Front. It is a simpler design than the Luger, the standard handgun of the SS. It has a solid feel, and its weight in his hand is reassuring, as if to tell him he can trust it never to misfire. When Eidenmüller had asked why the Hauptsturmführer was giving him such a thing, he had replied only that he had a feeling it might come in useful one day.

  The steps are coming closer. A board creaks outside the door and Untersturmführer Walter walks in.

  ‘Eidenmüller,’ he says. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Not much, sir. I was making sure that we hadn’t missed any of the files that were supposed to have been destroyed.’

  ‘Very commendable,’ says the Untersturmführer. ‘Now come with me.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I just need the latrine. I’ll meet you downstairs.’

  The Untersturmführer retraces his steps. Not knowing when he’ll be able to return, Eidenmüller retrieves the pistol and puts it in his pocket.

  Outside, the officer tells Eidenmüller of the plans to evacuate the camp: the prisoners will be distributed among other concentration camps in Germany and Austria; the sick will be left behind to fend for themselves. Eidenmüller asks how transport will be provided for so many prisoners. ‘They will have to march,’ the officer says.

  The plan is foolishness. The recent snowfall was heavy and it seems likely more will come soon. How will prisoners in their ill-fitting wooden clogs and threadbare uniforms be able to march in such conditions? But that is not the Untersturmführer’s problem. His only concern is to ensure his men are ready for the journey. When? The day after tomorrow.

  Walter does not stay long: he is anxious to be seen to be performing his duties diligently, and the best place to do that is in the vicinity of a superior officer.

  When he is sure Walter is gone, Eidenmüller enters the camp and walks to the Watchmaker’s block. In the day room, Brack and his cronies are gathered around the stove. Most of the inmates are in their bunks trying to keep warm.

  ‘Anywhere we can talk?’ Eidenmüller asks Brack.

  Brack follows him outside and they walk briskly along the slush-covered paths, great clouds of vapour billowing from their mouths.

  ‘We’ve got our marching orders.’

  Brack raises an eyebrow. ‘Yeah?’ he says. ‘When?’

  ‘Not just us. Everybody. Day after tomorrow.’

  Brack stops. ‘Everybody? No. It’s not possible. These men won’t make it far in this weather – it’ll kill them. It’s bad enough walking to the Buna factory and back.’

  Eidenmüller agrees. ‘Look,’ he says, ‘there’s a chance for some of them to survive. I know about the deals you’ve done with a few of the Yids – but if they die, I’m guessing all bets are off.’

  ‘What do you suggest?’

  ‘Get them into the Krankenbau. You, the Watchmaker, and a few others. The sick are going to be left behind. The officers think the cold will finish most of them off, but once we’re gone, you can start breaking the barracks apart for fuel. What do you say?’

  ‘It sounds like a good plan, but what’s in it for you?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking. After the war, people like me, you know – ex-SS – are going to find it hard. I’ll get you into the sick bay too and keep any nosy parkers out of your hair when our men come to empty the camp. After the war’s over, I’ll find you and we can come to an arrangement.’

  Brack smiled. ‘Funny, I never took you for the trusting type.’

  ‘I’m not. If you don’t play fair with me, you won’t like the consequences, I promise.’ Eidenmüller spat on his palm and held out his hand. ‘Deal?’

  Brack did the same. ‘Deal.’

  *

  1962

  Kerk de Krijtberg, Amsterdam

  ‘Of course I didn’t know any of this at first,’ Emil said. ‘Brack told me, later, when we were in the infirmary.’

  ‘Brack,’ Meissner wheezed. ‘He was a complicated character. Out for number one. But there was more to him than that, I think.’ His eyes closed.

  ‘Next morning we went to the Krankenbau. Obviously we were not ill, but Eidenmüller had concocted a story about an SS doctor who suspected us of having typhus. The Jewish doctor was unconvinced until a packet of cigarettes appeared and with that, his concerns seemed to vanish.’

  ‘So you and Brack and these others went into the sick bay and waited for the Russians to arrive?’

  ‘If only it had been that simple, Willi.’ Emil turned to Meissner. ‘Are you still listening, Paul?’ A squeeze of a hand showed that he was.

  ‘That night we had a visitor.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Hustek.’ Emil felt Meissner stiffen at the mention of this name. ‘He was looking for me. Brack tried to stall him by telling him I had typhus. “Bring him out here then,” Hustek said. “If he’s got typhus, he’s as good as dead anyway; better to let the cold finish him off, it’ll be kinder in the end.” But Brack shook his head. “Nothing doing,” he said. But his words were empty and he knew it.

  ‘When I came out, Hustek was there holding a pistol. I almost expected him to shoot me there and then, but he waved the gun and said, “This way.” I had hardly moved when he had second thoughts and pointed the gun at Brack. “You as well,” he said.

  ‘He walked us at gunpoint through the camp, up the service road, through the gates and into the SS administrative building. It was empty, and he marched us up the stairs into Paul’s old office.’

  Hustek made Brack and the Watchmaker stand in the two corners furthest from the door. There was a paraffin lamp on the desk. He lit it, then settled himself astride a chair with his back to the door, and took out a pack of cigarettes.

  ‘Smoke, Brack?’ he said. When he got no reply he shrugged and put the cigarettes back in his pocket.

  ‘Why have you brought us here?’ Brack demanded.

  ‘I would have thought that was obvious.’ Hustek used his unlit cigarette to point at the Watchmaker. ‘Killing your Jew friend here – that wouldn’t cause me any problems at all. But killing you, Brack? Questions might be asked. I could hardly say you were shot trying to escape, could I? No, I needed somewhere where you wouldn’t be found until it was too late to matter.’ He smirked, struck a match and inhaled deeply, blowing the smoke at the ceiling. ‘I suppose,’ he continued, ‘I should ask if you have any last requests.’ He seemed to find that very fun
ny, and laughed so hard he started to cough. When he had recovered, he said, ‘By the way, Brack, I thought you would want to know that Widmann told me all about the deal the two of you cooked up. Your idea, of course – Widmann wasn’t clever enough for that, but he was clever enough to realize he needed a new partner. Me.’

  Brack glowered at Hustek, but said nothing. His brain was working feverishly: there was a slim chance he might survive, providing Hustek fired at the Jew first. Then, in the corridor outside, a floorboard creaked.

  *

  Eidenmüller hadn’t wanted to spend the night in the SS barracks – it had been bad enough the night before, with most of his fellow NCOs drunk and whining repeatedly about having to escort prisoners in this weather; so he had brought a cot up to his old office.

  He had been awoken by the sound of someone laughing. There was a light on in the Hauptsturmführer’s office. Quietly, he had eased himself up and crept to the door.

  In the flickering light, Eidenmüller could see the Watchmaker in the far corner. Holding the Soviet handgun tightly, he took a step forward.

  Hustek spun round, peering into the darkness.

  ‘Put the gun down, Hustek,’ Eidenmüller said.

  Hustek recovered quickly. He swung his gun to point it at the Watchmaker. ‘You won’t shoot me,’ he said. ‘Not for the sake of a stinking Yid.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be so sure.’ Eidenmüller’s face glistened in the lamplight. ‘I’ve sort of taken to him. He’s not a bad sort – for a Jew. On the other hand, nobody likes you Gestapo scum – not even your own mothers.’

  Hustek did not waver. He kept the pistol aimed at the Watchmaker. ‘Don’t be so fucking stupid. You might win – for now. But in the morning, I’ll be back with a squad of my men and I’ll have him, whether you like it or not. It’ll be a lot easier for you if you walk away now. I’ll forget you were even here.’

  Eidenmüller shook his head. ‘You are a cocky bastard, aren’t you? I knew that’s what you would say, and I knew what I would have to do as soon as I saw it was you.’

  Hustek’s mind was raging. Why hadn’t he checked the other rooms? The chances were the SS arse-wipe couldn’t hit the side of a barn from five metres, but it was a sure thing that Brack and the Yid would be on him before he could say Heil fucking Hitler.

  ‘You can shoot me,’ he said, trying to keep his voice even. ‘But as soon as I sense your finger squeezing that trigger I’ll kill your precious Yid. No matter what you do, he’ll be dead, so let’s be sensible, eh?’

  Hustek sensed a flicker of movement. With a snarl of rage, he pulled the trigger.

  Within a fraction of a second, three shots were fired and two men fell to the floor. One was Hustek: Eidenmüller’s bullet had taken him cleanly in the head. The other was Brack.

  Brack had had a pistol of his own, nestled in the waistband of his trousers: it was the Luger he had taken from the Gestapo man that he and his cronies had murdered. He had known that Hustek intended to kill him, but he was no Jew to go to his death meekly.

  Watching the exchange between Hustek and Eidenmüller, he detected a momentary hesitation as the Gestapo man’s gaze wavered and pulled out his pistol. Seeing the danger, Hustek switched his aim. They fired at each other almost simultaneously. Brack missed his shot, but took a bullet in the stomach.

  Emil felt a sudden pressure on his hand. ‘Eidenmüller,’ Paul murmured, struggling to rouse himself. ‘What happened to Eidenmüller?’

  ‘As far as I know, Eidenmüller is alive and living somewhere under the name of Leon Nadelmann.’ He caught Willi’s dubious glance, but continued. ‘Brack wasn’t dead, but he was in pain and bleeding heavily. We stripped off Hustek’s shirt and used it to try and staunch the flow of blood. Then, between us, we carried him back to the infirmary.

  ‘He died about an hour later. There was nobody to mourn him and, as was usual, his body was dumped outside to be sent for cremation. By morning it would have been frozen solid. Eidenmüller saw his chance – “One out, one in,” he said. Several prisoners died that night. He assumed the identity of one of them.

  ‘The next day the camp was evacuated. The prisoners were lined up in the snow and marched off. I never saw any of them again. A week or so later, the Russians arrived.’

  The Watchmaker’s story had reached its end. A ragged breath passed Meissner’s lips. ‘Thank you,’ he whispered, so quietly Emil could barely hear him. ‘The last time we parted I neglected to say goodbye. Not this time. Go with God, Watchmaker.’

  The artillery battery – three self-propelled Wespe light howitzers commanded by a young SS-Obersturmführer – had taken position behind the Russian village to shell Soviet positions about three kilometres distant. The officer had sited the guns behind a low ridge, which was why nobody saw the approach of a squadron of Russian T-34 tanks as they advanced through the village. If not for a gust of wind that had carried the sound of their engines, the surprise would have been complete.

  In an instant, the officer’s remarkably blue eyes took in everything. Calmly he ordered a retreat and mounted the rear-most vehicle. ‘Call HQ,’ he shouted to the radio operator. ‘Tell them we need a Stuka strike or we’re done for.’

  The first tank came over the ridge. With a loud crump, its gun fired. A mound of earth flew into the air beside the first Wespe. The Russian’s tactics were sound: if the first Wespe was disabled, the others would have to slow down to get around it. A second tank appeared and fired at the retreating Wespes. Another miss. But the Obersturmführer knew their luck could not hold for long, the tanks were faster than they were. Then a third and a fourth tank appeared. They did not continue the chase but halted.

  ‘Fuck,’ the Scharführer commanding the Wespe said. ‘They don’t need to chase us. They’ll pick us off before we reach the next ridge.’

  Two shots were fired almost in unison. One kicked up a shower of earth in front of the first Wespe; the other hit the second. The howitzers were only lightly armoured and the shell from the T-34 gouged a hole in its side and tore away the track below. Amid shrieks of pain from the crew, the Wespe ground to a halt.

  ‘Schratt,’ the Obersturmführer yelled to his second in command, ‘get to gun number two! Help them get out. I’ll take over here.’ The officer squeezed into his place. ‘Driver,’ he shouted, ‘turn this thing around. Aim us at the first tank.’ He turned to the gunners. ‘Get the gun loaded and depress the barrel fully. As soon as you’re done, we’ll shoot over open sights.’

  The driver locked the left track and turned the Wespe. The manoeuvre took the Russians by surprise. The Wespe fired at point blank range and blew the turret off the first Russian tank, detonating the ammunition within, creating a maelstrom of fire and smoke.

  ‘Next one,’ the officer ordered. The driver peered through the smoke, trying to line up his vehicle with the next T-34.

  ‘Fire.’ Another hit: not a killing hit, but the tank was immobilized.

  Then – an explosion beside the T-34s that had halted. The first Wespe had followed their example and had also turned upon their attackers.

  The officer whooped, the joy of battle upon him.

  And then his world was torn apart. There was a thunderclap so loud it made his ears ring and the Wespe was tossed up from the ground as if by a giant’s hand. He was thrown clear – when he looked up, he saw the Wespe was on its side and burning. Christ, he thought. He had better move before the flames reached the ammunition.

  He tried to stand but where his left foot should have been, all that remained was a bloody stump; oddly, he felt no pain. Around him the battle raged: two Tigers had crested the hill and had started firing on the T-34s. He was in the centre of a whirlwind of white-hot metal, but seemed immune. Everything appeared to be moving in slow motion.

  Then he saw Schratt walking towards him. The Scharführer was waving. When he got close he was smiling, his hand extended to help him up. Meissner took it; Schratt’s grip was firm and cool. He pulled Meissner to his feet.
>
  To Meissner’s amazement, his foot was no longer injured.

  ‘Obersturmführer Meissner,’ Schratt said, ‘I’ve been sent to get you.’

  ‘Get me?’ Meissner said. ‘How is this happening? I thought you were dead.’

  Schratt shook his head. ‘Old soldiers never die,’ he said.

  Meissner did not seem able to grasp the idea. ‘Never?’

  ‘No, sir. Never.’

  1 Hitler Youth.

  37.

  THE IMMORTAL GAME1

  1963

  Konzentrationslager Auschwitz-II, Birkenau

  It is early. Beyond a long line of concrete fence posts, rows of barrack blocks rise like dark, primeval creatures out of the morning mist. Crumbling chimney stacks stand stark against a pale sky, like the masts of stranded ships.

  Emil rubs condensation off the car window to peer out. They are on a narrow road that runs beside the remains of a long fence. Every so often he can see the stumps of a watchtower sticking up out of the ground like broken teeth, black and rotten.

  This is not the Auschwitz he remembers. He had thought the Monowitz camp was big, but this is vast.

  The driver brings the car to a halt beside a red-brick tower that stands above an arch, through which a railway spur runs. He points to the building beside it. A man is waiting there, stamping his feet in the cold.

  ‘Dzieñ dobry,’ Emil says, trying to remember the little Polish he picked up in the camp. ‘Nazywam się Emil Clément.’

  ‘Good morning,’ the man replies. ‘Fortunately, I speak German.’

  The man is a professor from the University of Kraków, the supervisor of the preservation work that is being carried out. Birkenau is to become a museum. Monowitz is all but gone. The Buna factory is being run by the Polish government.

  The professor is not at all happy that Emil and his companions have arrived to disturb his work. ‘Could we hurry, please?’ he says. ‘All this is most irregular.’

  Everything since Paul’s death has been irregular. According to the Catholic authorities in the Netherlands, it was irregular for a German priest to be sent ‘home’ to die in Amsterdam. Then there was the question of the will. Paul had had few possessions, apart from his beloved coffee set – which he left to Mrs Brinckvoort – and his journals, which he bequeathed to Emil.