The Death's Head Chess Club

by John Donoghue

  His desire to be cremated caused consternation.

  ‘The Catholic Church does not hold with cremation,’ Father Scholten explained, stiffly.

  ‘But it is what Paul wanted,’ Emil insisted.

  ‘But he was a priest,’ Scholten objected, in turn.

  Willi intervened. ‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘He understood what he was asking for. Surely the Church would not deny his dying wish?’

  In the end, it was Paul’s final request that caused the greatest problems.

  Emil and Willi made enquiries through the Polish Consulate in Amsterdam. It was out of the question, they were told. As for visas, obtaining them was rarely straightforward, even less so with what they had in mind.

  For several days Emil and Willi racked their brains for a solution. ‘What we need is a fixer,’ Willi said, after a few drinks.

  Emil slapped his hand to his forehead. ‘That’s it, Willi! You’ve got it. And who did Paul say was the best fixer he ever knew?’

  ‘Eidenmüller.’

  They found him in a bar in the small Dutch town of Simpelveld, only two kilometres from the German border, near Aachen.

  The barman looked up from polishing a glass as two men walked in. ‘Good afternoon,’ he said. ‘What can I get you gentlemen?’

  Emil recognized him at once. He extended a hand. ‘Eidenmüller,’ he said, quietly, in German. ‘It’s been a long time.’

  A shadow crossed the barman’s face. ‘I think you must be mistaken,’ he said quickly. ‘My name is Nadelmann. I’ve never heard of this . . . what was his name?’

  ‘Eidenmüller,’ Willi said, then, more loudly: ‘We’re friends of Hauptsturmführer Paul Meissner.’

  A look of alarm crossed the barman’s face. ‘Keep your voice down,’ he hissed. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Do you really not recognize me?’ Emil asked.

  The barman shook his head. ‘Should I?’

  ‘Yes. I’m the Watchmaker.’

  The barman stopped his polishing. ‘My God,’ he said. ‘Why have you come?’

  ‘We’re trying to carry out the dying wish of an old friend, and we’re hoping you will be able to help us.’

  Eidenmüller seemed confused. ‘Old friend? Who?’

  ‘Paul Meissner. He died a few weeks ago.’

  The news took Eidenmüller by surprise. ‘Really? Paul Meissner? He was in the Das Reich Division, you know. Hard bastards they were – not many of them left after the Russians finished with them. But my old Hauptsturmführer made it. Well, I’ll be . . .’ He nodded to himself. ‘Still, I’m sorry to hear he’s dead. He was a good sort – for an officer.’ He looked up. ‘But hang on. You said he was an old friend. I wouldn’t have thought . . .’

  ‘Nor me,’ Emil said. ‘But he helped me find something precious that I thought was lost for ever.’

  ‘Oh? What was that, then?’

  ‘Myself.’

  Fortunately the bar was empty. Eidenmüller flipped the sign on the door to Closed. ‘What exactly is it you think I can do?’ he asked.

  ‘We’re not exactly sure,’ Willi replied. ‘But Paul said you were the best fixer in the SS.’

  Eidenmüller smiled self-consciously. ‘Please don’t let anyone hear you saying that,’ he said. ‘I’ve tried to put those days behind me.’

  The solution to their problem, Eidenmüller decided, was twofold: first, they needed a story that was plausible and would stand up to cursory scrutiny; second, they needed money.

  ‘Money? Why do we need money?’

  ‘Communism,’ Eidenmüller replied. ‘It seems wrong, I know, but what Communists want more than anything is money. I bet there aren’t many real Communists in Poland, but you can be damned sure there’s an awful lot of poor people. We used to say a Pole is always good for a bribe. I bet that hasn’t changed since the war – worse, if anything, I would have thought. But we might need to bribe a lot of people, so we’ll probably need a lot of money.’

  ‘We’re finished then,’ Willi said. ‘I wouldn’t say I was badly off, but I don’t have much to spare.’

  ‘That makes two of us,’ Emil said.

  ‘Three,’ Eidenmüller added. ‘All I’ve got is this place. And there’s not only me to think of.’

  ‘You’re married?’ Emil asked. Eidenmüller nodded. ‘Does she know, about, you know . . .?’

  ‘Yes. I told her everything.’

  ‘Children?’

  ‘Yes. Two boys.’

  ‘What did you call them?’

  ‘Paul . . . and Freddy. That was the Hauptsturmführer’s second name.’

  ‘I didn’t know.’

  ‘I once had a peek at his service record. He was a brave man.’

  ‘Yes, he was,’ Willi said. ‘Right to the end. So,’ he continued, ‘we need money, but we don’t have any. Short of robbing a bank, where are we going to get it?’

  ‘I think I might know where,’ Emil said.

  The house seemed out of place. The street – Oudedijk – was pleasant enough, with trees along its length and broad pavements, but in the midst of ranks of modern apartment blocks, the large, detached, nineteenth-century villa seemed to have been planted on an anarchic whim. However, the name on the brass plate below the bell was the one that Emil remembered: Kastein.

  ‘May I speak to Mijnheer Kastein?’ he asked, when a maid in an old-fashioned black uniform with white collar and cuffs answered the door.

  ‘Who shall I say is calling?’

  ‘Tell him . . . Tell him it’s the Watchmaker.’

  Kastein was as good as his word of nearly twenty years ago: he almost hurtled through the door to drag Emil inside, shaking his hand and refusing to let go.

  Coffee was served in a sumptuous lounge. ‘I’m sorry I lost contact with you, Watchmaker,’ he said. ‘But now that you’re here, we must make sure not to let it happen again.’

  ‘If you had followed the world of chess you would have found me easily enough.’

  ‘I never knew there was a world of chess to follow. All I knew was our little chess club in Auschwitz. You, me, Brack, and that SS officer and his flunky.’

  ‘It may seem a little strange, but that’s why I’m here.’

  Kastein was a godsend. Not only did his money smooth their path, he had contacts. Within days, four visas had been arranged.

  ‘Four?’ said Emil, surprised.

  ‘I’m going with you.’

  Kastein offered to charter a private plane for them, but on this point Emil was adamant. A plane was not right, he said. This was not merely a journey; it was a pilgrimage. They would go by train.

  And now they are standing at the gates of Birkenau.

  ‘Which of you has the money?’ the professor asks. This is why they have come so early – so there are no witnesses. Kastein is to make a substantial donation to fund the restoration work: US$10,000. If it goes through official channels it will disappear; corruption is as endemic among the Communists as typhus was in the camp. The professor promises it will be spent wisely.

  Now he leads them along the side of the railway track to the ruins of the crematoria. Ground mist swirls like phantoms around their feet as they walk.

  They enter a grove of birch trees. It is very quiet, almost silent; even the singing of birds is absent.

  To their right is a jumble of shattered concrete and bricks – a building that has been demolished and abandoned.

  ‘It was blown up by the Germans. You see it exactly as they left it,’ the professor explains. ‘There are some who say it should be restored so that people can see what went on inside. There are others, including me, who think it should be left as it is as a monument to those who died.’

  For Emil, the answer is obvious. ‘It should be left as it is. Everyone knows what went on inside.’

  ‘I’ll leave you to do what you came for,’ the professor says. ‘I’ll see you back at the gate. But don’t take too long.’

  Don’t take too long . . . The professor’s words se
em misplaced. He doesn’t understand that time has no meaning for the inmates of Auschwitz, living or dead.

  Emil walks apart from the others, to the edge of the trees, wondering at the unearthly quiet. The silence is oppressive, not peaceful. If he listens very hard, will he be able to hear the screams of the ghosts who inhabit this place? Will he hear the last utterances of his mother and his children? He tries to listen to the voices that mill about him in the silence. But they are all talking at once, and he cannot hear what any of them is saying.

  And, now he is here, a new uncertainty pushes itself forward – an unwelcome addition to the many he has nurtured since leaving Auschwitz. This grotto is a sacred place. It is home to the thousands who perished here. What right does he have to add to their numbers one who was among their oppressors?

  He had wondered what it would be like to return, but now he is here, he is not sure what he feels. He is back, but he is not back. Nothing about this place is familiar.

  This is a different Auschwitz, and the memories that permeate this place are not his.

  All that is left is his conviction that he must honour Meissner’s last request. From his rucksack he takes a metal canister. Hands trembling, he pulls at the lid and some fine, light-coloured powder spills onto the ground.

  For long moments, Emil holds the canister as if not knowing what he should do with it. Then he walks into the birch grove, scattering the ashes as he goes. He does it hurriedly, far more quickly than he had intended, as if fearing he might change his mind before he has finished. When the canister is empty he stands there, following with his eyes the patterns the ashes have made upon the ground. They will not be there for long: a strong breeze or a shower of rain and they will be gone.

  There will be no memorial stone for Paul Meissner. The only trace that his ashes have been laid here will be in the memories of four men. Emil feels a pang of guilt: he should have scattered the ashes slowly; it would have been more respectful, but it is too late now. The others – Willi, Eidenmüller and Kastein – are silent witnesses. Nothing is said until Emil rejoins them.

  ‘I suppose one of us should say something,’ Willi suggests.

  Eidenmüller cannot. Tears are streaming from his eyes.

  ‘We should say Kaddish,’ Emil says.

  But this is too much for Kastein. ‘I made a promise to you, Watchmaker, and I have kept my word, but this—’ He walks apart to stand next to the ruins of the crematorium. When he speaks again his voice seems to shout into the silence. ‘Not for him. I cannot say Kaddish for him.’

  ‘Not only for him,’ Emil says, mildly. ‘For all of them.’

  It is a great deal to ask. Kastein’s memories are not Emil’s memories. He has no knowledge of the journey Meissner has made. He has only his own recollections – of death, of loss, of privation and suffering, injustice and hatred, and, for him, it is among these that the memory of Meissner belongs.

  Reluctantly, he turns away from the ruins, and rejoins the others.

  ‘Thank you,’ Emil murmurs. From his bag he takes a book. Reading from it, in a sonorous voice he starts to chant in Hebrew. The others bow their heads. It does not take long.

  ‘What does it mean?’ Eidenmüller asks, when it is over.

  ‘It is the prayer for the dead. It’s not easy to translate exactly, but it’s something like: “May the name of God be lifted up and praised by all creation according to His will. May His reign be established and may His saving grace be made manifest and His anointed one be found among you during the days of your life and during the days of the house of Israel, quickly and without delay. Amen and Amen.”’

  ‘What I don’t understand,’ Kastein says, struggling to keep his voice even, ‘is why an SS officer would want to have his ashes scattered here. I would have thought it would be the last thing he’d want.’

  ‘Meissner was a changed man,’ Emil says. ‘He said that he could think of no more fitting place on earth. He said he would spend eternity asking for forgiveness.’

  Kastein raises his eyes to look wonderingly at the iron-grey clouds overhead. Eternity is beyond his ability to imagine.

  Eidenmüller pulls back his sleeve to glance at his watch. ‘We should go before the professor comes looking for us.’

  ‘There’s one more thing we have to do,’ Emil says. He reaches into his bag, pulls out a small box, and passes it to Willi.

  ‘What is it?’ Kastein asks.

  ‘It’s pocket chess,’ Willi says, starting to smile. ‘Are we going to play here?’

  ‘We are. The game we should have played all those years ago. Can you think of a better way to honour him?’

  ‘No. We had better make sure it is a good one.’

  Willi picked white. He moved his king’s pawn forward two spaces. Emil did the same. A faint breeze stirred the trees. Willi glanced over his shoulder to where Emil had scattered Meissner’s ashes. ‘Do you think he’s here now, watching us?’

  Emil smiled. ‘I’m sure of it.’

  1 ‘The Immortal Game’ was played by Adolf Anderssen and Lionel Kieseritzky in London in 1851. In a series of seemingly rash moves, Anderssen sacrificed most of his major pieces – queen, both rooks and a bishop – but then achieved checkmate with his remaining bishop and knights. It is considered to be a chess game without peer.

  SS RANKS USED IN

  The Death’s Head Chess Club

  SS Rank British Army Equivalent

  Reichsführer-SS None. Throughout the war, this position was held by Heinrich Himmler

  SS-Gruppenführer Lieutenant General

  SS-Standartenführer Colonel

  SS-Obersturmbannführer Lieutenant Colonel

  SS-Sturmbannführer Major

  SS-Hauptsturmführer Captain

  SS-Obersturmführer 1st Lieutenant

  SS-Untersturmführer 2nd Lieutenant

  SS-Sturmscharführer Regimental Sergeant Major

  SS-Hauptscharführer Battalion Sergeant Major

  SS-Oberscharführer Company Sergeant Major

  SS-Scharführer Sergeant

  SS-Unterscharführer Corporal

  SS-Rottenführer Lance-Corporal

  HISTORICAL NOTE

  Introduction

  The Death’s Head Chess Club is a work of fiction, but its setting is the worst crime against humanity in recorded history. Hans Frank, the governor-general of Nazi-occupied Poland during the Second World War, said, ‘Jews are a race that must be completely exterminated.’

  Of all the death camps, Auschwitz had the biggest role to play in this genocide. An estimated 1.1 million people died in Auschwitz during its four and a half years as a concentration and death camp, the vast majority of them Jews from across Europe.

  Auschwitz – the camp

  Auschwitz was originally conceived of as a concentration camp, a place where the enemies of the Nazi state could be incarcerated away from public view. These included political enemies (mainly Communists), homosexuals, gypsies, Jehovah’s Witnesses and Jews.

  Concentration camps in Germany (such as Dachau and Sachsenhausen) and the principles on which they were run were long established. Prisoners were subject to brutal, sometimes capricious discipline, housed in primitive conditions with inadequate nutrition, and hard labour was imposed mercilessly. This was what was expected when SS-Hauptsturmführer Rudolf Höss was appointed as the first Kommandant of Auschwitz to establish one of the first concentration camps in the newly conquered territories (Silesia), arriving on 30 April 1940.

  Auschwitz was established as a penal work camp on the site of a former Polish army barracks. Its beginnings were inauspicious: the barracks were extremely dilapidated and infested with vermin, and the resources available to Höss were meagre, but his appointment as Kommandant was well judged: he was resourceful, hard working and completely dedicated to his task.

  As the number of camps included in the Auschwitz umbrella expanded, this first camp would be designated Auschwitz I, the Stammlager. Eventually, there would be three ma
in camps: Auschwitz-I, Auschwitz-II Birkenau and Auschwitz-III Monowitz.

  It was with the expansion into Birkenau that the role of Auschwitz evolved to become a combined work camp and death camp (unlike other sites in Poland, such as Chełmno, Sobibór and Treblinka, which were solely extermination camps). In the late summer of 1941, while Höss was away from the camp, his deputy, Fritzsch, conducted an experiment, killing Russian prisoners of war using the pesticide Zyklon Blausäure (Cyclone cyanide) which until then had been used to kill infestations of insects. When Höss returned, Fritzsch demonstrated the new method of killing, of which Höss approved whole-heartedly, writing later that he was relieved that this method had been found as it would spare him a ‘bloodbath’. Between then and the summer of 1942, Höss supervised the construction of the first purpose-built gas chambers in Birkenau for mass murder using Zyklon-B.

  During this time, the German industrial giant IG Farben put forward a proposal to build a factory in Silesia to manufacture synthetic rubber and oil from the poor-grade coal that was abundant in the area. The factory would be part of the Auschwitz complex and would be built using slave labour from the camp. This was designated Auschwitz-III Monowitz. It is here that the Watchmaker’s story unfolds.

  The life of Auschwitz as a concentration camp came to an end in January 1945. On 18 January, with Red Army units within a few miles, the SS force-marched around 60,000 prisoners who were considered fit enough out of the camp, westwards, on foot, in appalling weather conditions. This was the infamous death march. Already debilitated by starvation rations and wearing only their ragged camp clothing and camp-issue clogs, thousands died: some collapsed and froze to death, others were shot if they lagged behind. When Russian soldiers arrived at the camp on 27 January they found nearly 8,000 prisoners who had been left behind: close to 6,000 in Birkenau, a little more than 1,000 in the Stammlager and about 600 in Monowitz. Among the Monowitz survivors was Primo Levi. Orders had, in fact, been given by the SS area commander, Obergruppenführer Schmauser, that prisoners considered too weak to be included in the mass exodus should be shot, but the rapid advance of the Russians had made the camp SS nervous and, in the end, they had been more concerned with saving their own skins than with the fate of a few prisoners who they thought were likely to die of disease or starvation anyway.