The Death's Head Chess Club (10 page)

The Kommandant sat bolt upright. ‘And who is saying that?'

Glücks registered Liebehenschel's alarm. ‘It doesn't matter. What matters is that it has reached the ears of the Reichsführer-SS.' He sighed heavily. ‘Look, Auschwitz is the most important of the camps in the east. It embodies everything we're trying to do about the whole Jewish problem. The Kommandant of Auschwitz has to be like Caesar's wife – above even the slightest hint of suspicion. We simply can't have someone in charge who's soft on the Jews, or who is perceived as being soft on them.'

The Kommandant was affronted. ‘Sir, if I have been soft on the Jews in Auschwitz, it is only because I had orders to increase the productivity of the factories. And it was only a few hours ago that you were telling me what a good job I had done.'

‘Yes, but at the same time, the numbers being sent for
Sonderbehandlung
¹
in Birkenau have fallen noticeably.'

Liebehenschel leaned forward, eager to explain. ‘But if we want to keep the work camps operating at full capacity, we have to send fewer people to the gas chambers. It's simple arithmetic. Since the beginning of the year, all arrivals who are physically fit have been selected for work, and the results speak for themselves. It is on my orders that we have begun construction of an extension to the Birkenau complex to house them.'

The Gruppenführer's voice took on a conspiratorial tone. ‘I am here to inform you that the situation has changed. There are plans to send many more Jews here – far more than will be needed for work in the labour camps. Capacity for special treatment at Birkenau must be increased dramatically.'

‘Many more Jews?' Bär asked. ‘But I thought we had practically emptied Europe of them.'

The Gruppenführer shook his head. ‘Not quite. The French are dragging their feet, and it seems that in Denmark the Jews disappeared overnight. But these new arrivals are from elsewhere.'

‘Are we permitted to know where?'

‘Hungary. According to Eichmann, there are at least a million Jews there, and it has been decided to get them out before Horthy and the rest of his pack of cowards go over to the Russians.'
²

Liebehenschel could hardly believe what he was hearing. ‘And they are all coming
here
? It will take a year to process that many, at least.'

‘We don't have a year. Eichmann says he can send us twelve thousand a day.'

Liebehenschel frowned. He thought he was used to the unreasonable demands of his superiors, but this—? ‘No,' he said. ‘It's not possible. Even with all the crematoria going at full tilt, we simply don't have the capacity to process so many.'

The Gruppenführer drained his glass. ‘I thought that's what you might say. I'm sorry to have to tell you, but as of this moment you are relieved of your command.'

‘What? Relieved of my command? But . . .
why
? You said I was doing a good job. Surely . . .' Liebehenschel realized he was gabbling and stopped speaking. A moment later, he resumed, his voice calmer. ‘Naturally, I will follow whatever orders I am given, but . . . who is to take my place?'

The Gruppenführer indicated Bär. ‘You will be succeeded by your deputy. He will take over responsibility for the day-to-day running of the camp, but it was felt in Berlin that a more experienced hand should take charge of processing the Hungarian Jews. Obersturmbannführer Höss will return temporarily, specifically for this purpose. The operation is code-named
Aktion Höss
in his honour.'

Bär raised his glass in salute. ‘Thank you, sir. I will do my best to live up to my new responsibilities.'

‘And what is to become of me?' Liebehenschel asked, quietly.

The Gruppenführer reached across to squeeze the ex-Kommandant's
arm. ‘No need to look so downcast. You are to be the new Kommandant of Majdanek. You'll have a fortnight's home leave, then take up your new position on your return.'

‘And when does all this start?'

His task done, the Gruppenführer permitted himself a small smile. ‘Tomorrow.'

1
The SS rarely referred openly to the extermination of the Jews. Instead, the euphemism
Sonderbehandlung
– ‘special treatment' – was used.

2
Admiral Miklós Horthy was the regent of Hungary, effectively its ruler since 1920. Although an ally of Germany, up to this point in the war Hungary had permitted only limited persecution of Jews. In the spring of 1944, fearing that Hungary might surrender to the Russians, the German army was sent into Hungary, swiftly followed by SS units led by Adolf Eichmann, determined to round up the Hungarian Jews and transport them to Auschwitz. There were far too many for them to be assimilated into the labour camps: the vast majority were sent to the gas chambers immediately on arrival.

16.

F
IANCHETTO

1962
Amsterdam

In his hotel near the Oude Kerk, Wilhelm Schweninger was packing to go home. He had hoped his return would be triumphant, but it was not to be. He was not sorry to be leaving: the hotel's attempt at modern décor merely made it look drab, and he was still smarting from his defeat by Emil Clément. In his wallet he had a ticket for the 16:17 train from Amsterdam Centraal to Berlin, where he intended to get numbingly drunk.

There was a knock on the door. He looked at his watch and sighed. The porter was too early: check-out wasn't until 11:30. ‘I'm not ready yet,' he called in German, knowing the porter spoke it fluently. ‘Come back in a quarter of an hour.'

‘I'm sorry, Herr Schweninger,' a voice replied, also in German. The long narrow corridor beyond the door gave it an odd echo. ‘But could you spare a few minutes of your time? It's rather important.'

Schweninger dropped a shirt on the bed and opened the door. ‘Oh,' he said, surprised. ‘I wasn't expecting a priest.'

‘I must ask you to forgive the intrusion, Herr Schweninger. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Paul Meissner.'

Schweninger did not stand aside to let the priest in. ‘What can I do for you, Father?'

‘It's more what I can do for you,' the priest replied.

‘And what is that, exactly?'

‘I offer forgiveness for your sins.'

Schweninger shook his head. ‘I'm sorry, Father, I'm no longer a believer, and you've caught me at a bad time. I am about to leave Amsterdam.'

‘I know. That's why it's important that I speak to you now.'

‘You're talking in riddles, and I've got a train to catch. If you don't mind—?' Schweninger tried to close the door.

Meissner put his shoulder against the door and spoke quickly: ‘My SS number was 1214958 and my Party membership number was 6374971. You joined the Party in 1934 and your membership number was 1265409. Although you held a position at the Propaganda Ministry, you were never inducted into the SS because of the injury to your hand.'

Schweninger paled but then grew angry. ‘What is this? Are you trying to blackmail me? Well, you can forget it – I have owned up to my past and put it all behind me.' He pushed at the door again.

Meissner put his foot against it. ‘It would be a strange sort of blackmail, attempted by a priest, would it not? I revealed my own history to you to show that I too am tainted by a previous life that will not let me be.'

‘Look, I don't know how you know all these things about me, but I don't respond to threats. Now if you don't go, I'll call reception and have you removed.'

‘I'm not here to threaten you, Herr Schweninger, far from it – I'm here to help you. If you'll allow me to buy you lunch, I will tell you everything. Afterwards, you will be quite free to catch your train, I promise.'

There was something in the tone of Meissner's voice that made Schweninger hesitate. He stepped back from the door, allowing it to swing open.

‘Let me be sure that I understand what you are saying, Father Meissner,'
he said. ‘If I listen to your story, you will buy me lunch and, afterwards, you will not try to stop me from getting my train.' Meissner nodded. ‘In that case, why not? But I warn you – I have a healthy appetite.'

Schweninger picked up a jacket and stepped out into the corridor. Followed by the priest, he walked along it to the door to the stairs.

‘What exactly is all this about?' he asked, as they walked.

‘There is someone I would like you to meet. He's waiting for us in a restaurant on Oudekerksplein.'

May 1944
Konzentrationslager Auschwitz-III, Monowitz

Meissner had a letter, from France. The envelope was creased and thumb-print-stained. It had clearly taken some time to reach him. It took him some moments to recognize the writing.

I Abteilung
SS Panzer Artillerie Regiment 2
2nd SS-Panzergrenadier-Division Das Reich
Montauban, 12 March 1944

My dear Paul,

I'll bet you're surprised to hear from me. You must have thought I was dead! To be fair, that wouldn't be so far from the truth, but you know I'm not given much to writing. I tried to see you when you were still in the field hospital but they told me I was too late and that you had already been sent back to Germany. Nobody seemed to know where you had ended up and there were still many Russians to fight. After you went on your little holiday they counter-attacked in force. You probably saw something of it in the newsreels but you can't get
the sense of what it's really like from them, can you? You know what I'm talking about. You don't get the smells – the earth burning around you, the tightness in your belly when you see a squadron of T-34s heading towards you, and the elation when you're surrounded by a dozen burning tanks and you've come through unscathed. You'll be pleased to know that old Schratt is still making life hell for the junior officers. In case you didn't know, he was the one that pulled you out of the Wespe after you were hit . . .

Meissner looked up and stared out of the window.
Old
Schratt? Not so old. He couldn't have been more than three or four years older than he was himself. He could picture him clearly: his helmet pushed back on his head and a chin like a rifle butt. It was good to know he was still well. He was one of those soldiers that every regiment needed – he had probably been born wearing jackboots. He had terrified Meissner when, as a young officer, he had arrived to take command of the unit. The Scharführer had taken him to a quiet corner and made it clear that it was he who was in charge – not some wet-behind-the-ears Untersturmführer foisted on them by a tin soldier in headquarters who had nothing better to do. What Schratt taught Meissner was far more important than anything he had learned in officer training. He had taught him how to keep himself and his men alive. ‘How much you care for your men every day is exactly how much they'll care for you when it really counts.' And the Scharführer had been right, as he had been about everything else. And now it seemed that old Schratt had saved his life.

. . . Well, the good news is that now we're on holiday too. The division was pulled out of the line and as a punishment for not fighting hard
enough we have been sent to France. We are stationed in Montauban, about 50 km north of Toulouse. I must say the French make a bit of a change from the monumental stupidity of the Ukrainian peasants. Most of them don't like us, of course, but it doesn't stop them trying to sell us their cheese and wine. And the women, Paul – you should see the women. Real beauties.

You probably won't have heard that Knocken and Ernst Bock are both dead. Knocken was killed in a bombing run by some half-blind Stuka pilot who couldn't tell the difference between the Ivans and his own men. Of course that lunatic Hempel ordered us not to shoot at the stupid fucker, but what the hell, we did anyway. And Ernst got caught in the open when we came under mortar fire. I yelled at him to get down but he kept on running. Stupid bastard.

But that's enough bad news for one letter. The good news is that I have been promoted to Sturmbannführer. Can you believe that? If war is crazy this is surely all the proof you need. So here I am. The Das Reich is to be refitted as a full Panzer division and I am on holiday enjoying the French sun and wine and women. Whoever said war is hell got it completely wrong – if this is hell, all I can say is I'm glad I spent my life as a sinner. You'll also be glad to hear that Schratt has managed to keep most of your old unit together. On the odd occasions I bump into him – incidentally, he's a Sturmscharführer now – he always asks whether I have any news of you.

You're still missed here, Paul. I ought to say it's despite the way you used to go on at us about duty and honour, but I think it's probably because of it. If you ever manage to get some leave, try to get down here and visit your old comrades.

Sincerely,
Your brother in arms
Peter Sommer

1962
Amsterdam

Emil had taken a table at the rear of the restaurant, telling the waiter that he was meeting a colleague – possibly two – for lunch. He could not stop himself from looking at his watch. Twenty minutes, Meissner had said, and it had been nearer thirty. He still wondered why he had allowed the priest to convince him to come but, he had to admit, Meissner could be very persuasive.

While he was waiting, he tried to recall the first time he had met Meissner. To his surprise he found his recollection imperfect. He had thought it etched deeply into his memory, and it was a shock to find how elusive it had become.

The door to the restaurant opened and two men entered. With the light behind them it was difficult to tell whether it was Meissner or not, but then Emil saw the walking stick. With a start, he realized who was with him.

Angrily, he stood up. ‘You have misled me,' he said. ‘I knew I shouldn't have trusted you. What you thought you could achieve by bringing
him
. . .' He raised a finger to point at Schweninger.

‘Do not worry,' Schweninger replied in frosty recognition. ‘I have no more wish to be here than you.' He directed a curt nod at Meissner. ‘I think it best if I forgo your offer of lunch, Father. I will bid you good day.'

‘Please,' Meissner said. ‘Enough of this ridiculous posturing, both of you. If you won't even talk to one another, how can you expect anything to change?'

‘I never said I expected anything to change,' Emil said.

‘And as far as I am concerned,' Schweninger said, ‘Herr Clément and I have nothing to say to each other.'

‘Nothing to say? Are you so determined to be enemies? It is my belief that you both have much more in common than either of you realize or would care to admit. Is the idea of talking to each other really so terrible?'

Behind Schweninger, a waiter was hovering hesitantly. ‘I have a suggestion,' Meissner said. ‘Let us at least have lunch and I will tell the beginning of a story that I pray will bring us to at least a little common understanding.'

Emil and Schweninger exchanged a mutually suspicious look. Schweninger shrugged. ‘What the hell,' he said. ‘I've come this far and, anyway, I'm starving.' He looked directly at Emil. ‘How about you, Herr Clément? Is the promise of a free lunch enough for you as well?'

Emil frowned. There was something that did not feel right about sitting down calmly to lunch with two former Nazis, and the memory of his angry exchange with Schweninger was still fresh. How could Meissner think there could be any rapprochement between them? It would be easy to walk away. And yet, last night, when he had cast the tiles, they had told him to have faith; in what, he still did not know. For a moment he hesitated but then, quietly, he sat down again.

Relieved, the waiter stepped forward. ‘Would any of you gentlemen like something to drink?'

They ordered beer. Meissner and Schweninger seated themselves.

Meissner spoke first. ‘This is a long and complicated story,' he said, ‘and Herr Schweninger has a train to catch later this afternoon, so we must try to keep to the point. I don't think any of us knows the full extent of it, so we will all have something to tell. Let me start by saying that Herr Clément and I knew each other during the war. We were both in
Auschwitz – I was an SS officer and he was a prisoner. In normal circumstances, it would have been extremely unlikely that our paths would ever have crossed, but in Auschwitz nothing was normal.'

The drinks arrived.

‘So what was it that brought you together?' Schweninger asked.

Meissner made no attempt to respond. He looked to Emil.

Emil sighed. ‘Chess,' he replied. He lifted his glass to his lips and drank deeply.

Schweninger seemed unconvinced. ‘Chess? In Auschwitz?'

‘Yes. It was played among the prisoners. Apparently I was one of the better players.'

A smile played fleetingly on Meissner's lips. ‘One of the better players? Come now, I never took you to be one for false modesty.' He turned to Schweninger. ‘The perception of the other prisoners was that he was so good it seemed he had almost magical powers. He was their talisman, their unbeatable champion. I can't begin to tell you about the problems he caused me.'

‘This is fascinating,' Schweninger said, dropping his pretence of disbelief. He took a sip of his beer. ‘Did you know that late in 1944 I was approached by the SS and asked if I would play a chess match in Auschwitz?'

Meissner smiled. ‘Yes, I did know. The request came from me. But then I was transferred back to my old unit. I never found out whether the game took place.'

Schweninger's eyebrows lifted. ‘From you? Then you would know who my opponent was to have been.'

Meissner looked from Schweninger to Clément. Understanding dawned on both men.

‘Are you gentlemen ready to order?' the waiter asked.