The Death's Head Chess Club (15 page)

21.

T
HE
B
ALTIC
D
EFENCE

May 1944
Konzentrationslager Auschwitz-III, Monowitz

Unterscharführer Eidenmüller was furious; he could not remember the last time he had been so angry. The gall of that stinking Jewish piece of shit. Christ, no wonder everybody hated the ungrateful swine. He had stood listening to the exchange between the Hauptsturmführer and the filthy pig-fucker with growing disbelief, wanting to march across the office and give the little prick a good beating right there and then. But he knew the Hauptsturmführer wouldn't have stood for that, so he had been forced to let the bastard go. For now.

Eidenmüller made himself calm down. His boss wanted a game of chess. He would see that he got it.

He waited a week before returning to the block where the Jew had his billet. The day room was empty apart from the
Stubendienst
, who was slowly pushing a brush across the uneven floorboards. The brushstrokes quickened when the man saw who had entered.

‘Where's Brack?'

The prisoner stopped what he was doing and came to attention, holding the brush pole like a rifle. The sight almost made Eidenmüller laugh. ‘Block 19, Herr Unterscharführer.'

At Block 19, Eidenmüller pulled the door open and looked in. Brack
was engaged in a desultory conversation with three other Greens. ‘Brack,' Eidenmüller called. ‘A quick word, if you don't mind.'

The obsequiousness Brack had shown in front of Meissner was gone. ‘Yeah? What about?' he said, blinking as he came out into the bright sunlight.

‘Let's go for a little walk.'

Curious, Brack fell in beside the SS man as they sauntered towards the parade ground.

‘Tell me about this Jewish chess player of yours,' Eidenmüller said.

‘The Watchmaker?'

‘Is that what they call him? Why do they call him that?'

‘'Cause that's what he does. He fixes watches.'

‘For the prisoners?'

Brack gave him a
Don't be so bloody stupid
look. ‘What do you think?'

They continued a few paces without speaking until Eidenmüller said, ‘You know, my boss wanted to set up a game between the Jew and some of our SS chess players.'

Brack stopped, astonished. ‘Why would he want to do that?'

‘Word's got out, Brack – know what I mean? I'm not saying it's your fault, but it's a funny thing, word getting out. Once it's out, it won't go back in again.'

‘What the fuck are you talking about?'

‘“Unbeatable”, Brack. That's the word. Your Jew chess player. Fucking “unbeatable”. Can't have that, can we? A fucking unbeatable Jew? So someone's got to beat him, only it can't be a put-up job. Everybody would know straight away if it was. So my boss wants to put him against some of our best SS chess players and, believe me, there's a couple of really good ones. Only there's a problem, isn't there?'

‘A problem?'

‘Yeah. The stinking little Kike doesn't want to play, does he?'

They walked on a little further.

‘What is it, exactly, that you want me to do?' Brack asked.

‘He's a decent sort, my boss, you know,' Eidenmüller said, ignoring the question. ‘So he wouldn't take too kindly to it if he thought I had done anything to frighten his precious little Jew boy into playing. So I won't tell you what to do. You know your business. Just make sure the ungrateful little fuck agrees to play.'

‘What's in it for me?'

Eidenmüller smiled broadly. ‘Well, first, you get my undying gratitude. Second – when was the last time you had a decent drop of Schnapps?'

Emil and Yves are walking back to the block after evening roll call. Their progress is painfully slow. Yves has returned from the Buna factory completely spent. Every night, some prisoners are carried back by their fellows. Most of these will be earmarked for
Selektion
.

For days now, Emil has been expecting his friend to be one of them.

‘Let's try to get you into the
Krankenbau
,'
¹
Emil urges Yves. ‘You can say you fell and twisted your ankle and that it can hardly support your weight. They won't be able to prove otherwise. The doctors are Jewish. They'll take pity on you. All you need is a few days of rest, and you'll be a new man.'

His words are hollow and he knows it, but, to his surprise, Yves agrees and joins the long queue outside the sick bay. For days, he has spoken of nothing but food; he dreams constantly of feasting. Yet when Emil offers him half his bread ration, Yves will not take it.

Emil helps his friend to sit on the ground and lean back against the wooden wall. ‘Give me your bowl,' he says, ‘and I'll fetch your soup ration. I'll be back before you know it.'

It is not far from the K-B to their block. As Emil gets to the front of the line, however, the prisoner doling out the soup calls out: ‘Here he is. Tell Bodo.'

Emil is pulled out of the line and into the day room. At a word from Brack everyone clears out, leaving only Emil, Brack, his pimp, Widmann, and half a dozen heavies.

It is obvious that something is wrong.

‘You've got a fucking nerve, you ungrateful piece of Kike shit,' says Brack.

Emil does not reply.

‘Who the fuck do you think you are?'

Still Emil gives no answer.

Brack shouts, almost screaming. ‘I said – who the fuck do you think you are, you stinking stupid Jew!'

And Emil knows he is going to die.

1962
Kerk de Krijtberg, Amsterdam

The housekeeper put her head round the lounge door. ‘If you don't need me for anything else, Father, I'll be off.'

‘Of course. Did you make up the bed for Mijnheer Schweninger?'

‘Two beds, Father, I made up two beds – I thought you had two guests staying. And I've laid breakfast out ready in the morning for you.'

‘Thank you.'

‘Only I won't be in tomorrow, as it's my day off.'

‘Thank you, Mrs Brinckvoort. I'm sure we'll manage splendidly.' As the housekeeper closed the door behind her, Meissner turned to Emil. ‘You heard what she said – there's a room for you if you want it. Why don't you move out of your hotel and stay here for the rest of the tournament? You and Willi would probably enjoy picking over the games together.'

‘Just a minute,' Schweninger interjected. ‘I only agreed to stay here for one night, not for the duration.'

‘As you wish. It was just a thought.' Meissner picked up the coffee pot. It was empty. ‘More coffee, anyone? It won't take a minute.'

The two chess players contemplated the glowing coals in the hearth while they waited for the priest to return from the kitchen. He seemed to be taking a long time.

Eventually, Emil broke the silence. ‘For years I've wondered,' he began, haltingly. ‘I mean, I've read about it in books, but I've never asked someone who was there, somebody who was part of it . . .' His voice tailed away.

‘What is it that have you wondered, Herr Clément?'

Emil took a deep breath. ‘How could intelligent people like you and Paul have allowed yourselves to be so hoodwinked by Hitler that you ended up criminals?'

Only yesterday, this question would have caused great offence. Now Schweninger took it philosophically. ‘What a question,' he replied. ‘I've asked myself the same question many times, and the truth of it is very disheartening. People have talked about the failings of our politicians and the terrible effect on Germany of the Depression and the war reparations, but the fact is that too many of us
wanted
to say “Yes!” to Hitler. We knew he was dangerous, but he promised to lead us to our rightful destiny. Who could say no to to that?' He sighed, heavily. ‘At first there was no real shape or form to the danger, but then the Nazi Party wormed its way into
every nook and cranny of our lives, watching us and controlling us: the Brownshirts, the youth movements, the artistic societies, the propaganda machine – even the postal service, and, later, the Gestapo. It was like you were facing a colossus that was willing you, inciting you, imploring you to say “Yes!” without knowing what “Yes!” meant. But despite the undercurrent of fear, it was exhilarating, liberating. The Führer knew what needed to be done and all we had to do was to leave everything in his capable hands. Then all would be well and we would be strong again – one people, one blood, united in a common purpose, marching together to a marvellous future where the old uncertainties would be banished. If you had been part of it you would understand. It was irresistible.'

Emil shook his head slowly. ‘No, I could never have been part of it. I was a Jew.'

Meissner returned. ‘Coffee?'

‘No, thank you,' Schweninger said, pushing himself up from his chair. ‘I think I'll go to bed.'

‘So early?'

But the mood in the room had soured; the feeling of fellowship that had been growing was gone.

‘What about you, Emil, will you stay the night?'

‘No. I think I should go back to my hotel.' He stood and stepped past Paul to the front door, retrieving his coat on the way.

Meissner followed him. ‘Will we see you tomorrow?'

Emil stopped in the open doorway. ‘I don't know. Perhaps. I need time to think. It's been a long day. Things might seem different tomorrow.'

‘I'll pray for you.'

‘Thank you. But I'm not sure what value the prayers of a Christian have for a Jew.'

‘Christians and Jews both pray to the same God.'

‘So it is said.' Emil turned away. ‘Goodnight,' he called back.

As always, Meissner awoke early. He washed, put on a cassock and hobbled down the short flight of steps from the presbytery to the deserted street. He eased himself onto a bench overlooking the canal. With only birdsong for company he lit a cigarette, but it tasted bitter in his mouth and he threw it into the water. He twisted around to face the church with its double doors and twin spires and its dedication to St Francis Xavier. The Jesuits had been there for over three centuries – clandestinely for two of them. He usually took inspiration from their tenacity in keeping faith with Dutch Catholics after Holland had become avowedly Protestant, but not today. He sighed, spent a moment longer in the company of the birds and then stood.

Taking a key from his pocket he unlocked the church door and went in. He wondered whether he had done the right thing in bringing Emil and Willi together. It had gone better than he had expected until he had left them alone. Then something had happened, but what? He limped to the altar rail. The smell of polish and candle-wax usually made him feel he was coming home. He knelt, joining his hands in prayer, but he found the words that were supposed to bring serenity had become mechanical and bereft of meaning. He looked at his watch. It was still not seven o'clock. He decided he would say Mass.

In the sacristy he put on an alb and draped a stole over his shoulders. From a cupboard he took a little wine and a single communion wafer. He went back into the church and stood at one of the side chapels, dedicated to the Virgin. ‘Holy Mother of God,' he murmured, ‘please help me to do the right thing.'

He put the cup of wine and the wafer down on the altar cloth, genuflected and crossed himself. ‘
In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti
. . .'

Meissner returned to the house feeling better, as he often did after saying a solitary Mass.
Ask, and it shall be given unto you
. Well, he had asked. Now it was in the good Lord's hands. Schweninger was still not up so he busied himself making coffee and frying bacon. The smell would surely wake his guest.

Within minutes Willi entered the kitchen, rubbing his eyes.

‘I thought I heard the front door open before,' he said.

‘It was me. I went into the church.' Quickly he changed the subject. ‘Coffee?'

Over breakfast neither of them spoke about the previous evening. When they had washed the dishes and settled down for a smoke, Schweninger said, ‘You never said what made Herr Clément change his mind.'

‘No. And if it's all right with you, I think it would be better to wait for Emil to tell you himself.'

Schweninger leaned across the kitchen table to tap the ash from his cigarette into an ashtray. ‘Fair enough,' he said.

They fell into a companionable silence until, after a while, the priest said, ‘Why don't you tell me about what you did in the war. Ministry of Propaganda, wasn't it?'

Schweninger nodded. ‘That's right. Section three – Tourism.'

‘And you spent all your time in the ministry in the same section?'

‘Yes. I liked being there at first, it was quite glamorous, especially during the Olympics, and there were opportunities for travel. But after a while I came to realize I was going nowhere. Even when I applied for a transfer, for which I was well qualified, I never got it. I was a bit slow
working it out, but eventually it dawned on me that I had a stain on my record that I would never be able to erase.'

‘You think somebody had it in for you?'

Schweninger stubbed his cigarette out, so hard that the butt disintegrated in his fingers. ‘It's the only explanation.'

‘Do you know who it was?'

‘Oh, yes. I'm convinced it was the Malicious Dwarf himself, though naturally he considered himself above telling me to my face.'

‘Malicious Dwarf – you mean Goebbels?'

Schweninger nodded. ‘Yes, the old club-footed devil.'

‘What happened?'

August 1936
Munich

It was a disaster: complete, unmitigated and humiliating.

Berlin, 1936. Germany was hosting the Olympic games. The year before, there had been a flare-up of anti-Jewish agitation which had led to the passing of the Citizenship Law and the Law for the Protection of German Blood and Honour, the so-called Nuremberg Laws, which robbed Jews of their citizenship and barred them from participating in civic life. When the German Chess Federation – the Grossdeutscher Schachbund
–
proposed a chess Olympiad to coincide with the Olympic games, the International Chess Federation, FIDE, announced that anti-Semitism in Germany meant they could not take part in a German Olympiad. In a cynical move, Germany agreed to suspend its ban on Jews being allowed to compete and the FIDE General Assembly voted to leave national federations free to decide for themselves whether to participate.