The Death's Head Chess Club (19 page)

‘I had a friend who died in Auschwitz, the best friend I ever had. I tried to save his life but he would not let me, he would not abandon his dignity. He was hanged as punishment for stealing food. Do you remember? You were present at his execution; I saw you. Do you remember what we spoke of the next time you summoned me to your presence? It was not an easy exchange of words.

‘I remember being marched into your office. I had blood dripping from my nose. You saw it and glared at your orderly. “He fell,” the orderly said. I could see from the look on your face that you did not believe him. You dismissed the orderly and offered me your own handkerchief.' Emil fell silent for a moment. ‘You would not have known how beautiful it was
to feel again clean, white linen between my fingers. I was reluctant to soil its purity by using it to wipe away the blood. I wanted to keep it so I could take it out occasionally as a reminder of what it was like to be clean. And I remember what you said—'

‘I am sorry about your friend.' The words came out in a hoarse whisper as Meissner reached a trembling hand across the bedspread to take Emil's. ‘That's what I said, didn't I?'

Tears clouded Emil's eyes. ‘Yes, Paul. That's what you said.'

June 1944
Konzentrationslager Auschwitz-III, Monowitz

‘I am sorry about your friend,' the officer says, for a second time.

Emil says nothing. He holds the handkerchief to his nose.

‘I did not break my word to you,' the officer continues. ‘It seems there was an administrative error.'

‘Pardon me – an administrative error?'

‘Quite so. It is unfortunate, but these things happen in times of war. I'm sure you can understand.' The officer's speech is stiff and formal, as if he is aware how hollow his words must sound. ‘But you must have something to show for your victory. I will see to it that the status of protective custody is entered in your record instead.'

‘Unfortunate? Is that all you can say? My friend is
dead
.' Emil looks to see if the orderly is listening, but he is gone. ‘You make it sound as if I had been playing for a toy at a fairground. I was playing to save my friend's life and now he is dead.'

The officer's voice remains tightly controlled. ‘I kept my side of our bargain. Your friend knew what he was doing. I am not to blame if he was so careless with his life. I have treated you fairly.'

Emil cannot believe what he is hearing. Does this officer not know that they are in Auschwitz and that there is no such thing as being treated fairly?

‘May I have permission to speak honestly?'

The officer gives a slight nod.

‘You say you have treated me fairly. If you were treating me fairly you would have greeted me with respect, offered me coffee, a cigarette. There is a gulf between us that is impossible to bridge. Why am I even here? I have been convicted of no crime, yet my children were taken from me and are most likely dead; my wife, too, may be dead. I am a slave forced to live and work in the most primitive conditions in return for starvation rations, and you say you have treated me
fairly—
? You are indifferent to me and to my fate and to the fate of all the thousands who suffer and die every day.'

Meissner can see the truth in Emil's rebuke, but to admit as much is impossible. ‘I did everything I could, but the matter is now closed. No purpose can be served by discussing it further.'

‘Then why did you summon me?'

‘I want you to play another game of chess.'

‘Why? So you can dupe me again?'

‘Do not provoke me, Watchmaker. I did not dupe you the last time. The matter was out of my hands. I have almost been accused of being a Jew-lover.'

Emil does not reply. His nose has stopped bleeding. He folds the handkerchief and tries to hand it back. Meissner waves it away.

‘About this other game of chess,' he says. ‘This time you will play against one of the officers.'

Emil will not be taken in a second time. ‘I will not do it.'

‘I offer you the same terms as before. If you win, you will save a life.'

Emil's head snaps up. ‘My wife,' he says. ‘I will play for my wife.'

Meissner frowns. ‘I've already told you – I have no authority in Birkenau, only here in Monowitz. You must choose someone else.'

‘But there is no one else.'

‘Nobody whose life is worth saving?'

‘I did not say that. I don't know anyone else well enough to choose.'

‘Then choose somebody at random. You could draw lots. I don't care how or who you choose, but I want it done quickly.'

Emil knows he has no choice in the matter. Win or lose, he will be forced to play, as he was before. ‘How can I be sure that whoever I pick this time will be protected?'

‘I will supervise the entry in their camp record myself.'

Emil is beaten. ‘How will you know who I have chosen?'

‘Tell your
Blockältester
. He will get word to me.'

‘I'm thirsty,' the bishop said, hoarsely.

A glass of water stood on the cabinet next to the bed. Emil went to pass it across but Meissner shook his head. ‘Help me to sit up.' He grimaced with pain as Emil gripped his arms and pulled him upright. ‘I don't like this laudanum,' he said. ‘It clouds my thinking.'

Emil offered the glass again. Meissner took it and drank thirstily. ‘You tell it exactly as I remember. I have reflected many times on our conversations in Auschwitz.' He paused, collecting his thoughts. ‘You remember I told you the other day I thought God had a final purpose for my life?'

‘Yes. You said that purpose was me.'

‘I did not say so then, but I'm also sure that although He had no part in sending you to Auschwitz, once you were there, God also had a purpose
for you.' He looked searchingly at Emil. ‘No matter how you might try, you cannot evade God's purpose.'

‘What purpose can He possibly have had for me in that place?'

‘It was me.' Meissner saw the look of incredulity on Emil's face. ‘Please, do not think me so egotistical. Catholics believe that there is more rejoicing in Heaven over one sinner who repents, than over ninety-nine righteous persons who do not need to repent. I was that sinner, and it was you who set me on the path to repentance.'

Emil stared at him. ‘Now I am confused. Before, we talked of forgiveness but now you add something else. Which is more important – forgiveness or repentance?'

Meissner took another sip of water. ‘For a sinner such as me, without repentance there can be no forgiveness. After the war, when I was awaiting my trial for war crimes, I realized it would not have been possible to seek forgiveness of God in Auschwitz because He had been shut out as surely as all of us were shut in. Auschwitz was a fortress designed to keep God and mercy and compassion as far away as humanly possible.'

‘So you repented, and God forgave you.' Emil closed his eyes for a moment, to reflect on what Paul had said. He was missing something. ‘But you said that was not enough. What else did you need?'

‘There was – and is – only myself.'

Emil rubbed a hand over his face. He felt drained.
My life is not yours to bargain with
. ‘And have you been able to forgive yourself?' he asked.

‘Not yet. Perhaps never. But I must hope. Otherwise, I am lost.'

‘That is what I used to tell myself every day in Auschwitz.'

‘And now?'

‘Now I wonder whether the hope I held on to so fiercely was worth the price I have had to pay for it ever since.'

‘I'm sorry to hear that.'

‘There's that word again. And it's still too small, too feeble, for what you need it to do.'

Meissner fell back exhausted. Emil stayed with him for a few minutes and then went down to the kitchen.

The housekeeper was at the stove, stirring the contents of a large pan. ‘I'm making some broth for the bishop,' she said. ‘The doctor said it was important to try and keep his strength up. Would you like some?'

‘Thank you, that's very kind of you.'

‘Mijnheer Willi came back while you were talking to the bishop. He said he didn't want to disturb you. Would you mind finding him and telling him that lunch is ready?'

Emil climbed the stairs again in search of Willi's bedroom. He tried two empty rooms before he found the right one. Inside, Schweninger was seated at a small table, writing. He looked up when Emil entered the room.

‘Good afternoon,' he said brightly. ‘How is the patient?'

‘As well as can be expected, I suppose. Lunch is ready if you would like some.'

By the time they got down to the kitchen, Father Scholten had returned from saying the midday Mass. Mrs Brinckvoort ladled generous portions of steaming broth into three bowls and they seated themselves around the table. The priest said grace, and a second prayer for the recovery of Paul Meissner.

‘Father,' Emil said hesitantly, ‘a day or so ago, the bishop asked if I would like to stay here. At the time I said no, but if it's all right with you, I have changed my mind. While he's so ill, I would like to be close by.'

‘Of course,' the priest replied. He turned to the housekeeper, who was setting a bowl of broth on a tray. ‘Mrs Brinckvoort, could you make up a
room for Mijnheer Clément?' He turned back to Emil. ‘If you don't mind my asking, how is that you and the bishop came to be such good friends?'

With a wan smile Emil replied, ‘I'm not sure you could call us “good” friends. But friends, certainly. As to how, I have been asking myself the same question. I suppose it's because we went through quite a lot together during the war.'

Before the priest could reply there was a loud crash from upstairs. Mrs Brinckvoort was first out of the door.

They found the bishop on his knees on the landing, the housekeeper trying to help him up. ‘He fell,' she announced, unnecessarily.

‘Please,' Meissner said weakly, ‘don't make a fuss. I needed the toilet, that's all, and I thought I could make it on my own.'

‘Here, let me,' Emil offered, taking Meissner's arm and hoisting it around his shoulder. He spoke to the others. ‘I'll shout if we need help.'

The two of them edged along the landing to the bathroom. Emil eased the sick man into the lavatory and helped him to unfasten his pyjamas. ‘I'll wait outside the door,' he said. ‘Shout when you're finished.'

It was a struggle getting Meissner back to bed, but he insisted Emil should not call the others for help.

When he was settled on his pillows again, gasping with pain, Meissner reached across to grasp Emil's arm. ‘Thank you,' he murmured. ‘I know things look bad, but I'm not finished yet. These episodes come and go. I will be up and about again before you know it. In the meantime, keep talking to Willi. He is not so bad as you think.'

Later, Willi offered to help Emil move his things across to the Krijtberg. In Emil's hotel room, he noticed the small ivory tiles inscribed with Hebrew letters. ‘What are these?' he asked.

Emil put them into a soft leather pouch. ‘I'll tell you later.'

Afterwards they went to a bar and ordered beer. They sat in an uncomfortable silence, sipping occasionally at their drinks. After a while Emil asked, ‘Before we played, did you analyse any of my previous games?'

‘Of course. I obtained the records of many of your games, looking for the moves you favour, trying to discern any pattern to your play.'

Emil took a sip of beer. ‘And did you? Find any pattern, I mean.'

The German shook his head. ‘It was strange. Your play seemed very methodical. I was convinced you must play to a system, but I couldn't work out what it was – every time I thought I could detect a pattern of play, it vanished. It seemed to be taunting me. “Here I am,” it was saying. “Look closer.” It was like a wisp of smoke from a cigarette – it hangs in the air and then a door opens and it is gone.'

Emil smiled. ‘Of course I have a system – perhaps more of a philosophy than a system. But I learned in Auschwitz to keep things to myself. It's hard to break the habit.'

‘A philosophy? That's even more intriguing, but you should not keep it to yourself.' Willi regarded him earnestly. ‘The game of chess is bigger than either of us. You should tell people about your philosophy, and see what happens when they add their own ways of thinking to it.'

‘That's the problem. I don't really understand how it works myself. When I draw on it, it doesn't tell me what moves to make – it's more what my mental approach should be.'

‘Is it a form of meditation?'

Emil did not answer. Instead, he reached into his jacket pocket for some cigarettes and, taking one, lit it. Exhaling a cloud of smoke upwards, he offered the pack to Willi and said, ‘I suppose you could say it was something like that, yes.'

Willi took a cigarette. ‘Look,' he said, holding it loosely between his fingers, ‘if you think it's none of my business, all you have to do is say so.' He put the cigarette to his lips.

‘No, it's not that, not exactly.' Emil ran a hand through his hair. ‘It's just that I've never told anyone before . . .'

With his good hand, Willi lit up and inhaled deeply. ‘Fine. I'm not trying to pry. It was you that mentioned it.'

‘My system is based on the Kabbalah.'

‘The Kabbalah?'

‘Yes. It's a Jewish mystical science based on the Hebrew alphabet. You remember the tiles you found earlier? On each of them is inscribed a letter that signifies one of the powers of the orders of angels. In some way I feel as if I am able to connect with the power and I don't have to think about what moves I should make. I simply know.'

Schweninger gave a wry smile. ‘You're playing with the hand of God. That doesn't seem fair.'

Emil shook his head. ‘Not the hand of God – the power of angels. It's a little different.'