The Death's Head Chess Club (25 page)

‘I have often wondered what would have happened if Hitler had not survived,' Paul said.

Willi pondered for a moment. ‘The obvious thing would have been for the army to take over and negotiate a peace,' he said wistfully. ‘We probably wouldn't have been occupied by the Russians.'

‘Perhaps, then,' Emil said, ‘it was better that he did survive. If Germany had not experienced such a catastrophic defeat as she did, it would have been only a matter of time before another Hitler emerged and the whole disaster was enacted again.'

‘I do not think we would have let such a thing happen.'

‘I wish, Willi' – Emil's voice was suddenly harsh – ‘that I could share your confidence, but having experienced what a person like Hitler and his henchmen could inflict first-hand, you'll forgive me if I say that no price would be too high to make sure it could never happen again.'

1
Bad Tölz was one of three SS
Junkerschules
– officer training schools.

30.

T
HE
C
HIGORIN
D
EFENCE

August 1944
Konzentrationslager Auschwitz-III, Monowitz

It is not the place of a
Häftling
to seek an audience with an officer in the SS, but nearly two months have gone by since the game against Dorn, and still there is no word from Meissner. Even Brack is showing signs of unease. It is some relief then, when, finally, word reaches them that the Watchmaker must report to the Hauptsturmführer without delay.

A
Kapo
escorts Emil to Meissner's office. Meissner is alone – even Eidenmüller is absent. The SS man seems distracted. He sends the
Kapo
away, and Emil stands at attention, waiting. Meissner limps to the outer office and returns bearing a pot of coffee and two cups. ‘Please take a seat,' he says, and, filling a cup, hands it to the dumbfounded prisoner.

‘Thank you,' Emil manages to say, as he sits. He takes a sip from the cup. It is too hot, but the smell of it is intoxicating. It is
coffee
, real coffee.

‘Cigarette?' A pack is handed over. ‘Keep it.'

Emil's hands tremble as he tears the pack open and puts a cigarette between his lips. He has nothing to light it with and waits, until the officer points to a box of matches on the desk.

Emil inhales deeply, savouring the first rush of nicotine. It is some moments before he realizes he is being watched. ‘Why are you doing this?' he asks.

‘The last time we spoke you accused me of being uncivilized. That is far from the truth. Germans are a civilized people. But we have allowed ourselves to come under the control of a bunch of gangsters. That is our disgrace and your great misfortune. There is little I can do about that, but I have decided I can put up with it no longer. I am not permitted to leave my post, but I will no longer play the game according to their rules.'

‘Their
rules?'

‘They used to be my rules too, but no longer.'

Emil looks away, stunned. He wonders if he is dreaming. For an SS officer to talk to him in this way is unthinkable.

‘Are you playing some kind of game with me?'

There is an edge to Meissner's voice when he replies. ‘No. No more games, Watchmaker.'

Emil searches for a reply but can find nothing. He feels as if he is alone in a deep cave, groping blindly, trying desperately to understand the words that flit around him, like bats, in the darkness. He wonders if he is being tested and responds by saying, bitterly: ‘It does not matter whether you are playing a game with me or not – nothing can change my situation. Not until you Nazis and all you stand for have been utterly destroyed.'

The SS officer stiffens. For a moment his eyes rest on a photograph of Hitler that adorns the wall. ‘I know,' he says. ‘I'm sorry. Truly.'

Meissner's words are shocking, astounding. They hit the Watchmaker with the force of an earthquake: whole cities topple and fall into dust.

Emil is bewildered by the transformation that has come over the SS man. He hears his own voice as if it were coming from the next room: ‘Sorry? Dear God. Do you expect me to believe that? You give the impression of being sincere, but for all I know this is simply some new and refined cruelty that you have dreamed up. How do I know there will not
be some bolt from the blue – that all of a sudden, some punishment will descend on me without warning?'

Meissner does not reply. Instead, he pushes himself up and walks to the hat stand where his belt is hung. Taking his pistol from its holster he pulls back the action and puts a cartridge into the chamber. Then he hands it to Emil.

‘It's loaded,' he says, ‘so be careful with it.'

‘What do you want me to do with this?'

‘Whatever you like.'

‘But why?'

‘I want us to pretend, for a while, that this is not one of the circles of hell and that we are two civilized men having a civilized conversation.'

‘And which circle of hell do you think we are in?'

‘Isn't it obvious? The ninth one.'

‘The ninth one? Heresy?'

Meissner shakes his head. ‘No. Treachery.'

Treachery. The word rumbles like an aftershock. Emil becomes aware of the pistol in his hand. It feels strange. It is heavy, its black metal smooth to the touch, and cool. He sees it as though through a magnifying glass: there are traces of grease around the moving parts and blemishes on the handgrip where it has been damaged, perhaps in battle. Gingerly, he rests a finger on the trigger. It would be child's play to shoot the SS man; at this range he could not miss.

If Yves were alive, what would
he
do? The answer is certain: he would kill the German. But Emil is not Yves and the certainties that once guided his life have all been torn away: if he killed Meissner, would that mean he had descended to the same level? And – the most uncertain of all his uncertainties – what if Meissner is sincere?

There is a clock on the wall above the door. The Watchmaker glances at it. He has been here for thirty minutes and there has been no bolt from the blue.

Gently, he puts the pistol on the desk.

Meissner smiles, but it seems out of place.

‘What do you want from me?'

‘I want you to fulfil the Führer's direst warnings about the Jews.'

‘I don't understand what you're talking about.'

‘Watchmaker, you are one of the most dangerous prisoners in the camp. I'm surprised the Gestapo hasn't taken an interest in you.'

A look of alarm crosses Emil's face. ‘Why would they? I'm not political.'

‘Of course you are. Every Jew is political, because, according to the Führer, every Jew is part of the international conspiracy against Germany.'

‘Ah, yes. The international conspiracy,' Emil says scathingly. ‘I was an ordinary person doing what I could to make my way in the world, a watchmaker with a tiny shop in Paris. What danger did I pose to Germany? How could you even think that I could be part of a worldwide conspiracy? The idea doesn't stand up to any rational examination.'

‘You would say that, wouldn't you?' Meissner opens a desk drawer and lifts out a bottle. ‘Cognac?'

‘No, thank you. In my state it would probably kill me.' Emil inhales deeply, catching the warm aroma of the spirit as the officer pours himself a generous measure. ‘All right, then,' he continues, ‘what about the poor, uneducated peasants in the Ukraine? Most of them have never set foot outside their villages. How could they be part of an international conspiracy?'

Meissner taps his nose with a finger. ‘Ah. That's the clever part.
They
were an enormous Fifth Column. For years they have been lying dormant,
waiting patiently, lulling us into a false sense of security. But when they got the word, they would rise up and overwhelm the German people.'

‘How can you believe that?' Emil asks in wonderment. ‘It's nothing more than a hate-filled fantasy.'

‘I agree. But don't you think it's strange that among the nine circles of Dante's hell, not one of them represents Hatred?'

Emil's eyes stray to the half-empty bottle of cognac. Meissner catches the look and smiles wryly. ‘I've not been drinking, Watchmaker. Not yet.'

‘I would like more coffee, if there is any left.'

‘Of course. Help yourself.'

While the Watchmaker refills his cup, Meissner picks up the pistol and resets the safety catch. ‘I almost wish that you had shot me,' he says.

‘Shoot you? Why would I do that?'

‘Because I am your enemy.'

1962
Kerk de Krijtberg, Amsterdam

Emil brought the coffee pot from the stove and refilled their cups. ‘Every time I have coffee it reminds me of that time in your office,' he said. ‘I have never known coffee to taste so good, before or since. It was exquisite.'

‘But what was it,' Willi asked Meissner, ‘that you wanted Emil to do?'

‘It was quite straightforward, though I hadn't thought it through fully at the time.' Meissner's face relaxed as he thought back, retrieving the memories. ‘It took a while to sink in how rattled the Kommandant was by Emil's victories. As Höss said, this was a test of National Socialism, and a challenge to the complacency of the SS. Bär didn't see it that way – he considered it a dangerous experiment that should be brought to an end. Then I realized they were both right. I knew that Emil had an extraordinary
gift and that, no matter what we did, he would win. This would expose one of the fault lines in Nazism – that the idea of the master race was a myth; a fantasy built on nothing more solid than the sinister delusions of a megalomaniac. I remembered the ideological lectures we had in the SS training school. We were told that the Russians were sub-human, but then we saw what they were like on the Eastern front: they were the same as us. We had been lied to. What if we had also been lied to about the Jews? I think it was in Cologne that I realized none of it made any sense. That was when I knew I wanted Emil to win.'

Meissner took a sip of coffee, putting his thoughts in order. ‘The next game was to be played in the middle of August. I wanted it to be in the officers' mess again, but Bär vetoed that. He wanted it played in the prison block in the
Stammlager
, where nobody would see it. Hardly fair to Emil of course, but that was the intention – to intimidate him – all the prisoners knew what went on inside its walls. Naturally, none of this prevented Eidenmüller from taking bets' – Meissner smiled briefly at the recollection – ‘which he told me were heavier than ever. But what came as a complete surprise was who turned up to watch.'

August 1944
Konzentrationslager Auschwitz-I

A room on the upper floor of the prison block in the
Stammlager
has been emptied.

Otto Brossman has heard tales of this place, though he has never been inside before: of cells below ground so narrow that it is possible only to stand in them; of prisoners locked in basement cells and left to starve to death in the darkness. It is said that some cells have been bricked up to entomb their occupants.

The room itself is intimidating. The plaster on the walls is painted a pale creamy colour, but it is discoloured in many places by dark stains. It is not difficult to imagine what goes on in there.

A single table and two wooden chairs have been set up in the middle of the room. A chessboard stands waiting for the players to arrive.

‘I think the Jew is going to find this place more than a little daunting,' Brossman says in a low voice.

‘That'll make two of us,' Meissner replies.

The Watchmaker is escorted in by Eidenmüller. Meissner nods to his orderly but pointedly ignores the prisoner.

‘Is that it?' Brossman asks.

‘Yes. The Kommandant did not want any spectators. He also insisted that you have an advantage. There will be no draw to see who gets which colour. You get to choose.'

‘Then I choose white.'

The SS man advances his queen's pawn two spaces. Without hesitation the prisoner makes the same move. The SS man brings up his queenside bishop's pawn to stand beside its companion. The prisoner brings out his queenside knight. The SS man brings out his kingside knight. The prisoner moves his queen's bishop across the board. White pawn takes black pawn and the prisoner retaliates by taking the white knight with his bishop. Black bishop falls to a white pawn and with that the black queen is out to take the white pawn in the centre of the board. All this has taken place with almost unthinking rapidity.

White is ahead, just, and Meissner is holding his breath.

Play is interrupted by the sound of a heavy footfall on the stairs. A shadow looms on the landing and in walks Oberscharführer Hustek.

‘Oh,' he says in mock surprise. ‘I didn't think you would have started
already. I'm sorry to be late, but then I didn't receive an official invitation.'

‘What are you doing here, Hustek?' Meissner asks, already knowing the answer. ‘The Kommandant wanted this game to be a quiet affair, not a crowd-puller.'

‘But I'm not a crowd, am I?' Hustek replies. ‘I'm only me. When I heard what trouble you had gone to over this little game, I thought to myself it's about time I took a closer look at this unbeatable Jew. So here I am.'

‘Clear off, Hustek. That's an order.'

But Hustek is not to be deterred. With a smile sweetly laden with disdain he says, ‘I thought we had already agreed, Herr Hauptsturmführer, that since I'm Gestapo, I'm not answerable to you. Besides,' he says, almost as an afterthought, ‘seeing as how I will be the next person to play the Jew, unless by some miracle he manages to lose tonight' – he sniggers – ‘I have Sturmbannführer Bär's permission to be here. If that's all right with you, Herr Hauptsturmführer?'

Meissner fixes his eyes on the Gestapo man, taking in the cocky smile and pose of casual insubordination. He glances at Brossman to catch a look of resignation as it flits across the other officer's face.

The prisoner keeps his attention fixed on the chessboard.

‘Don't worry about me,' Hustek adds. ‘I'll be quiet as a mouse. Pretend I'm not here.'

‘Fine,' Meissner says, making a tactical retreat. For now.

Hustek takes up position against a wall, lights a cigarette and says not another word; but he watches. Unblinkingly.

Before the game, Emil had sought out Brack. ‘I want to know whose life I'm playing for this time.'

‘None of your business,' Brack says.

‘I think it is. I need to know the person who will go up the chimney if I'm unlucky enough to lose. I want him to look me in the eye and tell me he understands what a risk he's taking.'

‘Oh, he understands all right,' Brack says. ‘Same as every other Yid in this place. On the one hand, there is the certain knowledge that, sooner or later, one of the
Selektionen
will get them and they will never be seen again; or, on the other hand, they can gamble that you really are unbeatable – which is what they all think anyway – and that for reasons that frankly are beyond their comprehension, a life will be saved.'