The Death's Head Chess Club (26 page)

‘I still want to see him.'

‘Afterwards,' Brack insists. ‘You can see him afterwards.'

1962
Kerk de Krijtberg, Amsterdam

‘Those early moves were played at a breathtaking pace,' Paul remembered.

‘I can imagine,' Willi replied. ‘Such an unconventional response. The SS officer must have come with a well-prepared game plan, yet you took him by surprise. When did you pause for breath?'

‘Only after he took my bishop.'

‘It must have been a terrifying ordeal. In my wildest dreams I would never have thought of a game of chess being played in a torture chamber, with a man's life at stake.'

‘It was very tense,' Meissner said. ‘The stakes were extremely high – more so than we realized at the time. I knew that if Emil won it would create more trouble for me, but at the same time in my mind I was urging him on. Brossman gained the early advantage and I was more nervous than I would have been facing a Russian tank. I can't speak for Emil, but
the spectre of the Gestapo witnessing the whole affair made it difficult to draw breath. I could guess what Hustek usually got up to in that room. Eidenmüller had asked around about him, and what he discovered was not flattering, even by the standards of the Gestapo.'

Willi shuddered. ‘I never met anyone from the Gestapo – not that I know of, at least,' he said.

‘Lucky you. But Hustek . . . simply being in the same room with him made you feel uneasy. If you had met him on the street you would have known immediately that he was someone to avoid.'

‘I agree,' Emil added. ‘I never felt such malice in any of the other Gestapo I encountered.'

‘Other Gestapo? You never mentioned that,' Meissner said, with some surprise.

‘Why would I? You never asked me how I came to be in Auschwitz.'

‘I assumed you were sent there because you were a Jew. I'm afraid I never thought beyond that.'

‘No, I don't suppose you would. There must have been ten thousand Jews in Monowitz, with ten thousand tales of how they came to be there. You had no reason to ask me about my story.'

October 1943
Annecy

Emil returned from the town dripping wet from the downpour: another fruitless errand. Every time he went he ran the risk of being picked up. Annecy was not a large town and strangers were soon noticed.

In the confusion following the fall of France, Emil had taken his family south, to Rosa's parents in Périgueux. In late 1942, when the Germans moved to occupy the Vichy territories, Emil managed to get a letter to
Meister Nohel in Basle asking for sanctuary. His old master had replied quickly: ‘Come at once,' he had written, ‘before the round-up of Jews gathers pace.' But Emil's mother was ill. Her ankles were swollen and she had been feverish. The doctor said she could not possibly travel. So they had delayed until the following summer. Even then it had not been an easy journey, heading for the Swiss border shepherding two young children and an ageing mother, trying to avoid attention.

Near Annecy, they had come upon a farmer out early to bring in his cows. Emil told him they were heading for Geneva. The farmer said they did not have far to go, perhaps fifty kilometres, but the border was heavily guarded. He offered them shelter in his barn and told Emil of a café in town where he could make contact with the Resistance, who might be able to guide them. He told Emil to ask for Jacques. If, in reply, he was told that Jacques had gone away to care for his sick mother, he should then say that he had heard that Madame Blanchard was making a good recovery and that he hoped Jacques would be back soon.

Every day for four days Emil had returned to the café, asking its patrons if they knew Jacques. All he had got were blank looks. It did not bode well. They would have to move soon, before somebody told the Germans about the persistent stranger asking for a man he did not seem to know.

When he got back to the barn, it was empty.

Trying to bring his pounding heart under control, Emil inched around to the farmhouse. There were two vehicles in the yard: a small military car of the type used by the Germans and a black Renault. Emil smelt the acrid tang of cigarette smoke. A German soldier was lounging against one of the farm buildings, blowing smoke rings to ease his boredom.

From inside the house Emil could hear his children crying. He had two
choices: to save himself, or to try and bluff his way out of the situation.

Ignoring the soldier, he strode into the house.

The ground floor consisted of a single room, with a large fireplace and cooking range along one wall and a table opposite; in the corner was an ancient dresser crammed with various items of crockery.

Although the room was large, it seemed crowded. In one corner was his mother, his wife and their two sons; in another, the farmer and his wife. Around the fire were four men: two in military uniform, one in civilian clothes and a French gendarme.

‘What the hell is going on?' Emil demanded.

The answer came from the man in civilian clothes. His French was adequate, though his accent was execrable. ‘Who are you, monsieur?'

‘My name is Emil Clément.' He looked anxiously at his wife. The brave face that Rosa had been wearing for the sake of the two boys fidgeting nervously with her skirt, crumpled. Her eyes pleaded silently for him to find a way to rescue them. His mother was beside herself, her lips trembling and her hands twisting and re-twisting her handkerchief. The sound of Emil's voice startled his children and they started to cry again. ‘And this is my family. I demand to know what is going on.'

The gendarme intervened. ‘Monsieur,' he said, almost apologetically, ‘this is Herr Hefelmann. I'm afraid you must go with him.'

‘Why? I have done nothing wrong.'

The gendarme shrugged. ‘Nonetheless, monsieur . . .'

‘I
demand
to know what is happening!'

Emil's outburst brought a smile to the face of the man in civilian clothes: a mocking, insincere smile. ‘I am Obersturmführer Hefelmann. Gestapo,' he added, with a touch of malice. ‘You, monsieur, are under arrest.'

‘On what charge?' Emil appealed to the gendarme. ‘I have a right to know.'

‘You have no rights,' the Gestapo man snapped. ‘You are a Jew.'

1962
Kerk de Krijtberg, Amsterdam

‘For nearly a week, off and on, we were interrogated by the Gestapo. Where had we come from? How had we travelled? Where had we stayed? Who had helped us? The same questions, over and over and over. First me, then my wife, then my mother. I think it hit my wife the hardest. She had never experienced anti-Semitism and simply could not comprehend what was happening. “Why?” she kept asking – over and over.' Emil looked up. ‘To this day, if she were to walk in and ask me that question, still I would not be able to answer her.'

‘We were conditioned,' Meissner said quietly. ‘Brainwashed, lied to and conditioned to obedience.'

‘But why were you conditioned? How did such a hatred of Jews arise?'

‘It was not only Jews. The Nazis hated Communists, homosexuals, Gypsies.'

‘You still have not answered my question.'

‘That is because I do not know the answer.'

Willi interrupted. ‘Were you tortured?'

Slowly Emil shook his head. ‘There was no need. They had my children. I told them everything I could.'

‘What were their names? Your sons, I mean.'

‘Louis and Marcel. Louis had his fifth birthday while we were in the prison in Annecy. Marcel was three.'

Emil lowered his head into his hands, unable to continue.

31.

T
HE
J
ANOWSKI
V
ARIATION

1962
Amsterdam

In the morning the three of them took a taxi to the Krasnapolsky.

Reaching the top of the hotel steps, Meissner pulled on Willi's sleeve. ‘Hang on,' he gasped. ‘I need a moment to get my breath.'

Willi eyed him warily. ‘Are you sure you're well enough to be out like this? The doctor said . . .'

Meissner's face creased – Willi could not tell if it was with pain or irritation. ‘If the doctor had his way, he would have me in an invalid's chair in a sanatorium somewhere. I'm fine, really, so please stop fussing.'

In the next round of the tournament Emil was drawn against an Englishman, David Abramson.

‘Is he a Jew?' Willi asked.

‘I have no idea,' Emil replied. ‘Does it matter?'

Willi shrugged. ‘I was wondering whether your Kabbalah would be effective against another Jew.'

The game was tough. The Englishman drew white and, in keeping with his nationality, played the English Opening, advancing his queen-side bishop's pawn two spaces.

‘Good. An orthodox first move,' Willi whispered in Meissner's ear.

Emil's response was not: he brought out his kingside knight's pawn.

Willi smiled. ‘I should have expected this by now,' he said. ‘Once again he knows his opponent will have a well-structured game plan, so he sets out to stymie it immediately with an unconventional move.'

Two hours later, the game was still in progress. The two spectators moved to the hotel lounge for coffee and sandwiches. ‘Don't the players get a break?' Meissner asked.

‘Of course, if they request it. But Emil would not dream of joining us – he will want to maintain his concentration.'

The game continued almost to the time limits imposed by the competition and ended in a draw. The players parted amicably and would play again the next morning.

‘How many more rounds are there to play?' Paul asked Emil, as the three of them waited on the hotel steps for a taxi.

‘If I beat Abramson? Only two.'

‘So this is a quarter-final?'

‘I suppose it is, yes.'

‘I hadn't realized.'

‘Me neither.'

Back at the Krijtberg, Mrs Brinckvoort had left a stew for them to warm through for supper. Hungry after missing lunch, Emil wolfed his meal. After doing the washing up, he excused himself.

‘Where are you off to?' Meissner asked.

‘It's obvious, isn't it?' Willi called from the pantry, where he was drying the dishes. ‘He's going to cast his tiles.'

‘Are you?' Meissner asked. He continued in a mildly amused tone: ‘You know the Church has a strict injunction against fortune-telling and the like?'

‘It's not really a question of simply casting the tiles,' Emil tried to explain. ‘It's not like a witchdoctor throwing bones or a fortune-teller reading tea leaves. It involves meditating on the will of God. I have to be open to the Divine will. If I'm not, then no amount of casting of tiles will help.'

‘I think I understand,' Meissner replied. ‘And I would really like to see how it's done sometime.'

‘More to the point,' Willi said, ‘how did you do it before your match with Brossman? And how did the game end? I've been waiting all day to hear.'

‘It's getting late, Willi,' Meissner said. ‘It's a long story and Emil has an important game tomorrow. Perhaps that should wait until after Emil has won this round.' He glanced slyly at Emil. ‘But I should still like to see how you do it.'

Emil brought the tiles down from his room and placed them face down on the kitchen table. He arranged them vertically in a column of three, then a column of four then another column of three. ‘This is the shape of the Sephiroth,' he said. ‘Put simply, each of the ten placements represents a different manifestation of the infinite will. But the different manifestations do not signify that God's will might change or has changed; rather, it is our ability to perceive the Divine will that changes. The highest point corresponds to the infinite creative will. The others are aligned with wisdom, understanding, knowledge, compassion, judgement, beauty, eternity, submission and accomplishment. After I have meditated, I decide which of the tiles I should turn.'

‘Which one will you choose tonight?' Willi asked.

‘None of them.' He turned to Paul. ‘I would like you to choose.'

Paul had not expected this. ‘Are you sure? What if . . .'

‘I'm sure, Paul.'

Meissner stood over the table, pondering his decision. ‘Which one signifies compassion?'

Emil pointed to the third tile in the central column. ‘That is called Tif'eret,' he said. ‘It balances the two positions above – Gevurah, signifying severity and Hesed, which is unconditional kindness.'

Meissner turned the tile. ‘What letter is that?'

‘Beth.'

‘What does it mean?'

‘It belongs to the order of angels called the Ophanim. In its most literal sense, it denotes the selflessness of wisdom. What it means tonight, I have no idea.'

August 1944
Konzentrationslager Auschwitz-I

Brossman was unable to maintain his early advantage. Once the opening flurry of moves was over, the Watchmaker found a way to strike deep into his opponent's territory. At checkmate, Brossman stared at the board for several minutes, trying to work out where he had gone wrong.

At a gesture from Meissner, he and Brossman left the room. Eidenmüller followed with the Watchmaker. Not a word was spoken.

Oberscharführer Klaus Hustek stayed behind, musing over what he had witnessed. He did not share Meissner's opinion of Brossman's ability as a chess player, but there was no doubt the Jew was good. Well, he would have to do something about that. Hustek prided himself on being methodical. He did not prejudge the wretches who were brought to him for interrogation – that was merely a charade to put them off balance. Even so, in his estimation Meissner had been taken in by the Jew and
would do his utmost to protect him. He would have to find a way to neutralize the Hauptsturmführer.

The next morning Hustek asked to speak to the Kommandant. He sensed that Bär was extremely uneasy about the chess games with the Watchmaker and adjusted his own attitude accordingly, making it almost the complete reverse of what it had been at the final of the SS championship: he was respectful and deferential.

‘Don't get me wrong, sir,' he said. ‘It's not that I don't want to play the Jew – I do. I want to put him in his place, good and proper. It's just that I want to prepare thoroughly and, what with all the rumours flying around after the attempt on the Führer's life, I need to be able to devote myself to hunting out any conspirators who may be hiding here. So what I suggest is that the game against the Jew is delayed for a month, or perhaps longer.'

Bär agreed. ‘Do you have a date in mind?'

‘Yes, sir. October the thirteenth. And I would like the game to be played at the Solahütte, with your permission, of course.'

When the news was relayed to him, Meissner was baffled. ‘Delayed until October?' He checked the calendar. ‘Friday the thirteenth? What's he playing at?'

Eidenmüller had noticed the change that had come about in his commanding officer since his return from leave: he was pensive and kept to himself much more. Eidenmüller had tried in his clumsy way to discover what was troubling his boss, but had been rebuffed.

About a week after the game between the Watchmaker and Brossman, Eidenmüller was in the SS barracks in Monowitz looking for Unterscharführer Hoven, one of the few SS men who had bet on the
Watchmaker to win. Eidenmüller owed him money and he never welched on his bets.

Hoven was a hopeless gossip who was in charge of prisoner records for the Monowitz camp. As he watched his winnings being counted out, he could not suppress the urge to pass on his latest titbit: ‘Bet you don't know who's been taking an interest in your Watchmaker,' he said, with a knowing smirk.

Eidenmüller looked up sharply. ‘He's not my Watchmaker.'

‘But you've made a packet out of him, haven't you?'

‘Business, purely business. Anyway, who is it that's taking an interest in him?'

‘That Gestapo creep, Hustek.'

‘Hustek?' Eidenmüller said, raising an eyebrow. ‘That's not so surprising. He's next in line to play the Watchmaker.'

‘I'd say the bastard's been doing more than taking an interest, if you get my meaning.' Hoven tapped a bony finger against his nose.

‘Bastard—?' Eidenmüller asked, curious.

‘You've never been interrogated by the Gestapo, have you?' When Eidenmüller shook his head, Hoven continued: ‘I have – by Hustek. Calling him a bastard is too good for him in my book. It was because of him I got demoted and sent here. I had a cushy little number, with benefits, you might say, before he shoved his nose in.' He curled his lip in disgust. ‘Fucking Gestapo. They're all of them bastards, if you ask me.'

Minutes later, a frantic Eidenmüller was outside Meissner's office. But he couldn't go in – the Kommandant had arrived before him, and Eidenmüller could easily guess what he was saying. He could not have been more wrong.

‘The planes,' Bär was saying, ‘are American, apparently from bases in
Italy. Now that we're within their range, we can expect more than reconnaissance flights in future. What arrangements are in place for air-raid protection?'

Meissner stumped across to a filing cabinet and extracted a thick file. ‘The shelters for all the camps are listed and designated on maps in here, sir,' he said, passing it across. ‘We have given priority to the Buna
Werke
, with concrete blast walls and underground shelters sufficient for the civilian and SS personnel.'

‘But not the prisoners?'

‘No, sir. In accordance with policy, they are considered expendable. With more shipments arriving daily, it is a simple matter to replace any casualties.'

‘Good. And what about your Watchmaker?'

‘
My
Watchmaker, sir?' Meissner watched the Kommandant's face carefully for what it might reveal, but his expression was stony. ‘Naturally, there is no special provision for him. In the event of an air raid he will have to take his chances, same as all the other prisoners.'

‘Good.' The Kommandant stood and put on his cap. When he reached the door he said, ‘It would be ironic, would it not, if the Watchmaker became a casualty of what he might consider “friendly” fire?'

As soon as the Kommandant had left, Eidenmüller entered. Meissner was peering at a large map of the Buna complex pinned to one of the walls. He barely looked up.

‘Sir. Something important you should know.'

‘It'll have to wait. I have to make an inspection of the air-raid-protection installations in Buna. If it's urgent, get Untersturmführer Schneider to deal with it.'

‘I can't, sir. It's about the Watchmaker.'

*

Hustek had wasted no time getting on with his plan, and he was pleased with the progress he had made. What he had told the Kommandant about the need to hunt for anti-Hitler renegades within the camp was nonsense, of course – if they had been included in the conspirators' calculations at all, the camps were no more than an embarrassment to them. What Hustek wanted was time to find ways to put pressure on the Watchmaker. And he thought he had found the perfect way.

Employing the simplest of police investigative procedures, he went to the archive of prisoner records. All slave-labourers in the camp were registered; when they died, that was also recorded and cross
-
referenced to the original entry. It would be easy for Hustek to discover the Watchmaker's real name, the date he had entered the camp and where he had come from. Then all he had to do was to look for another prisoner with the same surname who had arrived on the same transport. They were almost certain to be related.

Unterscharführer Hoven had good reason to be wary of Hustek. A year earlier, he had been among those assigned to work in Kanada, where he had fallen under suspicion of misappropriating items of jewellery. He had been interrogated by Hustek. While it was out of the question that violence would be used against a fellow SS officer, still, the Gestapo man had frightened him. Hoven had indeed been purloining choice items for months, but he kept his mouth shut, and in the end nothing was proven. On Hustek's recommendation, however, he had been demoted and transferred away from the source of temptation. Since then, he had nursed a grudge against the Gestapo in general and Hustek in particular, though he had been able to do nothing about it – yet.

When Hustek walked through his door, Hoven was so startled that it
had registered immediately in Hustek's finely tuned index of suspicion. Did Hoven have something to hide – again? It was possible – probable, even. Hustek made a mental note to follow it up.

‘I'm looking for information about the Watchmaker,' Hustek said.

‘The Watchmaker?'

‘Don't pretend you don't know who I'm talking about.'

‘No. Of course not.' Hoven licked his lips. ‘Everyone in Monowitz knows the Watchmaker. What did you want to know?'

‘Just get me his record and then forget I was ever here.'

‘What are you going on about?' Meissner demanded irritably.

‘It's Hustek, sir. Unterscharführer Hoven in the records section told me. Hustek has been nosing around for information about the Watchmaker.'

‘I don't see what's so shocking about that. Hustek's Gestapo. It's exactly what I'd expect him to do.'

‘Yes, sir. I mean, it's more than that. Hustek wanted to know what his name was, where he came from, what transport he arrived on – everything. It's not the Watchmaker he's interested in, it's who came to the camp with him.'