The Death's Head Chess Club (27 page)

Realization dawned. ‘His wife.'

‘Exactly, sir. And I wouldn't give much for her chances if Hustek finds her.'

‘No,' Meissner reasoned, ‘that's not what he's up to. If he finds her, he'll use her to make the Watchmaker throw the game.' Angrily, the officer slammed his hand against the wall. ‘So obvious! Why didn't I think of that?' He gave his orderly an appraising look. ‘And what about your friend, Hoven – did he give Hustek the information he wanted?'

Eidenmüller had never seen his boss so agitated. ‘No, sir. Not yet. He
said it would take a few hours to retrieve it from the archive. Hustek said he would go back tomorrow.'

‘Do you know where she is?'

‘That's where we might be able to pull a flanker, sir. Hustek didn't ask Hoven anything about the wife – must have his own way of finding out where she is. But Hoven has the records of all the prisoners assigned to the satellite camps – which come under your jurisdiction, sir.'

‘And?'

‘We found her. She's in the munitions factory at Rajsko. If we move quickly, we can get to her before Hustek.'

Rosa Clément is not in the munitions factory. She is in the
Krankenbau
in the women's camp in Birkenau. She has the
durchfall
– starvation-induced diarrhoea – and she is not fit for work. She will have rest and extra rations for two weeks in the hope that she will become fit for work again; if not, she will be selected for the gas chamber. Her fate is uncertain at best. Even if the
durchfall
resolves, the killing factories might be short of their daily quota and she will be selected anyway.

Rosa does not want to die, but she no longer fears it. She has seen too much death in the camp to be afraid any longer. Her overwhelming feeling is not of fear, but of weariness. When she first arrived she was employed in the
Krankenbau
, but after a few months somebody decided there were too many nurses and not enough munitions workers, so now she is assigned to a
Kommando
that is taken every day to a poorly ventilated factory where she and perhaps a thousand other women make shells for the artillery. It is summer and the heat inside is stifling. The air is dry and thick with dust from the gun-cotton, which gives all the women hacking coughs. Rosa is better off than many. Handling gun-cotton is not
her job. She inserts fuses into the ends of the shells. At first, whenever she twisted a fuse into its mounting she would say a prayer that it would fail to go off. It was as far as she was able to take any attempts at sabotage. Now she is indifferent: her actions are purely mechanical; she saves her prayers for herself.

In the K-B Rosa knows she has a much better chance of recovering if she is able to wash her hands after she uses the slop bucket, but although the doctors and nurses have asked repeatedly for a supply of water, there is none for washing. If she wants that, she must struggle all the way to the latrine. Even then it is not certain there will be any water. It is easier for the camp authorities to assign new arrivals to work than it is to connect a supply of clean water.

There is a commotion at the entrance to the K-B. An SS officer has arrived and is demanding a roll call. Everybody – doctors, nurses and patients – must show their tattoo with their camp registration number. It takes time to check off every prisoner.

When Rosa holds out her arm to reveal her number, the SS man smiles triumphantly.

‘You,' he says, ‘will come with me.'

32.

T
HE
P
HILIDOR
P
OSITION

1962
Kerk de Krijtberg, Amsterdam

During the night Meissner's condition deteriorated. He endured a fever without complaining, but as soon as Mrs Brinckvoort saw him the next morning she summoned the doctor.

‘How is he?' Willi asked the doctor when he came downstairs.

‘Not good. It's like I said – he will have good days and bad days, but gradually he will have more bad days than good days until all he has left to him are bad days. All I can do is to make him as comfortable as possible. His main problem at the moment is pain in his bones and also in his abdomen, where his spleen has swollen. You will need to change his sheets – they are wet with perspiration. I will leave something for the pain, but it is only a matter of time before we have to take him into hospital.'

‘Can we see him?' Emil asked.

‘You can go up, but only for a few minutes. He's very tired.' He looked at the housekeeper. ‘Mrs Brinckvoort, I expect you to make sure that the bishop follows instructions this time. If he insists on going out in his condition, I cannot answer for the consequences.'

They went up, but Meissner was sleeping. Back in the kitchen Emil pulled on his coat, for the walk to the Krasnapolsky.

‘I'll come with you,' Willi said.

‘No. It's all right. I'm not intending to play. I'm going to ask for a postponement.'

‘What if they won't agree to it?'

‘I don't know. I haven't decided.'

Willi reached into the closet for his own coat. ‘Then I'm definitely coming with you.'

By the afternoon, Meissner was sitting up in bed drinking sweet milky tea and gently scolding Mrs Brinckvoort for fussing over him. It was well into the evening before Emil and Willi returned.

Standing beside the bed Emil seemed subdued, but Willi was jubilant.

‘I take it,' Meissner said between coughs, ‘that you beat the Englishman?'

‘Beat him?' Willi smiled broadly. ‘Paul, you should have seen it. The Englishman is good – very good, as you saw for yourself, but Emil? Pah. Let me tell you, I have never seen such nuanced play. The way he forced the Englishman to concede was magnificent. This is Emil's tournament, and, if he wants it, the world championship is his for the taking.'

Meissner turned to Emil. ‘A man who has done so well should look more pleased with himself, no?'

‘I am pleased, of course I am. But somehow it seems less important to me now.'

Mrs Brinckvoort put her head around the door. ‘There's a fish pie and potatoes in the oven, if you haven't eaten,' she said.

‘Thank you,' Willi replied. ‘We haven't. We came straight here.'

‘I'll come down,' Meissner said, hopefully.

One look from Mrs Brinckvoort was enough to tell them she would not permit it.

‘The doctor said you must rest,' Emil said.

‘The doctor is a lunatic. He knows I don't have much time left but instead of letting me make the most of it, he wants me to sleep or dribble the rest of my days away. Well, I won't have it.'

‘I can bring food up on a tray,' the housekeeper offered.

‘Good. And please, stop acting as if you have to protect me from knowing the worst. I know it already. I've known it for months. The only question is when. I've received absolution, and I'm ready to meet my maker so let's stop pretending, and talk about what's important.'

‘Which is?' Emil asked.

Meissner looked him straight in the eye. ‘Your wife.'

August 1944
Konzentrationslager Auschwitz-I

Rosa Clément is in a solitary confinement cell in the prison block. She has been there for days with no idea of why she was taken there. Ordered to follow the SS man from the K-B, she was made to climb onto the back of an open-topped lorry and driven away from the stark chimneys and the death stench of Birkenau to another camp, where the blocks are tall and made of brick and the prisoners do not have quite the same look of starved hopelessness.

Nobody speaks to her. Three times a day her cell door opens and the normal rations given to the
Häftlinge
are pushed in: for breakfast, the bitter liquid that passes for coffee, coarse black bread and a smear of margarine; and noon and evening, a bowl of soup made from cabbage and potato peelings. In the morning she carries her slop bucket to a latrine and pours its contents in. At least she is not made to work. After a few days the
durchfall
stops, but she is no closer to knowing why she is there.

‘She's disappeared,' Eidenmüller said, mystified. ‘According to my pal,
Connie Lammers, she was taken from the K-B in the women's camp by an unknown SS officer. It has to be Hustek. But where she is now, he has no idea.'

‘She's in the prison block in the
Stammlager
,' Meissner said, ‘She has to be.'

‘You can't just take someone and put them in there, sir,' Eidenmüller objected. ‘There are procedures that have to be followed – grounds for detention, records that have to be completed. Even Hustek couldn't get away without sticking to at least some of the rules.'

‘You want to bet? The Watchmaker is a Jew. That means his wife is, too. They have no rights. So what if Hustek has broken the rules? Who's going to discipline him over it? Bär? I think not. But that gives us an advantage. Hustek thinks he's safe. He has no idea that we know what he's done, and in war, as he's about to find out, intelligence is the key to victory. We'll have her out of there in no time.'

‘We?'

Meissner was smiling. The adrenaline of battle was already coursing through his veins. ‘Yes, Ernst,
we
.' Eidenmüller looked at him askance; the Hauptsturmführer had never called him by his first name before. ‘Look,' Meissner continued, ‘we have to face facts. The war is lost. Anyone with half a brain knows it. And what do you think the Allies will do when they discover what we've done at Auschwitz? Pin a medal on us? We all of us need to think about what's going to happen to us after the war. We are going to need friends. Friends who will be prepared to testify that we weren't the ones herding helpless Jews into the gas chambers. Friends who will testify that, on the contrary, we tried to help them. If we rescue his wife from Hustek's clutches, don't you think the Watchmaker might be grateful?'

Eidenmüller shook his head. ‘But Hustek? He's Gestapo. It doesn't do to cross those bastards. What if we get caught?'

‘I'll take full responsibility. You were only following orders. But it won't come to that. Brossman despises Hustek too, and he's promised to help. Between us we can do it. Trust me.'

Night watch in the prison block is easy duty. A Scharführer is in overall command, plus two troopers on each floor, making a total of seven. Nothing ever happens at night. Apart from whimpers and occasional howls, there is not a sound to disturb the balmy August air. The SS men take it in turns to sleep – strictly against standing orders – but this is Auschwitz, and all its enemies are contained within its electrified fences. There is simply nothing to fear.

Hauptsturmführer Brossman's night inspection is a complete surprise. He arrives with a squad of ten troopers and angrily demands an explanation for why the Scharführer is asleep on duty, along with three of his men. Brushing aside the Scharführer's protestations, he insists on conducting an impromptu inspection.

The Scharführer protests. ‘I'll have to get permission first.'

Brossman feigns outrage. ‘Permission? From whom?'

The officer nominally in charge of the prison block is a Gestapo Obersturmführer, but everybody knows it is Oberscharführer Hustek who calls the shots.

‘Oberscharführer Hustek, sir.'

‘If I have anything to do with it,' Brossman growls, ‘you've just signed your request for a transfer to the Eastern front.'

Despite the subdued light, the Scharführer pales visibly. To hell with Hustek. ‘At y-your service, H-Herr Hauptsturmführer,' he stammers.
‘What can I do to assist you?'

Brossman actually smiles. ‘That's better. Now, it has come to my attention that a prisoner is missing from the women's camp. The Rapportführer concerned has been somewhat dilatory in bringing it to my notice and has been disciplined. According to him, the prisoner was brought here, but I cannot ignore the possibility that she has escaped. As I'm sure you're aware, the Kommandant takes a very dim view of escapes, and it's my responsibility to prevent them. So I want to see the paperwork for every prisoner detained here, while my men inspect the cells.'

‘I assure you, sir,' the Scharführer says solemnly, ‘at this moment, there are no women in the cells.'

‘I hope you're right, Scharführer, for your sake.'

It takes only minutes to go through the detention records. The Scharführer has spoken the truth. There is no record of any female prisoner.

‘Thank you, Scharführer,' Brossman says. ‘It looks like we've been sent on a fool's errand.' Then a shout comes up from the lower level.

‘There's a door down here, sir, but nobody seems to have the key.'

‘A door with no key?' Brossman looks at the Scharführer, who shrugs. ‘That doesn't seem right. Let's take a look, shall we?'

The door is solid wood and is set flush into a metal frame. There is a peephole near the top, and hinges and a lock made of what looks like cast iron.

‘Who's in there?' Brossman asks.

‘According to the records, nobody, sir.'

‘Then why is it locked? Unlock it at once.'

‘I don't have the key, sir.'

‘Who does?'

‘Oberscharführer Hustek.'

Brossman nods, as if the answer to an elusive mystery has been revealed.

At the end of the lane that leads to the prison block, Meissner and Eidenmüller are waiting in an SS staff car. Eidenmüller is on edge, but Meissner is feeling better than he has for months.

‘If we get caught, sir, we'll both be for the high jump, I know it,' Eidenmüller says, through clenched teeth.

‘Relax. What's the worst that can happen?'

‘We could be sent to the Eastern front.'

‘Don't worry about it. I've been there. It's better than here, I promise you. Someone with your talents would be a godsend. You would be in your element.'

Eidenmüller cannot believe what he is hearing. ‘In my element? Getting shot to fuck by the fucking Bolshies? Not on your life – sir.'

‘Get down,' Meissner hisses. The two men sink low in the car as one of Brossman's troopers jogs by.

‘Where's he going?' Eidenmüller whispers.

Meissner does not answer. Moments later, the trooper runs back carrying a sledgehammer.

Inside her cell, Rosa Clément is listening to the commotion in the corridor with mounting apprehension. Suddenly somebody hammers on her cell door. ‘Who's in there?' a voice yells. ‘Answer me.'

Rosa does not know how to reply. She is not sure who she is any more. The light goes on. She blinks, trying to adjust to the brightness. Then she sees an eye at the peephole.

‘Take a look for yourself,' Brossman says to the Scharführer, who is beginning to realize how much trouble Hustek has landed him in.
‘According to your records, there is nobody in the cell, but quite clearly there's a woman in there. Even the Gestapo cannot imprison people without due process. I can only conclude that Oberscharführer Hustek has abused his authority with regard to this prisoner for his own personal reasons.'

‘There'll be hell to pay over this.'

‘How right you are,' Brossman agrees. He turns his attention to the door again. ‘You, in there – what is your name?'

They can barely hear the reply. ‘Rosa Clément.'

‘How long have you been in there?'

‘I'm not sure. A week, perhaps longer.'

It takes the trooper only a few minutes to return with a sledgehammer. The lock is smashed off and the door opened. The woman seems confused that her rescuers are SS men. ‘Be silent,' Brossman orders. ‘Follow me.'

He leads her to the waiting car. ‘You took your time,' Meissner says.

‘A slight problem with the door.'

‘How long will it take to get to Mauthausen?'

‘Ten or eleven hours, I would guess. But take your time.' Brossman looks back towards the prison block. ‘I'll keep these beauties out of harm's way until you return.'

They headed south and east, towards Austria. In the back of the car, Rosa struggled to understand what was happening. Everything seemed unreal, as if she were in a dream. Her senses were heightened: voices too loud, lights bright, colours vivid. The glass of the window against which she rested her face seemed strangely cool and yielding. She tried to focus on the blur of shadows that streamed past but everything was moving too
quickly. Until a week ago, her life in the camp had been brutal but mostly predictable; then the SS had put her in a cell and now other SS men had taken her out. It made no sense. Questions raced through her mind: was she to be freed? Or, more likely, was she simply a puppet in some game the Germans were playing? She wondered where she would be by morning, whether she would still be alive.

It was some time before she asked, ‘Where are you taking me?'

The SS man in the passenger seat did not turn around when he answered: ‘We are going to the K-Z at Mauthausen, in Austria. It's a work camp. You will be safer there.'

‘Safer? How?'

‘There are no gas chambers in Mauthausen.'

‘Why are you doing this?'

‘I can't tell you. It is better that you do not know.'

The answer made Rosa feel a little calmer. Wherever she was going, it could not conceivably be worse than the horror that was Birkenau.

The SS man offered her coffee from a thermos and a hunk of bread. This small act astonished her; tears rose to her eyes. Saying nothing, she blinked them back and reached hungrily for the bread.