The Death's Head Chess Club (35 page)

Brack glowered at Hustek, but said nothing. His brain was working feverishly: there was a slim chance he might survive, providing Hustek fired at the Jew first. Then, in the corridor outside, a floorboard creaked.

*

Eidenmüller hadn't wanted to spend the night in the SS barracks – it had been bad enough the night before, with most of his fellow NCOs drunk and whining repeatedly about having to escort prisoners in this weather; so he had brought a cot up to his old office.

He had been awoken by the sound of someone laughing. There was a light on in the Hauptsturmführer's office. Quietly, he had eased himself up and crept to the door.

In the flickering light, Eidenmüller could see the Watchmaker in the far corner. Holding the Soviet handgun tightly, he took a step forward.

Hustek spun round, peering into the darkness.

‘Put the gun down, Hustek,' Eidenmüller said.

Hustek recovered quickly. He swung his gun to point it at the Watchmaker. ‘You won't shoot me,' he said. ‘Not for the sake of a stinking Yid.'

‘I wouldn't be so sure.' Eidenmüller's face glistened in the lamplight. ‘I've sort of taken to him. He's not a bad sort – for a Jew. On the other hand, nobody likes you Gestapo scum – not even your own mothers.'

Hustek did not waver. He kept the pistol aimed at the Watchmaker. ‘Don't be so fucking stupid. You might win – for now. But in the morning, I'll be back with a squad of my men and I'll have him, whether you like it or not. It'll be a lot easier for you if you walk away now. I'll forget you were even here.'

Eidenmüller shook his head. ‘You are a cocky bastard, aren't you? I knew that's what you would say, and I knew what I would have to do as soon as I saw it was you.'

Hustek's mind was raging. Why hadn't he checked the other rooms? The chances were the SS arse-wipe couldn't hit the side of a barn from five metres, but it was a sure thing that Brack and the Yid would be on him before he could say
Heil
fucking
Hitler.

‘You can shoot me,' he said, trying to keep his voice even. ‘But as soon as I sense your finger squeezing that trigger I'll kill your precious Yid. No matter what you do, he'll be dead, so let's be sensible, eh?'

Hustek sensed a flicker of movement. With a snarl of rage, he pulled the trigger.

Within a fraction of a second, three shots were fired and two men fell to the floor. One was Hustek: Eidenmüller's bullet had taken him cleanly in the head. The other was Brack.

Brack had had a pistol of his own, nestled in the waistband of his trousers: it was the Luger he had taken from the Gestapo man that he and his cronies had murdered. He had known that Hustek intended to kill him, but he was no Jew to go to his death meekly.

Watching the exchange between Hustek and Eidenmüller, he detected a momentary hesitation as the Gestapo man's gaze wavered and pulled out his pistol. Seeing the danger, Hustek switched his aim. They fired at each other almost simultaneously. Brack missed his shot, but took a bullet in the stomach.

Emil felt a sudden pressure on his hand. ‘Eidenmüller,' Paul murmured, struggling to rouse himself. ‘What happened to Eidenmüller?'

‘As far as I know, Eidenmüller is alive and living somewhere under the name of Leon Nadelmann.' He caught Willi's dubious glance, but continued. ‘Brack wasn't dead, but he was in pain and bleeding heavily. We stripped off Hustek's shirt and used it to try and staunch the flow of blood. Then, between us, we carried him back to the infirmary.

‘He died about an hour later. There was nobody to mourn him and, as was usual, his body was dumped outside to be sent for cremation. By morning it would have been frozen solid. Eidenmüller saw his
chance – “One out, one in,” he said. Several prisoners died that night. He assumed the identity of one of them.

‘The next day the camp was evacuated. The prisoners were lined up in the snow and marched off. I never saw any of them again. A week or so later, the Russians arrived.'

The Watchmaker's story had reached its end. A ragged breath passed Meissner's lips. ‘Thank you,' he whispered, so quietly Emil could barely hear him. ‘The last time we parted I neglected to say goodbye. Not this time. Go with God, Watchmaker.'

The artillery battery – three self-propelled Wespe light howitzers commanded by a young SS-Obersturmführer – had taken position behind the Russian village to shell Soviet positions about three kilometres distant. The officer had sited the guns behind a low ridge, which was why nobody saw the approach of a squadron of Russian T-34 tanks as they advanced through the village. If not for a gust of wind that had carried the sound of their engines, the surprise would have been complete.

In an instant, the officer's remarkably blue eyes took in everything. Calmly he ordered a retreat and mounted the rear-most vehicle. ‘Call HQ,' he shouted to the radio operator. ‘Tell them we need a Stuka strike or we're done for.'

The first tank came over the ridge. With a loud
crump
, its gun fired. A mound of earth flew into the air beside the first Wespe. The Russian's tactics were sound: if the first Wespe was disabled, the others would have to slow down to get around it. A second tank appeared and fired at the retreating Wespes. Another miss. But the Obersturmführer knew their luck could not hold for long, the tanks were faster than they were. Then a third and a fourth tank appeared. They did not continue the chase but halted.

‘Fuck,' the Scharführer commanding the Wespe said. ‘They don't need to chase us. They'll pick us off before we reach the next ridge.'

Two shots were fired almost in unison. One kicked up a shower of earth in front of the first Wespe; the other hit the second. The howitzers were only lightly armoured and the shell from the T-34 gouged a hole in its side and tore away the track below. Amid shrieks of pain from the crew, the Wespe ground to a halt.

‘Schratt,' the Obersturmführer yelled to his second in command, ‘get to gun number two! Help them get out. I'll take over here.' The officer squeezed into his place. ‘Driver,' he shouted, ‘turn this thing around. Aim us at the first tank.' He turned to the gunners. ‘Get the gun loaded and depress the barrel fully. As soon as you're done, we'll shoot over open sights.'

The driver locked the left track and turned the Wespe. The manoeuvre took the Russians by surprise. The Wespe fired at point blank range and blew the turret off the first Russian tank, detonating the ammunition within, creating a maelstrom of fire and smoke.

‘Next one,' the officer ordered. The driver peered through the smoke, trying to line up his vehicle with the next T-34.

‘Fire.' Another hit: not a killing hit, but the tank was immobilized.

Then – an explosion beside the T-34s that had halted. The first Wespe had followed their example and had also turned upon their attackers.

The officer whooped, the joy of battle upon him.

And then his world was torn apart. There was a thunderclap so loud it made his ears ring and the Wespe was tossed up from the ground as if by a giant's hand. He was thrown clear – when he looked up, he saw the Wespe was on its side and burning.
Christ
, he thought. He had better move before the flames reached the ammunition.

He tried to stand but where his left foot should have been, all that remained was a bloody stump; oddly, he felt no pain. Around him the battle raged: two Tigers had crested the hill and had started firing on the T-34s. He was in the centre of a whirlwind of white-hot metal, but seemed immune. Everything appeared to be moving in slow motion.

Then he saw Schratt walking towards him. The Scharführer was waving. When he got close he was smiling, his hand extended to help him up. Meissner took it; Schratt's grip was firm and cool. He pulled Meissner to his feet.

To Meissner's amazement, his foot was no longer injured.

‘Obersturmführer Meissner,' Schratt said, ‘I've been sent to get you.'

‘Get me?' Meissner said. ‘How is this happening? I thought you were dead.'

Schratt shook his head. ‘Old soldiers never die,' he said.

Meissner did not seem able to grasp the idea. ‘Never?'

‘No, sir. Never.'

1
Hitler Youth.

37.

T
HE
I
MMORTAL
G
AME
¹

1963
Konzentrationslager Auschwitz-II, Birkenau

It is early. Beyond a long line of concrete fence posts, rows of barrack blocks rise like dark, primeval creatures out of the morning mist. Crumbling chimney stacks stand stark against a pale sky, like the masts of stranded ships.

Emil rubs condensation off the car window to peer out. They are on a narrow road that runs beside the remains of a long fence. Every so often he can see the stumps of a watchtower sticking up out of the ground like broken teeth, black and rotten.

This is not the Auschwitz he remembers. He had thought the Monowitz camp was big, but this is
vast
.

The driver brings the car to a halt beside a red-brick tower that stands above an arch, through which a railway spur runs. He points to the building beside it. A man is waiting there, stamping his feet in the cold.

‘Dzieñ dobry
,' Emil says, trying to remember the little Polish he picked up in the camp. ‘
Nazywam się Emil Clément
.'

‘Good morning,' the man replies. ‘Fortunately, I speak German.'

The man is a professor from the University of Kraków, the supervisor of the preservation work that is being carried out. Birkenau is to become a museum. Monowitz is all but gone. The Buna factory is being run by the Polish government.

The professor is not at all happy that Emil and his companions have arrived to disturb his work. ‘Could we hurry, please?' he says. ‘All this is most irregular.'

Everything since Paul's death has been irregular. According to the Catholic authorities in the Netherlands, it was irregular for a German priest to be sent ‘home' to die in Amsterdam. Then there was the question of the will. Paul had had few possessions, apart from his beloved coffee set – which he left to Mrs Brinckvoort – and his journals, which he bequeathed to Emil.

His desire to be cremated caused consternation.

‘The Catholic Church does not hold with cremation,' Father Scholten explained, stiffly.

‘But it is what Paul wanted,' Emil insisted.

‘But he was a priest,' Scholten objected, in turn.

Willi intervened. ‘Exactly,' he said. ‘He understood what he was asking for. Surely the Church would not deny his dying wish?'

In the end, it was Paul's final request that caused the greatest problems.

Emil and Willi made enquiries through the Polish Consulate in Amsterdam. It was out of the question, they were told. As for visas, obtaining them was rarely straightforward, even less so with what they had in mind.

For several days Emil and Willi racked their brains for a solution. ‘What we need is a fixer,' Willi said, after a few drinks.

Emil slapped his hand to his forehead. ‘That's it, Willi! You've got it. And who did Paul say was the best fixer he ever knew?'

‘Eidenmüller.'

They found him in a bar in the small Dutch town of Simpelveld, only two kilometres from the German border, near Aachen.

The barman looked up from polishing a glass as two men walked in. ‘Good afternoon,' he said. ‘What can I get you gentlemen?'

Emil recognized him at once. He extended a hand. ‘Eidenmüller,' he said, quietly, in German. ‘It's been a long time.'

A shadow crossed the barman's face. ‘I think you must be mistaken,' he said quickly. ‘My name is Nadelmann. I've never heard of this . . . what was his name?'

‘Eidenmüller,' Willi said, then, more loudly: ‘We're friends of Hauptsturmführer Paul Meissner.'

A look of alarm crossed the barman's face. ‘Keep your voice down,' he hissed. ‘Who are you?'

‘Do you really not recognize me?' Emil asked.

The barman shook his head. ‘Should I?'

‘Yes. I'm the Watchmaker.'

The barman stopped his polishing. ‘My God,' he said. ‘Why have you come?'

‘We're trying to carry out the dying wish of an old friend, and we're hoping you will be able to help us.'

Eidenmüller seemed confused. ‘Old friend? Who?'

‘Paul Meissner. He died a few weeks ago.'

The news took Eidenmüller by surprise. ‘Really? Paul Meissner? He was in the Das Reich Division, you know. Hard bastards they were – not
many of them left after the Russians finished with them. But my old Hauptsturmführer made it. Well, I'll be . . .' He nodded to himself. ‘Still, I'm sorry to hear he's dead. He was a good sort – for an officer.' He looked up. ‘But hang on. You said he was an old friend. I wouldn't have thought . . .'

‘Nor me,' Emil said. ‘But he helped me find something precious that I thought was lost for ever.'

‘Oh? What was that, then?'

‘Myself.'

Fortunately the bar was empty. Eidenmüller flipped the sign on the door to
Closed
. ‘What exactly is it you think I can do?' he asked.

‘We're not exactly sure,' Willi replied. ‘But Paul said you were the best fixer in the SS.'

Eidenmüller smiled self-consciously. ‘Please don't let anyone hear you saying that,' he said. ‘I've tried to put those days behind me.'

The solution to their problem, Eidenmüller decided, was twofold: first, they needed a story that was plausible and would stand up to cursory scrutiny; second, they needed money.

‘Money? Why do we need money?'

‘Communism,' Eidenmüller replied. ‘It seems wrong, I know, but what Communists want more than anything is money. I bet there aren't many real Communists in Poland, but you can be damned sure there's an awful lot of poor people. We used to say a Pole is always good for a bribe. I bet that hasn't changed since the war – worse, if anything, I would have thought. But we might need to bribe a lot of people, so we'll probably need a lot of money.'

‘We're finished then,' Willi said. ‘I wouldn't say I was badly off, but I don't have much to spare.'

‘That makes two of us,' Emil said.

‘Three,' Eidenmüller added. ‘All I've got is this place. And there's not only me to think of.'

‘You're married?' Emil asked. Eidenmüller nodded. ‘Does she know, about, you know . . .?'

‘Yes. I told her everything.'

‘Children?'

‘Yes. Two boys.'

‘What did you call them?'

‘Paul . . . and Freddy. That was the Hauptsturmführer's second name.'

‘I didn't know.'

‘I once had a peek at his service record. He was a brave man.'

‘Yes, he was,' Willi said. ‘Right to the end. So,' he continued, ‘we need money, but we don't have any. Short of robbing a bank, where are we going to get it?'

‘I think I might know where,' Emil said.

The house seemed out of place. The street – Oudedijk – was pleasant enough, with trees along its length and broad pavements, but in the midst of ranks of modern apartment blocks, the large, detached, nineteenth-century villa seemed to have been planted on an anarchic whim. However, the name on the brass plate below the bell was the one that Emil remembered:
Kastein
.

‘May I speak to Mijnheer Kastein?' he asked, when a maid in an old-fashioned black uniform with white collar and cuffs answered the door.

‘Who shall I say is calling?'

‘Tell him . . . Tell him it's the Watchmaker.'

Kastein was as good as his word of nearly twenty years ago: he almost hurtled through the door to drag Emil inside, shaking his hand and refusing to let go.

Coffee was served in a sumptuous lounge. ‘I'm sorry I lost contact with you, Watchmaker,' he said. ‘But now that you're here, we must make sure not to let it happen again.'

‘If you had followed the world of chess you would have found me easily enough.'

‘I never knew there was a world of chess to follow. All I knew was our little chess club in Auschwitz. You, me, Brack, and that SS officer and his flunky.'

‘It may seem a little strange, but that's why I'm here.'

Kastein was a godsend. Not only did his money smooth their path, he had contacts. Within days, four visas had been arranged.

‘Four?' said Emil, surprised.

‘I'm going with you.'

Kastein offered to charter a private plane for them, but on this point Emil was adamant. A plane was not right, he said. This was not merely a journey; it was a pilgrimage. They would go by train.

And now they are standing at the gates of Birkenau.

‘Which of you has the money?' the professor asks. This is why they have come so early – so there are no witnesses. Kastein is to make a substantial donation to fund the restoration work: US$10,000. If it goes through official channels it will disappear; corruption is as endemic among the Communists as typhus was in the camp. The professor promises it will be spent wisely.

Now he leads them along the side of the railway track to the ruins of the crematoria. Ground mist swirls like phantoms around their feet as they walk.

They enter a grove of birch trees. It is very quiet, almost silent; even the singing of birds is absent.

To their right is a jumble of shattered concrete and bricks – a building that has been demolished and abandoned.

‘It was blown up by the Germans. You see it exactly as they left it,' the professor explains. ‘There are some who say it should be restored so that people can see what went on inside. There are others, including me, who think it should be left as it is as a monument to those who died.'

For Emil, the answer is obvious. ‘It should be left as it is. Everyone knows what went on inside.'

‘I'll leave you to do what you came for,' the professor says. ‘I'll see you back at the gate. But don't take too long.'

Don't take too long . . .
The professor's words seem misplaced. He doesn't understand that time has no meaning for the inmates of Auschwitz, living or dead.

Emil walks apart from the others, to the edge of the trees, wondering at the unearthly quiet. The silence is oppressive, not peaceful. If he listens very hard, will he be able to hear the screams of the ghosts who inhabit this place? Will he hear the last utterances of his mother and his children? He tries to listen to the voices that mill about him in the silence. But they are all talking at once, and he cannot hear what any of them is saying.

And, now he is here, a new uncertainty pushes itself forward – an unwelcome addition to the many he has nurtured since leaving Auschwitz. This grotto is a sacred place. It is home to the thousands who perished
here. What right does he have to add to their numbers one who was among their oppressors?

He had wondered what it would be like to return, but now he is here, he is not sure what he feels. He is back, but he is not back. Nothing about this place is familiar.

This is a different Auschwitz, and the memories that permeate this place are not his.

All that is left is his conviction that he must honour Meissner's last request. From his rucksack he takes a metal canister. Hands trembling, he pulls at the lid and some fine, light-coloured powder spills onto the ground.

For long moments, Emil holds the canister as if not knowing what he should do with it. Then he walks into the birch grove, scattering the ashes as he goes. He does it hurriedly, far more quickly than he had intended, as if fearing he might change his mind before he has finished. When the canister is empty he stands there, following with his eyes the patterns the ashes have made upon the ground. They will not be there for long: a strong breeze or a shower of rain and they will be gone.

There will be no memorial stone for Paul Meissner. The only trace that his ashes have been laid here will be in the memories of four men. Emil feels a pang of guilt: he should have scattered the ashes slowly; it would have been more respectful, but it is too late now. The others – Willi, Eidenmüller and Kastein – are silent witnesses. Nothing is said until Emil rejoins them.

‘I suppose one of us should say something,' Willi suggests.

Eidenmüller cannot. Tears are streaming from his eyes.

‘We should say Kaddish,' Emil says.

But this is too much for Kastein. ‘I made a promise to you, Watchmaker,
and I have kept my word, but this—' He walks apart to stand next to the ruins of the crematorium. When he speaks again his voice seems to shout into the silence. ‘Not for him. I cannot say Kaddish for
him
.'

‘Not only for him,' Emil says, mildly. ‘For all of them.'

It is a great deal to ask. Kastein's memories are not Emil's memories. He has no knowledge of the journey Meissner has made. He has only his own recollections – of death, of loss, of privation and suffering, injustice and hatred, and, for him, it is among these that the memory of Meissner belongs.

Reluctantly, he turns away from the ruins, and rejoins the others.

‘Thank you,' Emil murmurs. From his bag he takes a book. Reading from it, in a sonorous voice he starts to chant in Hebrew. The others bow their heads. It does not take long.

‘What does it mean?' Eidenmüller asks, when it is over.

‘It is the prayer for the dead. It's not easy to translate exactly, but it's something like: “
May the name of God be lifted up and praised by all creation according to His will. May His reign be established and may His saving grace be made manifest and His anointed one be found among you during the days of your life and during the days of the house of Israel, quickly and without delay. Amen and Amen
.”'

‘What I don't understand,' Kastein says, struggling to keep his voice even, ‘is why an SS officer would want to have his ashes scattered here. I would have thought it would be the last thing he'd want.'

‘Meissner was a changed man,' Emil says. ‘He said that he could think of no more fitting place on earth. He said he would spend eternity asking for forgiveness.'