The Death's Head Chess Club

by John Donoghue

  ‘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.’

  ‘But still hardly fair.’

  ‘No, I suppose not.’

  ‘Some people might say you were deluded.’

  ‘Yes. And they might be right.’

  ‘How does it work then, this Kabbalah?’

  Emil took a moment to gather his thoughts. ‘The night before an important game, I cast the alphabet tiles with the letters facing down and arrange them in a pattern. I pick the one that feels right. The letter that is revealed represents the order of angels I should call on.’

  Willi’s eyes narrowed. ‘What letter was I?’

  ‘The fifth letter, He.’

  ‘And what did that mean to you?’

  ‘“He” signifies the sword of the Almighty and the strength which flows from the limitless power of God. To me it meant I could be confident of victory.’

  ‘But how did it influence the way you played?’

  ‘I sensed it meant I should appear to play cautiously. I already knew of your reputation for aggressive play and thought that if I held back, you would think me timid and press all the harder and not see the trap I set for you. And it worked, did it not?’

  Willi grinned, shaking his head. ‘That’s too subtle for me.’ He drained his glass. ‘Another beer?’

  25.

  THE COLLE SYSTEM

  June 1944

  Konzentrationslager Auschwitz-III, Monowitz

  Bodo Brack had a conundrum. Its name was Widmann.

  Brack had little liking for the Blockschreiber, but he was useful. Widmann knew people, influential people on the outside. He had been convicted of attempted murder, but before that he had made his living as a pimp, and it had been a good living. He had not been one to hang around street corners stumping up business for cheap whores; his girls were high class and catered to a rather exclusive clientele: senior military officers and civil servants. All had gone well until a low-ranking Gestapo type had decided Widmann was doing a little too well, and that he should share his good fortune with others. Thinking he would be able to rely on his clients to protect him, Widmann had shot the Gestapo man and left him for dead. The problem had been that Widmann was not much of a killer and his intended victim survived to testify. Soon after Widmann’s arrival in Auschwitz he had started plying his trade again, sucking up to the guards and quickly becoming the leading dealer in Mahorca, the adulterated tobacco that he traded for the coupons the SS gave out for the camp brothel.

  Brack cared little for Widmann’s enterprise, but he knew that the war could not last indefinitely and that to have such contacts outside the camp could prove invaluable. Widmann had been a Kapo in charge of a construction Kommando. It was brutal work, not at all to his liking, and so Brack had seduced him simply by asking him to be his Blockschreiber. The duties were light and did not involve marching to the Buna factory in the driving rain of a Polish winter: Widmann had accepted without hesitation.

  However, Brack was now realizing, it was one thing to keep Widmann close in Auschwitz but another to rely on him when the war was over. He needed to find a way to tie Widmann to him, but so far the answer had eluded him.

  His musings were interrupted by the arrival of Eidenmüller. He handed a bottle of Schnapps to Brack, and gestured for the Blockältester to follow him outside.

  ‘Don’t you like the sunshine?’ Eidenmüller asked.

  ‘Not really. Anyway, not much of a view, is there?’ They laughed. ‘What do you want this time?’

  ‘It’s the Watchmaker.’

  ‘What’s the little bastard done now?’

  ‘Nothing. My boss wants him to play another game. Against an officer this time.’

  ‘And the stupid fuck has refused to play again, is that it?’

  ‘No, he’s agreed to play.’

  ‘Then what?’

  Eidenmüller stopped in the shade of a birch tree. ‘It’s like this, Brack. I run a bit of a betting syndicate and I lost a packet on the last game.’

  ‘Because the Yid won?

  ‘Yeah. Made a bit of a miscalculation. I said to myself, nobody’s unbeatable, especially not a runt of a Jew watchmaker. And Frommhagen, the one he beat, he’s not half bad. So what I need to know is this – how good is this Watchmaker really?’

  ‘It wasn’t me who said the Watchmaker was unbeatable,’ Brack said. ‘It was a Pole who said he played in some big-shot chess tournament in Munich back in ’36. According to him, the Watchmaker would have beaten anybody who played in the tournament. He said he reckoned the Watchmaker had supernatural powers he was so good.’

  Eidenmüller hawked and spat. ‘Bullshit.’

  Brack shrugged. ‘Maybe. Who knows?’

  ‘He’ll be playing an SS officer next time. Who would you put your money on?’

  Brack sniggered. ‘Who do you think?’

  Eidenmüller glanced at the sun and grimaced. ‘Thought as much.’ He started to walk away.

  ‘Hang on,’ Brack called after him. ‘What’s he get if he wins this time?’

  ‘Same as before – he gets to save somebody’s life.’

  ‘How?’

  Eidenmüller stopped and gave Brack a puzzled look. ‘I thought you knew – when there’s a Selektion, they’ll be protected.’

  Understanding registered on Brack’s face. ‘Right. So – whose life?’

  ‘Anyone he likes.’

  Anyone he likes . . . Eidenmüller’s words set the cogs whirring in Brack’s brain. By the time he got back to the block he was beaming.

  He had found the answer to his conundrum.

  Word of Emil’s victory over one of the all-powerful SS has circulated around his block, and some of his fellow prisoners have had the audacity to mention it to the Kapos in their work Kommandos. Most are rewarded with a kicking or a sharp blow from a knotted rope, but this has not prevented the whispers from spreading: the Nazis are not unbeatable.

  When Emil returned to the block that evening, Brack was waiting for him.

  Seeing him, Emil’s stomach contracted to a tight knot of anxiety: the fea
rful beating he had received at the hands of the block elder remained an acutely painful memory. Why would Brack be waiting for him? The only thing he could think of was that Brack had been told to stop the whispers at their source.

  To Emil’s alarm, Brack put an arm around his shoulder as if they were the best of friends, and led him away from the block so they could not be overheard.

  ‘You know, Watchmaker, I think you and me got off on the wrong foot. I said to myself, Bodo, you and the Watchmaker ought to be friends, good friends. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Fact is, I’ve got a bit of a proposition for you.’ He patted Emil’s shoulder clumsily. ‘We both know this war ain’t going to last for ever, don’t we? Well, I reckon if you help me and I help you, the both of us will live to survive it.’

  Emil eyed the Blockältester suspiciously. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I want us to help each other, that’s all. Look, I’ve been doing a bit of digging around. I know a lot about you. I know you got a wife in the camp, for example.’

  The expression on Emil’s face told Brack that he had hit his target.

  ‘She’s dead,’ Emil muttered. ‘I’m sure of it.’

  ‘What if she’s not? What if I was in a position to help her? What would you do for me in return?’

  Emil searched Brack’s face, trying to fathom whether the Blockältester was sincere. ‘Anything,’ he said, his mouth suddenly dry. ‘I’d do anything. Is she still alive?’

  ‘She is. At least, her name hasn’t appeared on any of the death reports.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘In Birkenau.’

  ‘Can you get a message to her?’

  Slowly Brack shook his head. ‘It’s chaos there. There’s a big Aktion going on. Thousands of Jews arriving from Hungary every day, and all of them going straight up the chimney.’

  ‘If it’s chaos, how can you help her?’

  ‘I might be able to get her extra rations.’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Simple. Keep playing – and winning – at chess. I know about your deal with that SS officer – I get to choose whose life you are playing for, and I will do what I can for your wife.’