Konzentrationslager Auschwitz-III, Monowitz
The camp is subdued. At daybreak the sun in the east is red, a sure sign that bad weather is on its way. The camp has been trying to ignore the creeping approach of winter, for it knows the majority of the inmates will not live to see the spring and that, for all of them, each day will be purchased in suffering, and measured in icy clouds of breath, the stamping of feet on the ground, and the hunching of shoulders against the chill wind.
Among the inmates there is a growing unease – it is like a caged tiger, pacing restlessly from side to side, snarling. By now everyone knows of the uprising by the Sonderkommando in Birkenau and of how it was suppressed with a savagery that was notable even by the savage standards of Auschwitz. Now the inmates watch the SS in their towers around the camp and their patrols along the wire, wondering whether this same savagery will be turned upon them as well.
But that is not the main source of the unease. In the summer, to boost construction in the Buna factory, 2,000 extra prisoners were brought into the Monowitz camp. They were housed in tents near the parade ground. Now that winter is near, these men have been moved into the blocks, making the already overcrowded quarters even more squalid.
During the summer, Selektionen among the prisoners had come to a standstill while the gas chambers and crematoria of Birkenau had worked overtime on the slaughter of the Hungarian Jews. Now that the Hungarian Aktion is over, the old hands among the prisoners predict that the Selektionen will begin again: although it is of their own making, the SS will not tolerate such overcrowding for long.
Each inmate assures his neighbour that they will not be among the ones selected: only the old and the weak and the sickly will go. It does not matter if the neighbour is old or weak or sickly, they are told they are not old enough or weak enough or sickly enough. Everybody knows that these are empty words. The Germans are very thorough.
The Selektion comes without warning on a Sunday afternoon. The inmates are lining up for the soup ration. The bell sounds. All must return to their blocks.
Brack knows it is coming – he has gone through the procedure many times. Only Jews are selected, and he has their Häftling-Karten ready with their number, name, nationality and age and whether they are a specialist worker.
Brack wants everything to go quietly. He tells everyone to undress, and get into their bunks. He strolls to bunk number three, where the Watchmaker has a new companion to share his sleeping space.
‘You know what’s coming, eh?’ Brack says.
Emil nods. ‘Of course.’
‘Don’t worry, you’re safe. Even if your card wasn’t marked “protected”, you are a specialist, and in good health.’
It is perhaps two hours later when an SS doctor and guards arrive at the block and the Selektion begins.
Starting at the furthest end of the dormitory, Brack and his minions move along the rows of bunks, striking them with wooden clubs, driving the fearful prisoners into the day room. Soon more than 200 naked men, each holding a card tightly in his hand, are herded into a space that is too small for them.
Now, the door to the outside is opened. Waiting there is an SS doctor. Brack stands to his right, and on his left the Blockschreiber, Widmann. Along the alley between the blocks, the outside door to the dormitory is opened. One by one, each prisoner must exit the day room, give his card to the Blockschreiber and then, naked, run along the alley and back into the dormitory. During these few seconds, the doctor decides whether each man will live or die.
After it is finished, Brack looks with disbelief at one of the cards. He takes it back to the SS doctor.
‘Herr Obersturmführer,’ he says, ‘I think there has been a mistake.’
The doctor looks coldly at the prisoner with his green triangle and his all-too-clean uniform. ‘Mistake? How so?’
‘Häftling 163291. He is a specialist and in good health. Also, he has Schutzhäftling status. He is not for Selektion.’
The doctor hesitates for a moment, then says: ‘Show me.’
Brack passes him the Watchmaker’s card. The doctor looks closely at it.
‘Where does it specify that this prisoner is a specialist or that he is in protective custody? He is for Selektion. Now get on with it.’
Brack stares at the card. It is not the one he prepared earlier. He goes back into the block to find the original. There is no trace of it. With an oath he goes in search of the Blockschreiber but he is nowhere to be found.
He finds one of his cronies. ‘Where is Widmann?’ he asks.
‘I don’t know. I haven’t seen him since the Selektion. Maybe he’s gone to the latrine.’
‘I bet he’s gone a lot further than that. Get the word out. I want him, and I want him now.’
But Widmann is not to be found. He is on his way to the Stammlager and freedom. In return for doctoring the Watchmaker’s record card, Hustek has promised Widmann his liberty. Tomorrow, when the selected prisoners are sent to Birkenau, Widmann will be on a train to Stuttgart, and from there, with luck, to Switzerland.
But there is nothing Brack can do about Widmann now: he has a far more pressing problem. At dawn the next day, trucks will come to take the selected prisoners to the gas chambers. Before that happens, Hauptsturmführer Meissner must be told what has happened. But it is Sunday. He will not be in his office and there is no way to contact him. There is only one thing to be done.
The Watchmaker must be hidden.
It will not be easy. In the morning, after the work Kommandos have departed for the day, there will be a second roll call for the selected inmates. It will take time to conduct two roll calls, giving Brack a little breathing space to find Meissner. But when the roll call count does not tally, the SS guards will search the camp. It will not take long: the dogs will soon sniff out the hidden prisoner.
Two hiding places come to Brack’s mind: the camp brothel and the forge. The brothel because it is the last place the Germans will look, and the forge because the smell of the place may put the dogs off.
If the Watchmaker is found before Brack can get to Meissner, it is likely he will be shot on the spot.
But the Watchmaker is reluctant to cooperate.
‘It is Hustek’s doing,’ he says. ‘Why fight it? He will get me in the end, anyhow. I have nothing left. My family is gone; the only friend I had is gone. At least this way I won’t have to go through another winter watching the people around me dropping like flies.’
Brack is appalled. For years he has lived in a world where moral values have been extinguished; but in the Watchmaker he has seen something rare. It is more than his incomprehensible devotion to chess: it lies in his dogged determination not to succumb to the dead weight of indifference that Auschwitz hangs around every inmate’s neck, and in his rejection of the idea that he might profit from the lives he has saved. Above all, it is evident in the way that the Watchmaker has refused to surrender his dignity. None of these things is clear in Brack’s mind, nor does he conceive of any of them as ‘good’, for in Auschwitz there is no good; but, as he struggles to understand, he sees it as something that is right, how the world ought to be if it were not for the barbed wire within which they are all confined. A quiet voice within tells him that this is something he must fight for.
Brack cannot articulate any of this. His response is to slap the Watchmaker and bellow: ‘Do you want to die?’
‘Of course not,’ Emil replies, rubbing his cheek.
‘Then do as I say.’
‘No.’
Exasperated, Brack raises a hand to strike Emil again, but he knows that Emil will not respond to violence so he lets it fall.
Abruptly, Brack leaves the block and steps into the cold evening air. He does not go far – just past the punishment block to Block 30. He is looking for somebody.
A short time later he is back. ‘There is someone I want you to meet,’ he says. He pushes a prisoner towards the Watchmaker.
‘Who is this?’
�
��This is the life you will save when you win against Hustek. Talk to him. I want you to understand that if you throw away your own life, you will almost certainly be taking this one with you.’
The Watchmaker refuses to look at the prisoner; he fixes his gaze on Brack. ‘No. You cannot put this responsibility on me. This scheme was not of my devising.’
‘It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that it is within your power to save this man’s life. I want you to look him in the eye and tell him why you won’t do it.’
Emil reluctantly contemplates the man. He is short, his head is shaven, and his face is riddled with sores, perhaps the result of vitamin deficiency. Like everybody, his uniform is patched and filthy, but he does not have the defeated look that many of the prisoners have. His eyes are alert and searching.
‘What is your name?’ Emil asks.
‘Daniel. Daniel Farhi.’
‘You are French?’
The man shrugs. ‘Not exactly. My wife is French and my father is French-Egyptian. I’m from Cairo. In 1940 we were visiting my wife’s family in Paris when we got caught by the German advance. It’s a long story, m’sieur, but here I am.’
‘What did you do in Cairo?’
‘I was a dealer in gold.’
Emil nods. That explains Brack’s interest in this man. ‘What about your family?’
‘My wife escaped to Spain. My children are in Egypt. As far as I know, they are well.’
‘Do you understand the risk you are running? The man I’m up against in this game has no scruples. None. If I lose, he won’t be satisfied with waiting until you are taken by a Selektion – he’s the kind to take you to the gas chamber himself and laugh all the way home afterwards.’
Farhi smiles. ‘But you will not lose. You are the Watchmaker.’
Emil sighs. He turns to Brack. ‘And how much have you extorted from this one?’
Farhi interrupts. ‘If it is a question of money, m’sieur . . .’
‘Monsieur Farhi, it is not a question of money. But don’t let yourself be fooled into thinking that our esteemed Blockältester is doing this because he cares for your welfare. He cares about himself.’
Emil bows his head, defeated by the inescapable logic of Auschwitz. ‘All right then, tell me what I must do.’
The brothel is constructed of wood, the same as every other building in the camp. In one of the rooms on the upper level there is a hollow space beneath the floorboards. It is a hiding place for various items of contraband that are smuggled in and out of the camp. Using it to conceal the Watchmaker is likely to mean the end of its usefulness, but that cannot be helped.
It is a tight fit, but Emil manages to squeeze in.
‘No matter what,’ Brack says, ‘make no sound.’
At 6:50 a.m. the sun rises. Brack immediately sends one of his trusted lieutenants to find a friendly SS guard. He must get a message to Eidenmüller. The prisoners are not allowed to march to Buna in the dark so they do not set off until 7:15. Ten minutes later, the prisoners picked out in the Selektion start to assemble on the Appelplatz. They are slow to form ranks – understandably so. They can see the trucks waiting for them on the service road, between the gates that are locked at both ends.
Despite the cold wind the SS guards are in no hurry, and it is nearly eight o’clock before the Rapportführer is told they are one short. He orders a recount. This time the count is done briskly, and the guards pay closer attention. The result is the same. The prisoners are left shivering in the cold while a search of the camp is mounted.
Meanwhile, Eidenmüller is waiting anxiously outside Meissner’s office. On Mondays Meissner is in the habit of coming in early. But not today. The night before, Meissner was in Solahütte talking to Brossman about his plans to rejoin his unit, and urging his fellow officer to go with him. He sees no reason to pursue his duties with the same diligence as before. He does not arrive until shortly after eight.
‘It’s the Watchmaker,’ Eidenmüller tells him breathlessly. ‘There was a Selektion yesterday. I don’t know how, but he was included. Brack’s hidden him, but it won’t be long before he’s found.’
Lips tight with anger, Meissner storms outside, Eidenmüller following in his wake. At the gate they are let through under the watchful eye of the Lagerführer, Obersturmführer Schottl. He goes into the guard room and picks up the telephone.
Meissner and Eidenmüller hurry past the parked trucks and through the second gate. Brack is leaning against the wall of the sick bay, watching for them.
‘What the hell happened?’ Meissner asks.
Brack explains as they walk to the brothel. Through the wire they can see two teams of guards with dogs searching the clothing store on the north side of the camp.
‘This way,’ says Brack.
Inside, he pushes aside a bed and pulls up a floorboard to reveal the Watchmaker.
Meissner nods. ‘Follow me,’ he says.
Together, they take the path past the kitchens to the Appelplatz where Meissner presents the prisoner to the Rapportführer. ‘I believe this is the one you are looking for.’
The Rapportführer is under the command of Obersturmführer Schottl. He is about to order the Watchmaker to join the ranks of other prisoners when the Lagerführer arrives.
‘Thank you, Herr Hauptsturmführer,’ Schottl says to Meissner, ‘for finding our escaped prisoner. I don’t know how we would have managed without you. Now we can get on with sending these scum where they belong.’
‘Not this one,’ Meissner says. ‘This prisoner is in protective custody and is not for Selektion.’
‘Of course,’ Schottl says silkily. ‘He can go back to his block as soon as you show me his Häftling-Karte. Until then . . .’ He gives a pointed look at the Rapportführer.
Meissner looks at Brack. ‘Do you have his card?’
Brack shakes his head. ‘It’s been switched. Otherwise I would have got this sorted last night.’
Meissner turns to Eidenmüller. ‘On my order. Take the prisoner to my office. Now.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Schottl is no longer smiling. ‘I can’t permit that, sir. This prisoner has been selected for liquidation.’ He gives an order to the Rapportführer. ‘Get that stinking Yid onto the transports – now.’
*
1962
Kerk de Krijtberg, Amsterdam
‘Dear God,’ Willi said. ‘Then what?’
Emil glanced at Paul. ‘What happened next took everyone by surprise, especially me. It was unbelievable.’
‘What?’
Meissner grinned. ‘I pulled my gun on him.’
Willi was stunned. ‘You pulled your gun on a fellow SS officer?’
‘Yes. You should have seen the look on his face.’ Paul started to laugh.
‘How did you think you would get away with that?’
Paul’s laughter turned into a coughing fit. It took a while to subside. ‘I had no idea,’ he said, between coughs, ‘but it was the only thing I could think of. It would’ve taken hours to do what Schottl was telling us to do, and by then it would have been too late.’
‘What did he do?’
‘What could he do? He looked at me in total and utter amazement. “Put the gun away,” he said. “You’re not going to use it.”’
‘What did you say?’
‘I think I said, “Are you sure you want to take the risk?”’
‘And he let you take Emil away, just like that?’
‘No,’ Emil said. ‘That’s not how it ended. While you and the other SS officer were having your stand-off, somebody else came over.’
Paul remembered. ‘My God, you’re right. Hustek.’
‘What did he do?’ Willi asked.
‘Nothing,’ Paul answered. ‘It was very strange. Afterwards, I realized he must have been behind it all along. At first he did not appear angry or even disappointed that his scheme had failed; on the contrary, he seemed to have expected it. Then he saw Brack. In an instant his manner c
hanged. He looked thunderous. “Brack,” he said, “I wondered where you had got to. I never thought you of all people would become a Jew-lover.” Then without another word he turned and walked away. Schottl shouted after him, “What should I do with the Jew?” Without looking back Hustek called over his shoulder, “Let him go with his new friends.”’
‘So,’ Willi said, ‘out of all those men who were selected, you were the only one to survive.’
The three suddenly became very solemn. ‘Yes,’ Emil said. ‘Out of them all, I was the only one.’
35.
THE CARO-KANN COUNTERBLOW
1962
Kerk de Krijtberg, Amsterdam
The next morning, Meissner was ailing badly. He had to be supported by pillows to sit upright, and his breathing was raspy and laboured; when he tried to shift his weight, his face contorted with pain. The doctor was called and a nurse was arranged to come and administer morphine, but after only one injection the patient refused to cooperate: the morphine clouded his thinking. The doctor tried to insist, but he reckoned without Meissner’s tenacity. In the end he had no choice but to relent: if Mrs Brinckvoort would leave a measuring phial and the bottle of laudanum next to the bed, the bishop could help himself whenever the pain became too much.
Emil was restless. He played with his lunch, prodding the food on his plate aimlessly until, with a clatter, he let his fork drop.
‘What’s the matter?’ Willi asked.
Emil didn’t answer. He pushed his chair back and walked to the door. ‘I’ll see you later,’ he said.
Willi sat at Paul’s bedside for most of the afternoon, chatting or reading to him. When Emil returned, Willi was in the kitchen.
‘How’s Paul?’ Emil asked.
‘He’s asleep. But he was awake on and off most of the time you were out.’
‘That’s good. He should rest while he can.’
‘He’s been asking for you. He wanted to know where you were. I told him I didn’t know.’
‘I’ve withdrawn from the competition.’
There was a short silence. ‘I had a hunch that’s what you were going to do,’ Willi said. He stood up and laid a hand on Emil’s shoulder. ‘It’s a big decision. You could have won. I think you would have. You would have had your shot at the World Championship.’
The Death's Head Chess Club Page 29