The Death's Head Chess Club (34 page)

‘When did this happen?' Emil asked.

‘The end of October, beginning of November.'

‘But you never got to Auschwitz, did you?' Emil asked. Willi shook his head. ‘Why not? Were you reluctant to come?'

‘Not at all – I would have done almost anything to get away from the bombing, even if it was only for a short time. No, every couple of days I would go back to the SS building – in my new uniform, of course – only to be told there was no transport.'

Meissner lifted a hand from the counterpane, waving it feebly. ‘And it was because you were not able to come that Emil survived, of that I am sure,' he said, his voice barely audible.

‘But why?'

Meissner's breathing was laboured and he struggled to reply. ‘My transfer was overdue. My old comrade, Peter Sommer, was now the Division
commander's chief of staff. I had been ordered to go west and take up duties as his adjutant in Koblenz in preparation for the
Ardennenoffensive
in December, but like you, Willi, I too was delayed by a lack of transport.'

Emil didn't understand the point Paul was making. ‘Why would Willi's failure to reach Auschwitz have had any bearing on what happened to me?'

Meissner tried to push himself up on the bed and groaned with pain.

‘Here,' Willi said, reaching for the bottle. ‘For God's sake, man, have some laudanum.'

‘Later. I'll have some when it's time for me to sleep.' Meissner waved the bottle away. ‘Don't you see, my friend?' he continued. ‘Once I had left the camp, I could no longer protect you. But you were not harmed because Bär was waiting for Willi to arrive and teach you a lesson: the only way to destroy the legend of the unbeatable Watchmaker was for you to be defeated by one of the SS.'

‘When did you finally leave to rejoin your old unit?' Willi asked.

‘Not until the tenth of November. It was a time of great confusion. Bär even asked me to reconsider my transfer request. The Russians had reached the suburbs of Budapest, which was only about four hundred kilometres away. I think by then even he could see what was coming. But I couldn't stay. I knew Hitler would never give in, and I wanted to face the end with my old comrades, not a shameful surrender in a camp surrounded by thousands of starving prisoners.' He took a ragged breath. ‘But there was one last thing I was able to do to protect Emil.'

‘What was that?'

‘Something I gave to Eidenmüller.'

‘What did you give him?'

But all Meissner could do was to shake his head. He was exhausted and, with a muted gasp, fell back into the pillows.

Emil and Willi exchanged a worried glance.

‘I wish he would take the bloody laudanum,' Willi whispered.

Emil nodded, but said, ‘I can understand why he won't.'

Meissner did not open his eyes but croaked hoarsely, ‘I can still hear you, you know.'

Willi grinned. ‘Don't worry, old man, we're not going to force it on you. But you need to rest. We'll come back later.'

‘Give me some now, before you go,' Meissner whispered. ‘But promise me you'll be back. I want to know how it ends.'

Emil helped Paul to sit up while Willi measured a dose of the narcotic. Meissner choked on the bitter liquid, and a little dribbled down his chin. Emil took a handkerchief to wipe it off. Meissner reached up a hand to grasp Emil's arm. The strength of his grip took Emil by surprise.

‘Promise me,' Meissner hissed.

‘Don't worry, Paul. I promise.'

A minute later, Willi reached across to touch Paul's arm.

‘I think he's asleep,' he whispered. He stood and crept towards the door. Emil followed.

But Paul is not asleep. He is striding through the Buna
Werke
frantically searching for somebody, though he doesn't know who. Then it comes to him: the Watchmaker. He must speak to him urgently. He calls to everyone he sees: ‘Where is the Watchmaker?' Nobody has seen him. He should be in the instrument workshop, but he is not there. Paul turns into a blind alley. Facing him is one of the wooden watchtowers that are usually spaced at intervals along the camp perimeter. There is a man standing on the platform at its top; a man in a long black leather coat and wearing a SS cap. Paul shouts to him: ‘Where is the Watchmaker?' The
man turns to face him. It takes a moment for Paul to recognize him. It is Hustek, but not Hustek. His face has turned into a death's head, its lidless eyes staring, and the teeth and jaws locked in a hideous grin. ‘The Watchmaker?' it says. Hustek's voice echoes along the alley, filling the air, as if coming from a loudspeaker. ‘He is not here; he has gone up the chimney. Where he belongs.'

37.

E
NDGAME
: F
OUR
K
NIGHTS

1962
Kerk de Krijtberg, Amsterdam

Though his bedroom is warm, Meissner cannot stop shivering. He is not sure where he is. He raises his head expecting to see the familiar items that define his life: the prie-dieu, the crucifix, his breviary at the side of the bed, but there are none of these things. He is in a large room where the walls are covered in maps, with arcane symbols drawn across their surface. Light comes from antique crystal chandeliers suspended from the ceiling and through large mullioned windows, where each small pane of glass is taped to prevent it from splintering in the event of an explosion. He can hear the shrill sound of telephones ringing and all around there are men in military uniform. Now he knows where he is. All night he has been trying to get through to the logistics command in Dietrich's VI Panzer Army HQ. The Second SS Panzer Division has performed miracles: they have broken through the Allied lines and are advancing fast, but now, less than forty kilometres from Namur, they are running out of fuel. The field telephone is down. No matter what he does Meissner cannot get through, yet he must get fuel for the Panzers.

There is only one thing for it: he will have to go in person. He looks for Sturmscharführer Schratt, who'd saved his life at Voronezh. Like him, Schratt is a survivor, wounded and then assigned to administrative duties.
Schratt hates it; he tells everyone it is like serving a prison sentence.

‘Schratt!' Meissner yells. The NCO appears out of nowhere. ‘Find us some transport. We're going to Dietrich's HQ.'

The only available vehicle is a motorcycle and sidecar. Schratt drives it through the freezing mud like a man possessed. Meissner crouches low in the sidecar, a machine pistol cradled across his knee in case they meet the enemy. But the enemy they encounter is not one that can be fought off so easily: an American Mustang fighter zooms in low over the trees and strafes them with a long machine-gun burst. Schratt veers from side to side and Meissner empties the magazine of his weapon ineffectually. The aeroplane turns for a second pass. This time Schratt cannot avoid the hail of bullets. His body is cut almost in two and the bike somersaults into a ditch. Meissner is thrown clear and comes to hours later in a field hospital.

Miraculously, Meissner's injuries are superficial. The doctor says he can go. But there is no transport. Meissner is furious. The outcome of the offensive depends on getting fuel for the Panzers. Eventually he manages to reach his division on a field telephone.

‘I was trying to get through to the logistics group at Dietrich's HQ,' he says, ‘but I didn't get there. We were strafed by an American plane.' Then he remembers. ‘Schratt is dead.' Old Schratt – old, indestructible Schratt. No time now to mourn. ‘Somebody must get through to them. Without fuel, the attack will grind to a halt.'

‘Calm yourself, Paul.' It is Peter Sommer. ‘I'm sorry Schratt is dead. We'll have to manage without the fuel. There's none to be had.'

‘Manage without . . . but how?'

‘Just get yourself back here, Paul. You're needed.'

*

Emil jerked awake to find himself still in the chair beside Paul's bed.

Father Scholten was at its foot, quietly telling his beads. ‘He's delirious,' Scholten said.

Paul was shivering with fever, muttering and mumbling. He cried out: ‘Schratt!'

‘What time is it?' Emil asked, blinking away sleep.

‘Late.'

‘It's all right, Father,' Emil said. ‘I'll look after him. Just give me a minute to wake Willi. I'm sure he would want to be here too.' He went to Willi's room and knocked. ‘Willi? Paul's not too good. I think you'd better come.' He went back into Meissner's room.

Willi arrived, pulling a robe around his rotund stomach.

‘Dead . . .' Meissner muttered. ‘. . . manage . . . needed here . . .'

‘What's he talking about?' Willi asked.

‘I have no idea.'

‘He's raving. How much laudanum did he have?'

The next morning Meissner was pale, and his skin had taken on a waxy hue. His breathing was laboured and he could speak only with great effort. Mrs Brinckvoort insisted he take more laudanum. He was too weak to argue, but would not take all that she measured out.

‘Emil,' he murmured, ‘my part in your tale is done. But I want to know what happened in the last days of the camp, and on the death march.'

‘Death march?' Willi asked.

‘The SS did not want the prisoners to fall into the hands of the Russians,' Emil explained. ‘As far as they were concerned, we were still capable of work. So, days before the Russians arrived, the prisoners were marched out of the camp.'

‘In the middle of winter? How did they manage to survive?'

‘Thousands didn't. They either fell by the wayside and froze to death or were shot if they couldn't keep up.' Emil stopped. The air in the room suddenly seemed stale. He crossed to the window to raise the sash a little. ‘Nobody knows how anyone managed to survive,' he said, resuming his seat. ‘Least of all the survivors.'

‘And you were on this death march?'

Meissner reached out a hand to tug feebly at Willi's sleeve. ‘Why don't you let him tell his story?'

16 January 1945
Konzentrationslager Auschwitz-III, Monowitz

It is cold. In the three years he has spent at Auschwitz, Eidenmüller cannot remember it being so cold. A thick blanket of white hoar frost covers the trees, and icicles hang from eaves and window ledges. It snowed a couple of days ago and the roads and paths are covered in dirty slush. They are short of everything: food, fuel, even coal, and Eidenmüller is getting sick of tinned beef or pork. In the distance he can hear the booming of guns. He is not sure how close they are, but he is getting nervous; he does not want to hang around to meet the Russians. Meissner has told him that when they encounter the SS they do not take prisoners.

A new officer, Untersturmführer Walter, has taken over Meissner's duties, but he is fresh from the Hitler Jügende
¹
and has no idea of anything apart from shouting and throwing his weight around. Fortunately, it is not difficult for Eidenmüller to keep out of his way.

Even the prisoners know the end is near. The gas chambers have been
shut down and explosive charges have been placed ready to demolish them.

The Buna factory is a deserted wasteland. It was bombed repeatedly in the autumn and, with the Russians so near, there is no point attempting repairs. Until a week ago, work
Kommandos
were sent every day to salvage what could easily be dismantled and shipped out, but no longer. Even if it were possible to remove more material, there is no transport. The prisoners are shut up in their blocks in enforced idleness, an intolerable situation for the camp authorities but one they are powerless to remedy. The SS have their belongings packed, awaiting only the command to abandon the camp. But though they have been expecting the order for days, it has not come.

The SS barracks have become like the front line: most of the NCOs are drinking heavily, and arguments are frequent occurrences. Eidenmüller seeks refuge in the empty Monowitz administration offices. The files have all been burned and most of the equipment removed. All that remains is the furniture – desks and chairs – which he has been breaking up and putting into the stove for fuel. He wonders how Hauptsturmführer Meissner is getting on. He has heard about the offensive in the Ardennes that will throw the Allies back to the coast, and he knows that the Hauptsturmführer's division is in the thick of it. He hopes Meissner does not get killed. He is the best officer Eidenmüller has ever had.

He hears footsteps on the stairs. Quickly he folds a cloth over the pistol he has been cleaning and puts it into a drawer. It was a parting gift from the Hauptsturmführer – a Russian Tokarev T-33 semi-automatic, a souvenir from the Eastern Front. It is a simpler design than the Luger, the standard handgun of the SS. It has a solid feel, and its weight in his hand is reassuring, as if to tell him he can trust it never to misfire. When Eidenmüller
had asked why the Hauptsturmführer was giving him such a thing, he had replied only that he had a feeling it might come in useful one day.

The steps are coming closer. A board creaks outside the door and Untersturmführer Walter walks in.

‘Eidenmüller,' he says. ‘What are you doing here?'

‘Not much, sir. I was making sure that we hadn't missed any of the files that were supposed to have been destroyed.'

‘Very commendable,' says the Untersturmführer. ‘Now come with me.'

‘Yes, sir. I just need the latrine. I'll meet you downstairs.'

The Untersturmführer retraces his steps. Not knowing when he'll be able to return, Eidenmüller retrieves the pistol and puts it in his pocket.

Outside, the officer tells Eidenmüller of the plans to evacuate the camp: the prisoners will be distributed among other concentration camps in Germany and Austria; the sick will be left behind to fend for themselves. Eidenmüller asks how transport will be provided for so many prisoners. ‘They will have to march,' the officer says.

The plan is foolishness. The recent snowfall was heavy and it seems likely more will come soon. How will prisoners in their ill-fitting wooden clogs and threadbare uniforms be able to march in such conditions? But that is not the Untersturmführer's problem. His only concern is to ensure his men are ready for the journey. When? The day after tomorrow.

Walter does not stay long: he is anxious to be seen to be performing his duties diligently, and the best place to do that is in the vicinity of a superior officer.

When he is sure Walter is gone, Eidenmüller enters the camp and walks to the Watchmaker's block. In the day room, Brack and his cronies are gathered around the stove. Most of the inmates are in their bunks trying to keep warm.

‘Anywhere we can talk?' Eidenmüller asks Brack.

Brack follows him outside and they walk briskly along the slush-covered paths, great clouds of vapour billowing from their mouths.

‘We've got our marching orders.'

Brack raises an eyebrow. ‘Yeah?' he says. ‘When?'

‘Not just us. Everybody. Day after tomorrow.'

Brack stops. ‘Everybody? No. It's not possible. These men won't make it far in this weather – it'll kill them. It's bad enough walking to the Buna factory and back.'

Eidenmüller agrees. ‘Look,' he says, ‘there's a chance for some of them to survive. I know about the deals you've done with a few of the Yids – but if they die, I'm guessing all bets are off.'

‘What do you suggest?'

‘Get them into the
Krankenbau
. You, the Watchmaker, and a few others. The sick are going to be left behind. The officers think the cold will finish most of them off, but once we're gone, you can start breaking the barracks apart for fuel. What do you say?'

‘It sounds like a good plan, but what's in it for you?'

‘I've been thinking. After the war, people like me, you know – ex-SS – are going to find it hard. I'll get you into the sick bay too and keep any nosy parkers out of your hair when our men come to empty the camp. After the war's over, I'll find you and we can come to an arrangement.'

Brack smiled. ‘Funny, I never took you for the trusting type.'

‘I'm not. If you don't play fair with me, you won't like the consequences, I promise.' Eidenmüller spat on his palm and held out his hand. ‘Deal?'

Brack did the same. ‘Deal.'

*

1962
Kerk de Krijtberg, Amsterdam

‘Of course I didn't know any of this at first,' Emil said. ‘Brack told me, later, when we were in the infirmary.'

‘Brack,' Meissner wheezed. ‘He was a complicated character. Out for number one. But there was more to him than that, I think.' His eyes closed.

‘Next morning we went to the
Krankenbau
. Obviously we were not ill, but Eidenmüller had concocted a story about an SS doctor who suspected us of having typhus. The Jewish doctor was unconvinced until a packet of cigarettes appeared and with that, his concerns seemed to vanish.'

‘So you and Brack and these others went into the sick bay and waited for the Russians to arrive?'

‘If only it had been that simple, Willi.' Emil turned to Meissner. ‘Are you still listening, Paul?' A squeeze of a hand showed that he was.

‘That night we had a visitor.'

‘Who?'

‘Hustek.' Emil felt Meissner stiffen at the mention of this name. ‘He was looking for me. Brack tried to stall him by telling him I had typhus. “Bring him out here then,” Hustek said. “If he's got typhus, he's as good as dead anyway; better to let the cold finish him off, it'll be kinder in the end.” But Brack shook his head. “Nothing doing,” he said. But his words were empty and he knew it.

‘When I came out, Hustek was there holding a pistol. I almost expected him to shoot me there and then, but he waved the gun and said, “This way.” I had hardly moved when he had second thoughts and pointed the gun at Brack. “You as well,” he said.

‘He walked us at gunpoint through the camp, up the service road,
through the gates and into the SS administrative building. It was empty, and he marched us up the stairs into Paul's old office.'

Hustek made Brack and the Watchmaker stand in the two corners furthest from the door. There was a paraffin lamp on the desk. He lit it, then settled himself astride a chair with his back to the door, and took out a pack of cigarettes.

‘Smoke, Brack?' he said. When he got no reply he shrugged and put the cigarettes back in his pocket.

‘Why have you brought us here?' Brack demanded.

‘I would have thought that was obvious.' Hustek used his unlit cigarette to point at the Watchmaker. ‘Killing your Jew friend here – that wouldn't cause me any problems at all. But killing you, Brack? Questions might be asked. I could hardly say you were shot trying to escape, could I? No, I needed somewhere where you wouldn't be found until it was too late to matter.' He smirked, struck a match and inhaled deeply, blowing the smoke at the ceiling. ‘I suppose,' he continued, ‘I should ask if you have any last requests.' He seemed to find that very funny, and laughed so hard he started to cough. When he had recovered, he said, ‘By the way, Brack, I thought you would want to know that Widmann told me all about the deal the two of you cooked up. Your idea, of course – Widmann wasn't clever enough for that, but he was clever enough to realize he needed a new partner. Me.'