Free The Death's Head Chess Club by John Donoghue

unmoving, casting his gaze around the room, taking in the odd variety of the knick-knacks that filled it, his mind seeking reasons to leave other than the bitterness with which he was filled.
    â€˜I would consider it an honour if you would stay to share my supper this evening,’ Meissner said, breaking the silence.
    â€˜Why?’
    From habit, the bishop’s fingers strayed to the cross on his breast. ‘Do you remember what you once said to me in Auschwitz? “There is no why. The outside world does not intrude here. We have been inoculated against it.” For now, all I can tell you is that “Why?” is too complicated a question for me to understand.’ He shrugged. ‘For years now I have answered to an inner compulsion. I have tried to resist it, but without succeeding. I have told it I am not worthy, can never be worthy, but it does not listen to me. In the seminary they told me it was “my vocation”, but I can’t see it that way.’ His voice took on a tone of almost desperate yearning. ‘It is more than that. It is God’s love working its way into the world, taking as its instrument something – someone – that once servedevil, but moulding it to its own divine purpose. So to answer your question “Why?” in perhaps a simplistic way – because I am a sword that has been beaten into a ploughshare.’
    1947
Kraków
    In his prison cell, Paul Meissner was waiting for his lawyer. Meissner did not like the man. He was possessed of a colossal sense of his own importance.
    For his part, Meissner’s lawyer regarded his client with cynical disdain. That the German was a war criminal was obvious. The state was wasting its money appointing a lawyer to conduct his defence.
    As usual, the lawyer had been late. ‘If it were possible to find even one Auschwitz prisoner to testify on your behalf, that would make all the difference,’ he now said, not bothering to suppress a yawn.
    An exasperated Meissner retorted: ‘Have you listened to anything I’ve told you? I had nothing to do with the prisoners. Why would I? I was an administrator with responsibility for the SS personnel in the satellite camps.’ Angrily, he banged his fist on the table. ‘I told you there was only one prisoner I had dealings with. He’s the one you have to find.’
    The lawyer made a show of consulting his notes. ‘Ah, yes, “the Watchmaker”. But you say you can’t remember his name, only his number.’
    â€˜It’s not a question of remembering or not remembering. Everybody called him the Watchmaker. But you must be able to trace him from the number.’
    The lawyer was sceptical. ‘ If the records were preserved, and if he survived.’
    â€˜Yes,’ Meissner agreed, dejectedly. ‘If he survived.’
    But no trace had been found of Häftling number 163291. He had not been included in any records of inmates who had eventually turned up at other camps, like Mauthausen or Bergen-Belsen.
    The lawyer yawned again. The case was hopeless.
    The president of the court addressed Meissner’s lawyer. ‘Before the verdicts are read out and sentence is passed, does the defendant have anything to say?’
    The lawyer stood. Drawing himself up to his full height, he adjusted his robes, grasping them in his right hand in a pose he imagined to be reminiscent of Cicero addressing the courts of ancient Rome.
    â€˜With the court’s permission, my client would like to read a statement.’
    In the dock, wearing trousers without a belt and a collarless shirt, ex-SS-Hauptsturmführer Paul Meissner rose to his feet. Only weeks before, his ex-commanding officer, Arthur Liebehenschel, had been condemned to death by hanging in this same court-room. But when Meissner spoke, his voice was clear and unwavering.
    â€˜I have not attempted to hide from the court the nature and extent of my activities in Auschwitz.