The Death's Head Chess Club Read Online Free Page A

forfeit it.’
    Before Emil could reply, a fourth person burst into the tournament office. Red-haired and overweight, he stood for a moment in the doorway to catch his breath, eyeing Berghuis accusingly. That he was furious was obvious.
    â€˜Did you hear the radio this morning?’
    â€˜No.’ Berghuis cast an alarmed glance at his assistant but her eyes werefixed on Emil. Berghuis swallowed anxiously. ‘Why?’
    â€˜Clément was interviewed by Piet de Woert on his culture show. He was asked if he maintained his view that there were no good Germans. He said that not only did he maintain it, but he gave his reasons why. It is an outrage!’
    Lijsbeth Pietersen could see a disaster unfolding before her very eyes. Standing stock-still, her lips compressed into a rigid smile, she felt compelled to interrupt. ‘Herr Schweninger, may I present Monsieur Clément?’
    Her words had an effect similar to a car being driven off a cliff at high speed: they seemed to hang silently in mid-air while the people in the room struggled to understand what had happened.
    Emil was the first to recover. He addressed the German in his own language. ‘An outrage, you say, Herr Schweninger? If you consider freedom of speech an outrage, then I suppose you are right – what I said is an outrage, though I should have expected no less from one such as you.’ He shook his head. ‘But let me tell you what an outrage really is. It is when millions of people are murdered for no other crime than being born a Jew, including my mother and my children. That is what I consider to be an outrage, Herr Schweninger.’
    â€˜Perhaps it—’ But Lijsbeth Pietersen did not get to finish.
    â€˜How dare you?’ Schweninger bellowed, then turned on his heel and stormed out, slamming the door behind him.
    The arbiter, the administrator and Emil Clément looked at one another.
    â€˜Well, I suppose it might have been worse,’ Berghuis remarked.
    â€˜How?’ Lijsbeth asked, shaking her head. ‘How could it possibly have been worse?’
    â€˜Twenty years ago he could have had us sent to a concentration camp,’ Emil said, acidly.
    Berghuis could not hide his exasperation. ‘Will you please stop saying things like that?’
    Emil turned to face him. ‘Why? Because they are true?’
    â€˜No. Because it is 1962. Hasn’t anyone told you – the war is over. It is time to move on.’
    Only Lijsbeth Pietersen remained calm. ‘What is important is what we do about the situation. Mijnheer Clément, is it your intention to withdraw from the competition?’
    Something had changed in Emil: minutes before he had been on the verge of quitting, but not now. ‘Certainly not. I will play him and I will humiliate him and it will serve him right.’
    Emil hurried back to Leidseplein, not seeing anything or anyone as he pushed his way past shoppers and office workers, not slowing his pace until he arrived, breathless, at the café.
    The barman recognized him and smiled. ‘Good morning, mijnheer. Coffee?’
    â€˜No. Something stronger. Cognac.’ The barman glanced at the clock but said nothing. ‘Is there anyone in who will give me a game this morning?’ Emil asked when he had recovered his breath.
    â€˜I think so. By the way – did you know there is a big chess tournament in town? It was all over the radio this morning.’
    Emil took the brandy and swallowed it in one. ‘Yes, I knew.’
    In the parlour a board was already set up, with an elderly man seated behind it, waiting.
    â€˜May I?’ Emil asked. The old man nodded and, taking a white and a black pawn in his hands, held them out for Emil to choose. ‘If you don’t mind,’ Emil said, ‘I would like to play black.’
    â€˜Not at all.’ The old man turned the board so the white pieces were on his side. He advanced his queen’s pawn two