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

squares.
    Emil did not make a move but closed his eyes, allowing his hands to fall to his lap as if in prayer. He was still for a moment. ‘Forgive me,’ he said, when he opened his eyes. ‘It’s a little ritual I must go through before every game.’ He moved his king’s knight so that it stood in front of its bishop.
    The old man immediately moved his queen’s bishop’s pawn forward two squares. Emil responded with the same move. The old man ignored the gambit and moved his first pawn forward one square. Emil moved his queen’s knight’s pawn forward two spaces. The old man took it.
    â€˜If you don’t mind my saying so,’ he said, ‘that is a most unusual defence. I don’t think I’ve seen it before.’
    â€˜No,’ Emil replied. ‘It is called the Benoni Defence. It means “Son of Sorrow”.’

5.
    A Q UEEN ’ S P AWN G AME
    January 1944
Solahütte, SS country club, German-occupied Silesia
    Despite the chill, Meissner did not feel quite ready to quit the veranda and go in for dinner: he had wanted a few moments of solitude to add a brief observation to his journal. His fellow officers enthused constantly about the SS country club and what a fine place it was for winding down after the rigours and stresses of camp duty, but this was the first time he had visited it. They had not exaggerated. Set on a hillside with spectacular views of the surrounding hills and forests, it was a haven of tranquillity; at least until the evenings, when, inevitably, after a few drinks, somebody would start on the piano, or an accordion, and the songs would begin. It put him in mind of happier days, before the war. There were even women here, SS-Aufseherinnen, supervisors in the women’s and family camps. Meissner smiled to himself. They had taken quite a shine to him: his Iron Cross was like a magnet. He wondered if they would be quite so enamoured of his wooden leg. Taking a last drag on his cigarette, he flicked it over the balcony and went inside.
    Dinner at Solahütte was informal, and he took a place at a table with Vinzenz Schottl, the Monowitz Lagerführer, and Erich Weber, one of the SS doctors. To their surprise, they were joined by the Kommandant, recently promoted to Obersturmbannführer. They stood as he pulled outa chair, but Liebehenschel insisted they should not stand on formality.
    â€˜Gentlemen, please. Here we are all comrades in the SS, no?’
    Dinner was served by ranks of Polish waiters in immaculate white jackets. The dinner service was Königliche porcelain and the glasses Bohemian crystal. Afterwards, cigars and cognac were served.
    A relaxed Paul Meissner exhaled a stream of grey smoke, appreciating the exquisite flavour. ‘Where on earth do these come from?’ he asked.
    â€˜Havana, I believe,’ Weber said, whose father was in the diplomatic service. ‘Via Portugal and Spain.’
    â€˜One of the privileges of serving in the Totenkopfverbände,’ Schottl broke in. ‘After all, there have to be some compensations for what we are forced to put up with.’
    Meissner had heard such observations before. This time he demurred. ‘I must say I find life here rather easy compared with fighting the Russians.’
    â€˜For you, maybe,’ Weber said, tapping his cigar and letting the ash fall to the floor. He fixed Paul with a supercilious smile. ‘My duties are perhaps a little more . . . taxing than yours.’
    The hours Paul had spent in the field hospital were burned deep into his memory: the dirt, the blood, the cries of pain, and the ever-present sound of gunfire. ‘Really? You are a surgeon, are you not?’ The doctor nodded in assent. ‘I wonder,’ Meissner continued, ‘when you last performed surgery under fire?’
    Weber reddened and shot the Waffen-SS man an angry glare.
    The Kommandant intervened. ‘Gentlemen, please. Let us have no harsh