by Andrew Gross
“Where are we going, Rottenführer?” Leo asked him again. He had not been out here, the other side of the ramp, since his arrival a year ago.
“Don’t ask questions,” the SS corporal barked, having lost all patience. “Turn left here. Just march.”
Leo was sure the coldhearted bastard had him clean up just to march him out into a field outside the grounds and shoot him into a ditch. And then piss on him, just like Leo had seen before.
So this was it.
But they went on and past the ditch and turned on a road Leo had never been on before. There was a row of three brick homes. They stopped in front of the second one in, with gables and a red roof, stone steps, and a hanging flower basket on the recessed front porch.
“Wait here,” the Rottenführer said.
“Where are we?” Leo asked.
“Just look smart, yid.” The Nazi jammed his stick into the crook between Leo’s legs, making Leo wince. “No prisoner has ever stepped foot in here before. This is Lagerkommandant Ackermann’s house.”
Ackermann. A chill ran down Leo’s spine. The assistant commandant of the entire camp. What had he done that they brought him here? Maybe they wanted to turn him into an informer, Leo surmised. If they did, he would refuse. Even if it meant his death. There was no class of prisoner more reviled than those who it was known brought an earful back to the Nazis. Or maybe they wanted to do some vile experiments on him. Leo looked down at the row of homes, hedges, and transplanted fruit trees in the yards, like some bucolic postcard of normalcy amid all this hell, just across the wire. At the end there was an even larger house. This must be where Kommandant Höss resided. Or maybe the dreaded Mengele himself, whose very sight engendered such fear in everyone. This was where the shits could play their cherished Mozart at night and sing their beloved drinking songs, and pretend that the horrors of what they did during the day were just a dream.
Yes, that’s what they were going to do to him, experiments …
Langer went up the steps and knocked at the door. A few seconds later, it opened, and he spoke briefly to someone inside. “Up here. Now!” he called back to Leo.
Leo climbed up.
“Go.” The corporal pushed him to the door. “In.”
Warily, Leo stepped inside. His heart beat rapidly, as if speeded up to five times its normal rate by some drug they had already injected. An interior door was open to reveal a small entry foyer, decorated with flowers and portraits, that led to a tasteful family room. A patterned couch. Wooden side tables, photos on them. A polished wood armoire. Sconces with fluted candles on the walls.
Even a piano.
To Leo, everything about the place seemed to speak of normalcy. It reminded him of his uncle’s home in Moravia. Not the home of a man who had overseen the deaths of thousands of innocent people.
In the camp, Leo had seen Ackermann several times, darkly handsome and expressionless, looking on at roll call or touring the camp with guests, conversing and gesturing naturally as they passed prisoners being beaten like vermin, as if it were the most common thing in the world.
Another guard came up to him. This one, younger, no cap, dark hair, steely gray eyes. “In. There!” He pushed Leo into the family room. “Take off your cap, Jew. Don’t touch anything.” He gestured toward a sitting table, near the windows that were blocked from the sun by patterned curtains.
On the table, there was a chessboard, the pieces set to play.
In front of it were two chairs.
NINETEEN
Footsteps emanated from deeper inside the house, coming down the stairs. Leo’s heart quickened. Ackermann. He heard voices, the young guard snapping to attention in the hallway and announcing that the prisoner was in here.
A voice said, “Thank you, Corporal.”
But it was not the Lagerkommandant’s voice he heard, nor was it he who stepped into the room.
It was the pretty blond woman he had seen in the camp observing some of his matches. She had on a blue print dress, a white sweater over it, and her hair pulled back in a conservative bun, as his mother used to wear it.
He thought she was merely an attendee at the infirmary.
Instead, she was the Lagerkommandant’s wife.
“So you are the famous Leo?” she greeted him in proper German. She gave him a smile; there was a hint of kindness in it. But still at a distance. Not exactly warm.
Leo stood there with his cap in his hands, his mouth dry as sandpaper. “I am, ma’am. Not so famous, though, I think.”
“I am Frau Ackermann,” she said. She took two steps toward him but, of course, made no move to put out her hand. The young guard watched them by the door. “My husband is…”
“I know your husband, ma’am,” Leo said respectfully.
“Yes, of course. I hoped … You may relax. In fact, please, come over here. “She gestured to the chessboard.
Leo stepped over to it. It was hard to ignore the fine, hand-carved pieces in front of him. “May I…?” Leo asked if he could inspect them.
“By all means.” She nodded. “Of course.”
They were alabaster. As finely polished and smooth as any Leo had ever seen. With exquisite detail. The king carried an imperial staff with a crest on it, and the queen was draped in a long, flowing robe. The castles had the kind of finely carved turrets he had seen only in history books. He picked one up, then thought better of it, and placed it back down. “They’re very nice.”
“It was my father’s,” she said. “He liked to play after dinner. With his cigar. He was very good, actually. He could beat most anyone he played. Please, I want you to sit down.”
“Sit…?” He looked at her, not quite understanding. He could see that she seemed as awkward and unsure as him. A prisoner. A Jew, no less, in the Lagerkommandant’s house. Langer said, No one has stepped foot here before. “Me, madame?”
“You are the camp champion, are you not?”
He shrugged indifferently. “I suppose. Yes.”
“Then sit, yes. For many years, after my brothers left home, my father had only me to play with.” She gestured him toward a chair. “I asked you here to play.”
“Play…?” Leo looked her, unsure how to respond. “Ma’am.”
“Yes. Isn’t that what this board is for, Herr Wolciek? To play against me.”
* * *
He sat. Probably a good thing, as his legs suddenly felt numb and lifeless and almost gave way under him. His heart hammered inside. Play—with her. The Lagerkommandant’s wife. In their home. How could he even tell anyone about this?
Who could ever imagine?
“May I…?” she asked, inquiring if she could play white. She gave him the slightest of smiles. “After all, you are camp champion. I have watched you.”
“Yes, ma’am. I have seen you there, but … And of course, white.” Leo put out his hand and pulled up to the table.
She smoothed her dress and took her place on the chair across from him. “So…” she said, and met his eyes.
Leo’s head was dizzy. “So.”
She began. Pawn to queen four. Knight to king’s bishop three. Leo recognized it quickly as the King’s Indian Defense. A heady opening. Not many players these days started that way. Leo thought back to a famous match between the great Capablanca and an Englishman, Yates, and tried to recall through his daze how the moves developed. He was nervous. Petrified to make a wrong move. She played quickly, confidently. His heart beat through his chest. He had to keep his wits together just to keep up.
The young guard stood and watched them impassively at the door.
“This is good,” she said, pleased to see how Leo countered her advance. “My father used to say, if you can outwit the King’s Indian, you will have no difficulty outwitting the vast majority of people in life. Do you agree, Herr Wolciek?”
“I do not know, ma’am.”
“Yes, I’m sure you’re a bit nervous to agree to anything. Please relax. It’s just chess. It is just the two of u
s. Well, three.” She eyed the young guard with the tiniest of smiles.
“Yes, ma’am.” Leo was too afraid to say anything else.
A housemaid stepped into the room.
“Coffee?” Frau Ackermann asked. “Maybe a cake? Or some fruit?”
Coffee? Fruit? A cake? Leo was sure she could see the lump travel down his throat. These were delicacies here, available only in the imagination of someone keen on torturing himself. Or maybe paid for by only the largest of bribes. And then, only scraps, stolen from the kitchen trash. Whatever the Germans left behind.
Leo licked his lips but still shook his head. He was too unsettled to even speak. He just moved his piece. Bishop to queen four. “Later then, Hedda,” Frau Ackermann said to the maid. “You may leave the basket.”
“Yes, Frau Ackermann,” the housemaid said, and left. She had seemed as nervous as Leo.
They continued on. He watched her thinking out his moves, a finger pressed to her lips, and then quickly replying. It was clear her father had taught her well. She saw through a few of his early ruses, meant to lure her into an unfavorable exchange. And when she did spot his intent, she met his eyes with the faintest of pleased smiles.
“I am happy to have already lasted this long with a player of your skill.”
Queen to king’s bishop five. Leo cleared his throat and barely got the word out of his throat. “Check.”
“I see.” She was beautiful. Even in the modest way she covered herself up. Early thirties, he thought. Her eyes were almond-shaped and a soft blue. When she thought she sometimes bit her lower lip, which had a soft covering of red lipstick on it. When Leo looked at her, he glanced at her only for a split second, and when she looked at him, he quickly averted his gaze.
In truth, he had never been alone with a woman before.
“Let’s see now…” She advanced a pawn, blocking her king from the danger.
They continued deeper into the game. A dilemma began to develop for him. How was he expected to play this? This was the Lagerkommandant’s wife. She held the power of life and death over him. Like any of the guards, if she snapped her fingers, she could just have him sent and killed. Should he let her win? Clearly she knew what she was doing, so it would take only a single careless move and would not be so hard. If this were her husband, or any one of the guards, he could see them disposing of any Jew with the audacity to insult one of them. Even a perceived insult. And this was the camp boss’s wife? His head went into a spin, and everything he knew about the game seemed to spiral away as if caught up in a swirling wind. He decided to give her a test. He moved up his bishop to attack her queen but left it open to her rook.
“Herr Wolciek,” she said, pausing after his move. “Your bishop…?”
Their eyes met. For the first time really. Leo’s heart was galloping three times its normal rate. He was afraid she would hear it above the silence, pounding like mad in his chest. He was afraid she would detect what was going through his head.
“But of course you saw that,” she said, letting him off the hook. Her eyes narrowed just a bit, both apologetic and in their own way, reproving, as if to say, Not again. Please.
“Thank you, ma’am.”
The rest of the game they did not converse. They just played; the time between her moves grew longer. Once or twice, Leo let his eyes linger on the tempting shape of her dress. He could not help imagining what she looked like underneath. He let his mind wander, to her undergarments—he had never seen a woman’s undergarments, save his mother’s. The fluid curve beneath her sweater as she leaned to move. Her breasts …
“Herr Wolciek … I believe it is your move.”
“Sorry, ma’am.” He cleared his throat. Rook to queen five. With a blush.
They were set up for a multipiece exchange, which Leo saw would not be to his advantage. Nonetheless, he decided to take the plunge. It would leave him down a rook. They moved the five moves of the exchange in rapid succession. It left his castled king weakly protected. When she saw her position at the end of the exchange, she looked at him again, her eyes suspect, glistening a little, not quite sure.
“I should never have taken the bait,” Leo admitted with a shrug. “I fear there is not much point in letting this continue on.”
He could see, she didn’t know whether to be pleased or angry with him.
“You play very well, Frau Ackermann.” Leo turned over his king. “Your father has taught you well.”
“Thank you. Perhaps we will play again.” She met his eyes. “If you are lucky.”
Lucky. The word ran through him. Leo knew precisely what she meant. And it was nothing to do with the chess. “I hope that will be the case,” he said.
“And maybe the next time I will beat you for real,” she said with a tone of admonishment. Her sharp eyes contained the hint of a sage smile.
“Please get the Rottenführer,” she called to the young guard. “Our guest is set to leave. But you will take these, of course.” She wrapped two sugar cakes and an apple in a napkin. “With my compliments. Here they will only go to my husband’s waistline.”
“Thank you, Frau Ackermann.” Leo stood up and took the offering. The hair on his arms raised as their hands slightly touched.
“May I?” Leo asked. He pointed warily toward a large plum. It had a private significance to him. He had not even seen one since that fateful day at the fruit stand.
“Of course. See he gets back safely, Corporal,” she said to Langer, who had come in from the outside. “And with my gifts, if you please.”
“Of course, Frau Ackermann.” Leo could see Langer gritting his teeth with held-in anger at having to escort Leo back to the block with his cache of treasures.
She got up.
“And next time,” she looked back at Leo, the slightest smile in her eyes, “you will have to earn your treats, Herr Wolciek. Not be given them. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” Leo bowed his head and smiled back. “I do understand.”
Next time … Leo said to himself on the walk back to camp. Those words were about the happiest he had heard since he first arrived in this godforsaken place.
The place didn’t look quite as bad as he came back to it. Even with Langer prodding him.
He had someone watching out for him now.
TWENTY
She sent for him again the following week. And then again, a few days after that.
The next week as well.
Each time Rottenführer Langer came around to the block to escort Leo late in the afternoon while her husband was still at work. And each time they stopped at the shower and he had Leo scrub himself clean. Though with each new visit the guard seemed to grow more and more displeased with the task.
And each time he marched Leo past the black wall and through the front gate, past the train ramp where he had arrived that first night, to the row of brick houses whose flowers were now starting to bloom. By the third visit the guards at the front gate merely shook their heads in amusement and rolled their eyes at Langer as he and Leo went by. And each time the same young SS private watched by the parlor door while Leo and the Lagerkommandant’s wife played their game. And no longer did Leo let her win unchallenged.
And each time he returned to camp he carried back with him a napkin wrapped with treats: cakes, fruit, even chocolates, worth a hundred cigarettes in there. Prizes he willingly shared with his block mates, some of whom laughed at him for his well-placed protectress. The Queen of Mercy, they named her, for as long as Leo remained under her protection, maybe his good fortune would spill over onto them. He was their Scheherazade. Just keep her amused, they all begged. “The longer you play, we will all be safe.”
Others scowled that Leo was no better than the lowest form of collaborator. How could he spend time sucking up to such filth? She was as guilty as any of them. “She shares the bed of the very bastard who makes sure the daily death quotas are met!”
“I am perfectly happy doing what I have to do,” Leo defended
himself, “if it buys me one more day here. And you should as well, Drabik, if you had any brains in your head.”
Their second match, Leo played much more relaxed. Frau Ackermann tried a more conventional opening, which Leo easily handled. In truth, he could have put her away within twenty moves, but he enjoyed the time he spent there—in the spell of a beautiful woman, and the fact that no Jew had ever had this privilege. He didn’t want it to end so quickly. So he prolonged things by swapping a few pieces that made it a fight for territory in the end game, which he easily won.
Each new match, Frau Ackermann grew more relaxed as well. She actually dropped the formal “Herr” and called him by his given name now and then, and between moves, she even asked where he was from and how he learned to play. She volunteered that she was from Bremen, in the North, where all the big breweries were. “You like beer, Leo?” she asked. He felt sure she was toying with him a bit. “You’re probably not old enough. You’ve probably never had a good beer.”
“I’ve had beer,” Leo said, trying to make himself seem older than he was. In fact, it had only been once, a few sips, on his father’s last birthday before he was killed when Leo was eleven.
She had beautiful, large eyes, and when pleased, like when Leo complimented her on a move, or when she saw what he was up to and countered smartly, they were quick to brighten into a sage smile. And yet he saw that there was a sadness to her as well. Like a caged bird that had grown accustomed to her captivity but dreamed of something beyond. Or someone living a life other than what she had envisioned. He imagined that in a different setting, she could be charming and witty and smart, and in his mind he saw her, at a party, with a glass of champagne in her hand, in a free-flowing, red dress. Yet here, by his fourth visit, he began to get the sense that this was the one thing she looked forward to most. That freed her from the horror she was party to here. His fifth game, it was a warm, summery day and she no longer wore her sweater. Her collar was open another button and fell tantalizingly over her breast so that between moves, Leo’s mind roamed to what was underneath, the tiniest hint of cleavage showing through. Maybe once she even caught Leo leaning forward just a bit to stare at it.
