The Last Checkmate

by Gabriella Saab

  “When you were a boy, did your parents know every time you disobeyed them?”

  He chuckled. “No, I suppose they didn’t.”

  My lie must have been far more convincing than it felt. If Ebner believed my parents had been unaware of my resistance work, surely I could convince him they hadn’t been involved alongside me. Whatever it took to spare my family an interrogation.

  Ebner dropped his cigarette stub onto the floor and ground it under his boot heel to extinguish the smoldering embers. He placed the certificate next to my Kennkarte and leaned closer, slow and calculated, eyes alight, prepared to ensnare his prey. Although I tried not to move, I gripped the edge of my seat.

  “For whom are you working?”

  His voice remained even, but all I heard was the unspoken threat behind the question. A selfish part of me tried to force its way to the surface, desperate to prevent what would come if I stayed quiet, but I pushed it back. I wouldn’t let the Gestapo turn me into a traitor.

  My fingers ached, unable to loosen their hold on my seat. Ebner retained the power to do anything to me. To my family. Sitting in the tram, I’d overheard how the Gestapo rewarded prisoners who didn’t give the answers they sought. And my time was coming; I knew it was.

  “My family lives in Berlin,” Ebner said as he settled into his chair. “It’s difficult being away from them.”

  This man was putting me, a girl, through Gestapo interrogation. Did he really think I’d believe he was sentimental?

  “My wife, Brigitte, is a housewife. Hans is near your age, and he wants to become a lawyer. Anneliese is younger and says she’ll get married and have beautiful Aryan babies, but first, she’ll own a store which sells dolls, dresses, and chocolates.” He flashed an amused smile.

  Discovering he had children left me with a small ray of hope; in the next instant it faded. I knew better than to trust him. The tactic was a good one, I gave him that. But not good enough.

  “If you answer my questions, I will arrange for your release. And your family’s. Now, surely you can tell me who gave you your orders.”

  The bribe sounded so genuine. If I hadn’t suspected that it was a bluff, he would have convinced me. Naturally I wanted my family released, but, even if I betrayed the resistance and confessed, somehow I didn’t think Ebner would let us go.

  When I didn’t comply, he jerked his head in a nod, issuing a silent order. Before I could guess what it was, the guards lifted me as if I weighed nothing, and my chair clattered against the floor. They disregarded my struggles and tore off my skirt. Why were they taking off my clothing? It was happening too fast, much too fast. So fast that I had no time to resist.

  Irena was right. They aren’t taking pity on me because I’m young.

  The guards stripped me of everything except undergarments—a small, unexpected blessing—and slammed my back against the wall. They searched my clothing first, then tossed it aside and discovered the small seams in my brassiere, betraying hidden pockets.

  The pockets are empty. I wanted to scream the words, but I could scream them only inside my mind. Don’t search them, please don’t search them.

  But I knew they would, and they did. They searched my entire body and probed the pockets thoroughly, relishing my flinches and struggles while Ebner watched in silence. After they groped me, I was too breathless to struggle. I glanced at the woman in the corner, praying she’d come to my aid, but she placed a fresh sheet of paper in the typewriter and paid me no mind. I shrank back, acutely aware of my near nakedness among these wicked people.

  It’s an intimidation tactic. Don’t let them know it’s working.

  My breath came in shallow gasps, though I tried to steady it while Ebner skirted the table and fallen chair on his way toward me. He absorbed every centimeter of my small, exposed frame. As he approached, a tremor seized my body—whether from cold, terror, shame, or all three, I didn’t know. Gone was his pretense of camaraderie. I was his enemy, not a child; just a resistance member who hadn’t fallen for his wiles. Someone he would break.

  He grasped my jaw and raised my head, yelling and spitting while his tobacco-laden breath filled my nostrils. He demanded to know whom I served, insisting that he’d uncover the truth if he had to pry every damn word out of my Polack mouth. Even if I’d been willing to answer, the tirade left my throat too dry for words, and when he released me he crossed to the far wall. The one with the torture instruments.

  I twitched against my captors and prayed that the pathetic gesture would break their holds so I could flee from the hell I was about to endure.

  It didn’t, of course.

  Ebner caressed the metal rod, the chains, the whip, and I dug my fingernails into my palms. At last he made his choice. A club. More merciful than the whip, I supposed, though I couldn’t swallow the bile in my throat. When he reached me, I turned aside, but he caught my chin and made me face him. My unsteady breaths were the only sound until he touched the club to my temple, and worse than the solid weapon against my skin were the words that followed.

  “Every prisoner pleads for death, but until I have answers, I don’t grant it. Remember that when you beg me to shoot you.”

  Though Ebner’s voice reached my ears, it was Irena’s I heard.

  By the time they’re finished with you, you’ll be begging them to put a bullet in your skull.

  * * *

  Two and a Half Months Earlier

  Warsaw, 14 March 1941

  The steady thump of Tata’s cane against the cobblestone sidewalk broke the quiet hovering over the Mokotów district. The morning sun was reflected in the silver handle, worn smooth from daily use following Tata’s service in the Great War. I drew a strange comfort from the shuffle of his limping gait and the rhythmic tap of his cane. His physical strength had been compromised, but his strength of character was the part of him that no injury could steal.

  Ominous field-gray uniforms caught my eye—Schutzstaffel, the National Socialist Party’s Protection Squadron, or SS. Across the street, two officers smoked cigarettes and carried on a conversation. When Mama noticed them, she looked over her shoulder at Tata. It was a look I’d caught them sharing ever since the invasion. Concern and doubt, interlaced in glances so fleeting they’d be easy to overlook if I hadn’t grown accustomed to them. As we approached the end of our block, I rushed to Zofia’s side, awaiting the inevitable. Sure enough, she stumbled and yelped. I laughed and caught her arm to steady her.

  “You trip over those loose cobblestones every time, Zofia.”

  She cast a bitter glance at the stones scattered around us. “Someone needs to fix them.”

  In response, I pulled one of her golden curls, then released it so it sprang back into a tight coil. She giggled and waved me away. A hole lay beneath the cluster of cobblestones, but we kicked them back to re-cover it. Once the trap was laid for the next unsuspecting victim, Tata scooped up Karol, who stole the wide-brimmed gray fedora from our father’s head and placed it on his own.

  “Zofia, Karol, have fun at Park Dreszera and listen to your father.” Mama adjusted their coats before glancing at me. “Maria and I are picking up rations, so we’ll see you at home.”

  As our mother kissed my siblings goodbye, Tata offered me a wink. He had shared many discreet winks with me these past few days, ever since I revealed that I was privy to his and Mama’s secret. Since I had eavesdropped on their whispered conversations late at night while my siblings were sleeping; discovered anti-Nazi pamphlets distributed by the Polish resistance hidden in our apartment; found identifications naming my parents Antoni and Stanisława Pilarczyk, not Aleksander and Natalia Florkowski. Since I had asked to join the Polish underground alongside them, to help free my home from the invaders who persecuted Jews, non-Jewish Poles like my family, anyone who was not Aryan or defied the Third Reich.

  Mama and I were picking up rations, it was true. But not until after my first day of resistance work.

  “Do you want to play chess with me when we g
et home?” I asked Zofia, while Mama checked her handbag to ensure she’d brought the ration cards.

  She made a disgusted face. “Chess is boring.”

  “That’s because you won’t let me teach you how to play.” I attempted to tug a curl again, but she slapped my hand away and darted out of reach.

  “I’ll play chess with you, Maria. Zofia, you can set up Monopoly,” Mama said. A few years before the war, my father had returned from a trip to Germany and surprised us with the game, an American import; ever since, it had been my sister’s favorite.

  We parted ways. As Mama and I sidestepped patches of snow and ice, we passed apartments and shops that had survived the bombings, but gaping holes indicated less fortunate buildings. Nazi propaganda contaminated every wall and storefront, and each bloodred poster featured a loathsome black swastika against a white circle. A street vendor offered Mama a brooch from his collection of trinkets, but she politely declined without slowing her pace.

  Once inside a small gray apartment building in the Mokotów district, we discreetly followed a narrow hallway covered in cheerful yellow paint. Mama rushed to the last door on the right, knocked three times, waited, and knocked twice more. An unusual pattern, one I hadn’t heard her use before. A short woman opened the door, and Mama shoved me inside.

  Though I’d learned that Mrs. Sienkiewicz was a prominent resistance figure, it was difficult to grasp because I knew her as my mother’s friend. She welcomed us with a beaming smile and fresh ersatz tea. I drank mine to be polite, though I wished the unpleasant mixture were real tea. I sat next to Mama on the sofa and studied a large portrait over the mantel. It depicted Mrs. Sienkiewicz and her late husband on their wedding day—she in a beautiful white lace dress, he in a decorated Polish army uniform.

  “This is dangerous work, Maria, as I’m sure you understand,” Mrs. Sienkiewicz said. “Until you’re familiar with what we do, you’ll have a companion at all times.”

  That was the last thing I’d expected to hear. Mama eyed me with disapproval, probably warning me not to look so sullen. At least the arrangement was temporary, and I supposed it would be beneficial to learn from someone. Once I’d proved myself, I could work alone. Mrs. Sienkiewicz disappeared to fetch my companion. She returned with her daughter.

  Irena stepped into the room behind her mother and frowned at the sight of me. “Shit.”

  Not quite the reaction I was hoping for from a colleague, but not unexpected when that colleague was Irena.

  Mrs. Sienkiewicz grabbed her daughter’s forearm. “Language.”

  I couldn’t pretend that I didn’t share Irena’s feelings; the idea of working with her didn’t appeal to me, either. Irena had always acted as if our three-year age difference were three hundred, even prior to the war, when we’d sat through endless dinners with our parents. She listened while the adults expressed fears that war was brewing, discussed Nazi Germany’s Anschluss, a plan to unify with Austria; I, eleven years old at the time, hated the thought of my father returning to military service, though he insisted it was impossible for him to fight. I had no reason to fear he would be sent away, where he might be injured again. Despite his reassurances, the incessant talk of increasing strife in Europe always prompted me to escape to my chessboard.

  On that spring day in 1938, after the conversation about the Anschluss, Irena had followed me into my family’s living room, where my racing heart was already slowing as I plotted my opening strategy. “One day, when you’re older, you’ll understand there are more important things to worry about than that damn game,” she said, leaving me no time to reply before returning to her place at the dining table.

  Perhaps she mistook my focus on chess for indifference toward the risk her father and so many others would undertake should war come to Poland; still, I bristled at the way she had spat when you’re older, as though youth were synonymous with ignorance. As for the so-called game, she had refused the few times I had offered to teach her how to play, yet I was the ignorant one?

  But the same condescending glower she’d given me that day returned now.

  “Maria is the new recruit?” Irena looked at her mother as if she’d been betrayed. “Mama, you said I’d be teaching a new member, not becoming a nanny.”

  I sipped my ersatz tea, but it was as bitter as the retort that rose in my throat. Keeping the words within the confines of my mind wasn’t as satisfying, but I refused to wither beneath her scowl. “I’ll learn quickly,” I replied instead.

  “Allow me to give you your first lesson.” Irena sat on the coffee table in front of me and clapped both hands onto my knees. I recoiled, before making a conscious effort not to give her the satisfaction. She leaned closer until I could see a tiny gold crucifix around her neck and count each delicate link in its chain. “There’s a special place in hell for resistance members who get caught. It’s called Pawiak Prison. And if all secret policemen were devils, the Gestapo would be Satan himself. Those bastards won’t take pity on you because you’re young, and by the time they’re finished with you, you’ll be begging them to put a bullet in your skull—”

  “Enough.” Mrs. Sienkiewicz’s cheeks looked as if they’d been painted with an entire pot of rouge. Before she could say more, Irena stood and marched into the kitchen.

  A sudden chill swept over me after Irena’s successful efforts to terrify me, and I resented her even more for it. I was well aware of the dangers I’d face. No need for the reminder.

  Mrs. Sienkiewicz sighed. “Please forgive Irena’s behavior, and her swearing. I’ve tried everything to make her stop, but since we joined this cause after her father . . .” Her voice faded, then she cleared her throat. “Maria, if Irena is inappropriate while you’re working together, let me know and I’ll talk to her.”

  Did she think I was stupid enough to tattle? I valued my life, thank you. “I’ll keep that in mind,” I said aloud.

  “And don’t worry, dear, she’ll come around.” The uncertainty in her tone didn’t instill much confidence.

  She joined Irena in the kitchen, and I concentrated on the muffled conversation carrying through the walls, on Irena’s complaints that she’d be encumbered by me, a child.

  Mama sat with her lips pressed together while I placed my teacup on the silver tray and ran a finger over the sofa’s floral upholstery. Irena’s disparaging gaze and caustic tongue would place me under constant scrutiny. She’d analyze me the way I analyzed a chessboard, seeking weaknesses to inhibit my opponent. I didn’t intend to lose to her. As an established resistance member, she had the initial advantage, but she’d need more than that to overcome me.

  After Mrs. Sienkiewicz coaxed Irena back into the living room, Mama embraced me, her grasp tight, breaths unsteady. I inhaled her familiar scent—geranium, her favorite flower. When she kissed the top of my head, the tautness in her body eased.

  “Be careful,” she whispered as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear, probably to distract me from her glassy eyes.

  Mrs. Sienkiewicz wrapped a comforting arm around Mama’s shoulders and led her from the apartment, off to complete their own resistance errands. The door closed with a gentle click, and a tense silence hung in the room until Irena broke it.

  “Don’t expect a damn thing from me. The work comes first, not the people.”

  “Glad I can count on you, Irena.”

  “It’s Marta, you idiot.” She pulled her false work permit and Kennkarte from her handbag and waved them to emphasize her alias. We exchanged identification documents. “Helena Pilarczyk,” she said, reading mine aloud. It was a good name. I liked it—not as much as I liked Maria Florkowska, but I liked it. Irena snatched her card, shoved mine into my hands, and left without waiting for me.

  “What’s our first errand?” I asked as I hurried to match her long strides.

  “If I wanted you to ask questions, I would’ve said so.”

  A knot of anger tightened in my stomach, but I stayed silent. We walked past dilapidated bakeries a
nd battle-scarred churches, bare parks and meager storefronts. Some fought for a semblance of their former splendor; others had given up. The crowd swelled as we moved toward the city center. I expected Irena to lead me to a streetcar so we could make the journey in half the time, but she didn’t. She darted down the street and wove in and out among passersby; whether or not I kept up didn’t seem to matter.

  At last we turned on to Hoża Street, one of my favorites due to its multitude of trees, covered with green leaves and vibrant blooms during springtime. A few buds were cautiously starting to emerge, but maintaining Irena’s pace didn’t leave me time to admire them. I followed her toward a cluster of buildings, the provincial house of the Franciscan Sisters of the Family of Mary. Irena bypassed the black gate nestled within the redbrick wall, stopped before a small wooden door, and pressed the doorbell.

  “Marta Naganowska is here to see Mother Matylda,” she said.

  The door opened to reveal a young sister clad in a black habit with a deep purple rope around her waist and a rosary at her hip. She led us into a cobblestone courtyard, flanked on three sides by the convent. A few trees were scattered amid the white stucco and rust-colored brick buildings, and in a large, circular flowerbed a white statue of Saint Joseph holding the Child Jesus surveyed the lush space. It was quiet and tranquil, a retreat nestled within the city. We went into a small room. There, seated at a square wooden table and engaged in a fervent telephone call, was Mother Matylda.

  The elderly mother provincial didn’t look up when we entered. “You’re certain you’ll accept God’s blessing?” She adjusted the large black crucifix around her neck, then ran a finger over the three round buds that adorned each arm. After a moment she closed her eyes, and her shoulders heaved with a small sigh. “I’m so glad, my friend.”

  While Irena toyed with her own crucifix, I noticed a small notebook on the table. It covered a cluster of documents, but one was askew. I moved toward the bookshelf beside her, as if examining titles by various saints and theologians. I flipped through a worn copy of Augustine’s Confessions and peeked at the paper. A baptismal certificate, partially completed with personal information. Intrigued, I stepped closer, but a sharp cough almost made me drop the book. I hugged it to my chest and whirled to find Irena pointing to the vacant space beside her. I narrowed my eyes, but returned the book and joined her.