At last Mother Matylda hung up the telephone, scribbled in her notebook, and gave Irena a bright smile. “Marta, how wonderful to see you. And you’ve brought a friend.”
Irena didn’t seem fond of Mother Matylda’s use of the word friend, but she didn’t dispute it. Instead she waved a dismissive hand in my direction. “Helena.” She reached into her blouse, produced a slip of paper from her brassiere, and handed it over. “I have a prayer request, Reverend Mother. My mother is sick.”
Mother Matylda accepted the small paper. “May God grant her health and a long life,” she murmured as she unfolded the paper and placed it on the table. I strained my eyes to glimpse its contents. In Mrs. Sienkiewicz’s elegant script was a list of names, and one stood out to me. Stanisława Pilarczyk, my mother’s alias.
The paper stayed on my mind as we returned to the Sienkiewiczes’ apartment. Irena tossed her coat over the back of an armchair and dropped into it, paying me no heed. My feet felt three sizes too big for my shoes, so I curled my toes to alleviate the throbbing. We must have walked eight kilometers. I wasn’t sure why she was opposed to streetcars.
“You keep messages in your bra?” I asked at last.
Irena studied her nails. “All resistance girls have padded bras with pockets in them.”
“And that’s your method for smuggling information to religious sisters?”
“I’m taking advantage of the gifts God gave me.” Irena looked up long enough to smirk at me. “You should get a bra like that, you know. Does that bother you? Because if you’re too prudish to hide information wherever necessary, you might as well quit now.” She chuckled as she kicked off her oxfords and tucked her feet under her in the chair.
I’m glad you find yourself so amusing, I thought, though I didn’t voice the words aloud. Instead I moved closer to her chair, but she got up and crossed toward the mantel. “You gave Mother Matylda a coded message, didn’t you?”
“Figure it out, if you’re so damn smart.”
“You’re supposed to be teaching me, and you’re doing a terrible job.”
“I am teaching you. I told you about the bra you’ll need to wear, and I’m telling you to figure out the message for yourself.”
With a huff, I paced around the room and settled beside the writing desk in the corner. A thin film of dust covered the typewriter, as if it hadn’t been used in a few days, and a paperweight rested atop a stack of papers. I picked up a pencil and tapped a finger against its dull point. Rather than running errands with a helpful resistance member, I would be carrying out mine in Irena’s difficult company.
“Irena.” When she heard her real name, she glared and returned to her chair, and I enjoyed my small victory before continuing. “Tell me why Mother Matylda was creating baptismal certificates and why my mother’s alias was on that paper.”
“Good Lord,” she muttered, but she shooed me into the chair across from hers. “How the hell do you expect the sisters to disguise Jewish children without certificates? They have to prepare the documents so resistance members can smuggle children from the ghetto.”
“Mama is taking a child to the sisters?”
“Tomorrow, which is what I indicated by saying my mother was sick. The child will be taken to a Catholic family or one of the sisters’ orphanages outside Warsaw. When Mother Matylda asks someone if they’ll accept God’s blessing, she’s asking if they’ll care for the Jewish child. As for you, you’ll go with me to deliver messages and funds, but you won’t touch confidential information until you’re deemed worthy—if that day ever comes.”
The words stung, though I shouldn’t have let them. Despite her proclivity for reminding me of my inferiority, every scathing remark fueled my determination to prove myself.
“At the start of the war, you were only fifteen when you joined early resistance activities,” I reminded her.
“Yes, but I had been staying informed, not hiding behind a chessboard. One more thing.” Irena leaned closer to me and dropped her voice. “All resistance members risk their lives, but I don’t intend to lose mine for anyone. You’ll do what I tell you, and if you cross me or jeopardize me, I will make your life hell. Am I clear?”
More threats. Unlike her story about what the Gestapo did to resistance members sent to Pawiak, this warning didn’t scare me.
My favorite chess piece was the pawn. A strange choice, perhaps, because pawns weren’t the most important, but, when one reached the opposite end of the board, it had the unique ability to transform into a more powerful piece. Suddenly a meager pawn shifted the entire balance.
In this game, I was a pawn, and every moment with Irena taught me more about how to shift the balance. I moved to the edge of my chair and clapped my hands upon her knees, mirroring her actions of the morning. Her pleased smirk disappeared, but she didn’t blink when I tightened my grip and flashed the sweetest smile I could muster.
“Clear as can be.”
Her jaw remained set, but the look in her eyes was satisfying enough, as if we were in the midst of a chess game and my play had dashed her intended strategy. Soon, she would realize I was no longer the little girl who shied away from the war, and that every moment I had spent playing chess had taught me how to strategize and outwit the opponents I would face in this work. Before she could respond, a key turned in the door, announcing Mama and Mrs. Sienkiewicz’s return.
Irena got up. “Until next time, Helena.”
“Resistance work is over.” I stood and lifted my chin. “It’s Maria.”
* * *
Warsaw, 27 May 1941
As I curled onto the floor in the interrogation room, I wondered how long Ebner would leave me this time before he started again. My forehead was damp with sweat, my face streaked with remnants of salty tears, and my shaking hands wiped away evidence of both as best I could. The acrid taste of vomit lingered in my mouth.
He could hear I don’t know and believe me and please only so many times before he tired of me. And then what?
When the guards picked me up, I tensed, but they returned me to my chair. I slumped against the table, grateful for the respite, and the typewriter dinged again. Click, click, ding! Over and over while the woman responsible did nothing but transcribe. Mouth closed, face blank, empty of either detestation or compassion. Even through a particularly aggressive series of blows, when I’d made eye contact with her and screamed for help, she’d ignored me.
Ebner sat across from me, and his bloodshot eyes held no sympathy, no regret, just anger and frustration. His cheeks were ruddy, sleeves pushed up, hair disheveled, upper lip and hairline beaded with sweat. Hours of threatening and beating a child took their toll.
During my interrogation, I’d kept my resistance knowledge in a refuge deep within the recesses of my mind. Now I was tired, so tired, and desperate for a glass of water. When Ebner’s chair creaked, I prayed it was over, but the sinister gleam in his eyes said otherwise.
“Fetch the family,” he said to the guards. “Maybe they can help us jog the girl’s memory. Start with the boy.”
He’s bluffing; please, God, let him be bluffing. They wouldn’t torture a four-year-old. But I’d witnessed firsthand what they could do, and I knew they would.
“Wait, please wait!”
At my cry, Ebner slammed both hands on the table so hard it made me recoil. “You think you’re so fucking brave, sitting here like a damn mute?” He was beside me in an instant, and he grabbed my hair and forced my head back. Needles of agony sliced across my scalp, and his enraged face hovered centimeters from mine. “Start talking, you little Polack bitch, or I’ll cuff your ass to this chair and you’ll watch while your entire family pays for your silence.”
My family was his checkmate against me. The last move I had was to confess to something, anything, to keep him from playing it.
“Messages.” It was all I managed before my voice caught. When Ebner returned to his seat, my lie came out in a frantic tumble. “I got messages from the resistance. I
don’t know who wrote them, they weren’t signed—”
He leaned closer, and I shrank away and hugged my bare midsection, foolishly believing the gesture would protect me. “What did they say?” he asked.
“They told me where to pick up or leave the documents, and once I had a message asking for the information they needed to make my false papers, but that’s all.” I paused to catch my breath, and Ebner stood. I should’ve watched what he was doing, but I was too shaken, too worried about forgetting the story I’d crafted or letting the truth slip—
Something rattled and clanked when it hit the table; at once, I drew back. Handcuffs.
Dear God, my plan isn’t good enough.
Either Ebner was about to shackle me and send the guards for my family, or he’d placed the cuffs there to scare me; I didn’t know. All I knew was that failure was not an option; betrayal was not an option. I had to stay in control; I had to convince him.
“Who recruited you?”
I fought past the sobs constricting my throat and forced my response out. “A message was lying in the street and I picked it up to see what it was. Someone must have dropped it, so I left a note in the location mentioned, and I told them how to reach me so I could help.”
Ebner grabbed my bruised shoulders, and a strange, gasping sound emerged from my throat while he gave me a swift shake. “Who told you what to do? Give me a fucking name.”
“I can’t. The signature indicated it was from the resistance, but it didn’t include names.”
“Where did you take your documents?”
“To the cobblestones, loose cobblestones at the end of our block. I hid the certificates under them, and that’s where I picked up messages.”
When his lips curled into a cynical sneer, a fresh onslaught of emotion hit me, as merciless and painful as his club.
“It’s the truth, I swear to God—”
A sudden blow to the cheek halted my cries and reopened the cut on my lip. As the fog around my mind lifted, he drew me closer. “Stop sniveling. And if one damn word was a lie . . .”
I shook my head in vehement refusal, but all I managed was one more desperate sob. “Please let me and my family go home.” I choked on more tears and didn’t bother trying to speak further. Ebner released me, and I drew my bare feet onto my chair.
Silence stretched across the room, broken by the typewriter’s taps and the debilitating sobs I couldn’t control. Bawling like an inconsolable child, I pressed my forehead against my knees, trying to obey his command to quiet my weeping. He lit a cigarette and took a long puff, and the horrible smoke invaded my nostrils.
“Well, I’m glad you decided to cooperate, Maria. It’s a shame it took so long.”
All this time, I’d convinced myself Ebner wouldn’t release us, but now I’d given him a confession. Maybe there was mercy somewhere within this wicked man. I blinked away my tears and met his unsympathetic gaze while he brought the cigarette to his lips.
“I answered your questions, Herr Sturmbannführer.” The voice that came from my mouth was shaky and raw, unrecognizable as my own. “Will you send me and my family home?”
Ebner placed his cigarettes and matches on the table. “I said I’d release you if you cooperated, didn’t I?” he asked, so I nodded. Then he dipped his head toward the guards.
One grabbed my right arm, keeping me restrained, and stretched my left forearm out on the table. It happened so quickly that I didn’t have time to struggle before Ebner’s lit cigarette met my skin. Searing pain ripped a scream from my throat, but he applied more pressure before tossing it away and accepting another, which the second guard had already ignited.
“Let this be a lesson to you, Maria.” He pressed the second cigarette below the first mark and raised his voice above my cry. “You spent hours being disobedient, proving you had no regard for my generous offer.” He took a third cigarette while I writhed, but the guard held me in place, and Ebner continued the line of burns down my forearm. “Once you started behaving, it was too late. Our deal was already off.” As the fourth cigarette met my skin, I heard the guard striking another match, which made me shriek almost as much as the pain did. “You could have accepted my offer and gotten yourself and your family released, but you didn’t.” The fifth cigarette pulled a gasping sob from my lips, and Ebner lifted his eyes to mine. “You stupid girl.”
He brought the cigarette to his mouth, then the guard released me.
Five burns, five red and white circles of angry, melted flesh in a perfect line along my forearm. One for each person in my family, including myself.
As I cradled my damaged arm against my chest, the smell of my own burned flesh mingled with the stench of cigarette smoke. My stomach jolted. Yellow bile clawed up my throat and splattered against the floor.
A guard tossed something toward me, and I flinched, but the soft thump of fabric against wood announced the return of my blessed clothing. I snatched them and dressed as quickly as my aching body would allow. The buttons had popped off my shirtwaist when the guards ripped it away, but my sweater covered the ruined garment. Once dressed, I didn’t have time to wipe blood or moisture from my face before rough hands closed over my arms.
As I stumbled back to the tram, my burns throbbed. If I’d cooperated right away, my family and I could have gone home—
No, I couldn’t fall for Ebner’s lies. He was never going to send us home. My family was a tactic in this vicious game. His best one.
Once we returned to Pawiak, the guards took me inside. In an odd way, I was grateful for their firm grips. The pain had subsided into a dull ache, but I didn’t have the strength to drag my battered body down the hall. I had to compose myself before we reached the cell.
I was questioned, that’s all. Just questioned.
While I concentrated on placing one foot in front of the other, I offered a silent prayer of thanks that Ebner hadn’t broken any bones and the signs of my interrogation were beneath my clothing.
Before the war, I thanked God for things like my family, friends, and sunshine, but if something affected those blessings, I lamented my misfortune. I had the audacity to ask God why He let rain chase away my sunshine, as if a thunderstorm were the worst thing that could happen to a girl. But far worse things could happen to a girl: getting her entire family arrested, being interrogated by the Gestapo, having no power to prevent whatever lay ahead. All I had was rain, and I didn’t know if the sunshine would ever return. So I’d find blessings amid the thunder and lightning.
When our cell came into view, I saw my family waiting in tense silence while Mama paced back and forth. She’d probably been pacing since I’d left. The sour stench of sweat, urine, and vomit surrounded me and mingled with the tang of blood and smoke. The smells of Szucha. I couldn’t mask them, but I wouldn’t give away anything else.
Karol was the first to notice me, and his face lit up. “Maria is back.”
The guards shoved me inside. When I landed on the floor, Mama was beside me in a heartbeat before she lunged at the guards with a bloodcurdling shriek. “Bastards!”
It was wishful thinking, believing I could convince my parents that I’d been merely questioned.
Once we went to the Warsaw Zoo and watched the zookeeper feed the lions. As the man approached the enclosure, one lion sprang at him through the bars. If not for those bars, I was certain the zookeeper would have been dead.
Mama’s blond hair had been pinned into its usual elegant updo, but that had been destroyed in the scuffle accompanying our arrest. Her hair now cascaded in unruly waves around her face, framing wild eyes and lips curled into a snarl, and she reminded me of that lion. She reached for the guards’ throats and probably would have torn them out, but they slammed the door. She grabbed the bars, demanding the cowards come back and face her, but their footsteps faded as they disappeared down the hall.
Tata clutched the bars for a moment, then approached Mama, but she shoved him away, sank to her knees, and pressed her forehead agains
t the door.
Mama never swore—not when she knew we were listening—and Zofia’s eyes widened.
“What happened, Maria?” she asked, her voice tremulous. “Where have you been?”
If I lay motionless much longer, I didn’t think I’d ever move again. “Private questioning,” I murmured, though I didn’t look at her as I sat up. “Mama’s upset because they pushed me.”
Maybe Zofia believed me. Or maybe she wondered if the outburst wasn’t as unwarranted as I’d made it appear.
“What’s wrong with you?”
Though I’d suspected she’d ask that question, it still wasn’t easy to hear. “I’m tired,” I said as Mama returned to my side, but a tremor slipped into my voice.
“But you—”
Mama lifted her head toward my sister. “Zofia Florkowska, not another word.”
Zofia took a startled step back, bit her quivering bottom lip, and retreated to the small bed. Tata sat beside her and kissed her cheek. He glanced at Mama, who opened her mouth, but before she could speak, Karol hurried to her side. He was gnawing on his shirt collar, a habit that indicated he was deep in thought, though he knew better than to chew on his clothing.
“What’s a bastard?”
“That’s not a polite word, Karol,” Tata said.
“Then why did Mama say it?”
“I’m sorry, darling, but they—” Mama’s voice caught. “They pushed your sister.”
“That wasn’t nice of them,” Karol said, then he darted toward the roach he’d been watching before Mama’s expletive distracted him. He followed it as it scuttled into the corner.
Tata brushed a tear from Zofia’s face. “Will you keep an eye on your brother?”
While she joined Karol, Tata sat on the floor beside me and Mama. We rested our backs against the wall, which placed pressure on my bruises, but I was too tired to mind. I rubbed a thin crust of dried blood from my hand. Maybe my parents hadn’t noticed it.
The Last Checkmate Page 3
