The Last Checkmate

by Gabriella Saab

  “Oh, is that why we spent so long at the café? Because I was complaining that you were making us late for errands?” I asked, crossing my arms while she turned back to the shelf. “Or was it because you two couldn’t stop kissing?”

  For that, I earned a particularly irritated frown. She wasted no time snapping her retort. “If you’re so paranoid about the errands, finish them yourself.”

  “Maybe I will. I told Mama we wouldn’t be long, and we still have to stop by the butcher shop. At this rate, we won’t be home until curfew.”

  Mr. Niemczyk cleared his throat in response to our raised voices, but he knew why we’d come, so I imagined he knew what we were trying to do. As if to placate the clerk, I flashed a winning smile at him—though I didn’t miss the aggravated glances from the Volksdeutsche—then picked up a black homburg and shoved it into Irena’s hands.

  “Here, buy this one and let’s go.”

  She pushed it away. “No, I don’t like that one.”

  “Settle down and do not tamper with the merchandise,” Mr. Niemczyk spoke up, but our volume only escalated.

  I waved a frustrated hand at the fedoras. “Pick one of those and stop being so particular.”

  “Stop being so damn annoying.”

  “You’re the one wasting our entire day because of a stupid boy!”

  Over our dispute, I caught a few indistinct mutters from the Volksdeutsche; then the man handed his neckties to Mr. Niemczyk and shook his head in refusal. Motioning for the woman to follow, he led the way to the door.

  “Forgive the disturbance,” Mr. Niemczyk said, stretching an apologetic hand after them.

  When the little bell over the door ceased jingling, Irena and I fell silent. Alone at last. We waited another moment, making sure no one else was coming in, then hurried to the counter.

  “Sorry we cost you a customer,” she said, giving me a pointed look. From her handbag, she produced an envelope and a copy of the Biuletyn Informacjny and passed both to him.

  As he folded the resistance newspaper, opened the envelope, and pulled out the stack of zloty, Mr. Niemczyk shrugged. “If I forfeit a sale to protect you and your work, it’s an honor.”

  She eyed the door before leaning closer to him. “The baby?” she murmured. A note of concern laced her words, absent her usual sharpness.

  “Better,” he replied with a smile. “He’s filled out a little, and my children adore him. After I use this money to purchase goods on the black market, we’ll be able to feed him even more.”

  I exchanged a relieved glance with Irena. Mama had dropped off the Jewish child in question, and upon her return later that night she’d paced around the living room, fretting about how thin he was. The positive report would ease her concerns, knowing the funds enabled Mr. Niemczyk to utilize the secret civilian market to support his family with more than the paltry rations and goods the Germans allotted.

  Mr. Niemczyk dipped his head toward the door. “Run along before you scare off any more of my customers.”

  “I’ll handle scaring off one more for you,” Irena said. She turned to me, her eyebrows raised. “Anything else you’d care to say about Patryk?”

  The name was enough to make me giggle, despite its sarcastic edge. I darted toward the exit. She followed at my heels, but the bell chimed, announcing another patron and saving me from her rebuke—for the time being, anyway. I hurried outside and barely made it a few meters down the empty street before I burst into laughter.

  “Have you lost your mind?” Irena called out as she followed me to where I’d stopped outside a barbershop. “Why do you always do that?”

  After a moment, I composed myself. “The Volksdeutsche were watching us and seemed to suspect something, so I knew a fake argument would make them lose interest. And it worked, didn’t it, cousin?”

  “If it hadn’t? Good Lord, Maria, they could’ve lied to the nearest SS man simply to get us arrested and shut us up.”

  “Calm down, Irena. Don’t make me start complaining about Patryk again.”

  Her anger dissipated, and with a faint but fond smile she leaned against the shop window. “Patryk was my father’s name.” She was quiet, then sighed and reverted to being critical. “Of all the stories you could’ve developed, you couldn’t think of anything better than turning me into a lovesick idiot?”

  “It’s easy and believable. Checkmate,” I replied, grinning. “Admit it, that was fun.”

  Irena lost her grasp on her attempted reprimand, and she shook her head. “You’re an idiot, but somehow your stupid plan got them to leave so we could deliver those funds, so I guess you’re not as incompetent as I thought. I didn’t say you were competent,” she added when she noticed my chin lifting. “Just not completely incompetent.”

  “Well, I guess you’re not as awful as I thought. Not nice. But not completely awful.”

  “Watch yourself. I still have the power to make your life hell, Helena Pilarczyk.”

  “And I can tell your mother how much you curse around me. You’re not the only one with power, Marta Naganowska.”

  Narrowing her eyes, Irena started down the street, though not before I caught the smile she tried to hide. I masked my own grin and jogged to catch up. She heaved an exasperated sigh when I reappeared beside her.

  As we walked, I basked in satisfaction. Another successful day of resistance errands. My pieces were in position, my strategy was set, and the opening phase was transitioning into the middlegame. In this phase, white and black struck with full force, utilizing every skill to capture the opponent’s king. It was the most dangerous phase of every chess game. But also the most exciting.

  By now, the Jewish ghetto entrance was in sight. The gate opened to allow a German car to pass, and I caught sight of another world, one whose inhabitants were forced to wear a white band bearing a blue Star of David. Three dark-haired, bearded men rode in a rickshaw pedaled by a fourth; a handful of disheveled children darted past a scrawny figure sprawled on the sidewalk. Dead or too sick to move, I wasn’t certain. Near the still form, someone huddled beneath a pile of rags. Based on the size of the hand reaching toward the crowd, I assumed it was a woman. Beyond the beggar, soldiers detained a man who looked like a rabbi, and they trimmed his long gray beard while he remained solemn and dignified through the degradation.

  The gate closed, entrapping the Jews, while a sharp pang of sorrow pierced my heart. One ideology spread like a disease and spawned such wickedness. Prior to the war, I’d witnessed various instances of hatred or oppression, but none as vile and senseless as this.

  * * *

  Auschwitz, 29 May 1941

  I narrowed my eyes against the rainfall as I followed the group of male prisoners through the gate. Along the uneven road, we passed redbrick buildings labeled with black signs and white letters. The soldiers ushered us into Block 26, where men in striped garments wielded clubs like those on the railway platform. Inside, I looked for my family, but the only prisoners were the men from my group, and some were already in various stages of undress, preparing to accept their new prison garb. My family’s group must have already passed through. As I surveyed the scene, a man a few meters from me peeled off his undershirt and shorts and stood there, naked.

  For a moment, I was too startled to look away; when I did, I discovered everyone was undressing. Completely. Without putting anything else on.

  Some men huddled together for warmth and support, others shivered alone. This place stripped human beings of clothing and possessions and left them cowering in nakedness. What sort of prison was this?

  One of the men in stripes approached me. A white armband bearing the word KAPO in black capital letters encircled his bicep, but I had no idea what it meant. I expected him to be surprised to see a girl among the men instead of with the women and children, wherever they were, but he didn’t look surprised. There was no emotion in his eyes at all.

  “Take off your clothes,” he said.

  I hugged my midsection while my f
ingers gripped my sweater as if they’d never loosen, just as in Pawiak. I hated undressing in front of my own sister, my flesh and blood, and the people in this room were strangers—men, so many men.

  “Now.”

  The order startled me into focus, and I took a hasty step back. “Wait, please, may I . . . may I have other clothing first?”

  A new sound, deep and callous. Laughter. Why was he laughing at my query? It wasn’t meant to be amusing.

  When I still hadn’t complied, he cast humor aside and took a threatening step toward me. “Take off your damn clothes, or I’ll take them off for you.”

  After a few agonizing seconds, I swallowed hard, fought hot tears, and loosened my grip on my sweater. Anything to keep his hands off me. I fumbled with buttons and clasps, every movement a betrayal. Once the deed was done, I stood, naked, milky white skin splotched with harsh blues and purples, in front of a strange man old enough to be my father. Cheeks hot, eyes downcast, I crossed my arms over my bruised breasts to retain some modesty. It did no good.

  The man snatched my clothes and tossed them onto a pile, but I kept the pawn from Tata hidden in my fist.

  He wouldn’t take that from me.

  Someone handed me a card with a number written on it—my new name, so I was told—but one-six-six-seven-one didn’t roll off the tongue quite as easily as Maria.

  Some men attempted to cover themselves, others didn’t bother, and we funneled past three young SS men watching us walk by. Nothing alleviated the most horrid vulnerability I’d ever known, this nakedness among strangers. The men were united in their exposure, but I bore it alone, the single female suffering this misery, the single body that didn’t match those surrounding her. As I walked, warmed only by the heat of shame, all I wanted was to be inconspicuous, to be small and invisible.

  I watched the ankles in front of me, arms across my chest, until a firm hand closed around my wrist. The hand pulled me toward its owner, bringing me face-to-face with one of the young SS men.

  “No need for modesty, sweetheart.”

  He captured my other wrist and, despite my resistance, easily pulled my arms away from my body. I froze, unable to escape, unable to shield myself.

  He assessed me with a sweeping glance. “There, isn’t that much more comfortable?”

  All I could do was stare at the Totenkopf emblems on his cap and collar. Two more pairs of eyes, two more eerie grins.

  His companions took my arms, and one laughed. “This one’s young even for you, Protz. What’s a girl doing here?”

  I hated Fritzsch for sending me with the men.

  This wasn’t happening; it wasn’t. His hands weren’t on my chest, they weren’t sliding down my waist to my hips, he wasn’t smiling as I flinched or pulling me closer. But I couldn’t deny the guttural order that accompanied the finger tracing down my cheek.

  “Come with me, little one.”

  Struggle, scream, beg. For God’s sake, do something, anything.

  But I didn’t.

  As Protz pulled me toward an adjoining room, everything inside me said to protest, and every part of me tried and failed to obey. Resisting wouldn’t have worked anyway: he was too strong; he had a gun. One hand gripped my arm while the other rested on his belt.

  “Protz.”

  He paused a few meters from his destination. I couldn’t comprehend the new voice, the one instructing Protz to go somewhere and do something. I couldn’t even breathe.

  “Damn, that’s a shame, isn’t it? Until next time, love.” Protz sent me back toward the prisoners with an enthusiastic slap on my behind.

  Accompanied by his sniggers, I staggered away, crossed my arms over my chest, and let the crowd sweep me along. I was too numb to do anything but follow, too disgusted with myself and my own helplessness.

  “Get moving, girl.” The order came from the same guard with the strange armband who had made me undress.

  But I was frozen again. More people in striped clothes were armed with scissors and razors. Before my eyes, entire bodies were shaved and tolerated thorough physical examinations, all in mortified silence. The same thing was about to happen to me. Where was my family? I had to find my family.

  Someone pulled me backward with a swift, painful jerk and pressed something hard under my chin, forcing my head back until I met a vicious gaze. “It looks like someone already gave you a beating, and unless you obey orders, I will give you another.” The prisoner with the armband shoved me at a man wielding scissors.

  I stopped before him, painfully aware of my exposure, but his face was blank. I supposed that should have made me feel better, but it didn’t.

  The prisoner placed a hand on my trembling shoulders, guided me toward a stool, and sat me down. He wasn’t rough, but he wasn’t gentle, and I wished the ground would open up and swallow me. “Listen to the kapos,” he murmured. “They may be prisoners, too, but they work as supervisors, so they have something the rest of us don’t have—power.”

  More SS guards patrolled the room and watched the horrible procedure. The man lifted my braid, and metal scraped against metal as he opened the scissors. My hair was all I had left linking me to the girl I’d been before. The girl I would never be again.

  “Please.” It was a useless plea, but I couldn’t help it.

  Even if my plea hadn’t been useless, I was too late. The man sliced through my hair and set the detached braid down, trading the scissors for the razor.

  “I’ll try not to cut you too much, but I have to be quick,” he said, and the cold blade touched the back of my neck. “I have a quota to meet.”

  Once, Karol found a dead beetle on the kitchen floor. He dissected it and studied its legs, exoskeleton, and insides, leaving no part of the unfortunate creature unscrutinized. Now, as strange men shaved and probed me, I felt like Karol’s beetle. When the humiliation was over, I touched the fuzz remaining on my head. It was all I had left to call hair. If I didn’t touch it and ignored the chill on my neck, I could almost pretend I still had my long blond locks. But there was no point in fooling myself.

  Zofia would hate this. If there was one thing she loved about herself, it was her curls.

  Disinfectant stung terribly against the cuts covering my body, but after all the places strange hands, eyes, and instruments had violated me, not even the fiery purge of the cleanser made me feel clean again. Someone shoved a gray-and-blue-striped garment into my hands. The hideous, coarse uniform was a welcome sight, and I tugged it on as quickly as possible. I would never take clothing for granted again.

  My uniform was too big, but no one seemed to care. A red triangle with a P inside was emblazoned on the left breast, and below the letter was a white strip of fabric with my number, 16671, in black. My new name. I pretended the headscarf hid the baldness, but it probably accentuated it; then I stepped into a pair of cumbersome wooden clogs.

  In the next room, I attempted to fill out a registration form, but my hand wouldn’t stop shaking, the scribbles barely legible. Another man in stripes took a few photographs of each new prisoner, then the guards ushered us outside.

  Surely the worst was over now. I fell to the back of the throng as we marched across the expansive grounds. This place looked more like a camp than a prison. The rain fell steadily, and I narrowed my eyes against it to look for my family. With our shaved heads and matching uniforms, it was impossible to tell anyone apart, but my hope was to see a man, woman, and two children together.

  A lone prisoner walked down the street, one with a headscarf instead of a cap. A woman. Thank God, finally another woman. As she drew closer, I slowed my pace, then touched her arm to catch her attention. She drew back, staring at me with dark eyes set in hollow sockets and framed by a gaunt face. She was thin, far too thin.

  “You’re a girl.” The incredulous murmur carried a slight accent, one I used to hear all the time before the war.

  So are you, I wanted to respond. I’d had enough of being the only girl among the men. Once I reconnected
with my parents and siblings, my next mission was to find more women. Her uniform was marked with a P and two superimposed triangles, one red like mine and another yellow, forming a Star of David. Her number was 15177. I guessed that meant she was a Polish Jew, and she looked maybe ten years older than me. It was hard to tell.

  “Do you know where I can find my family? We arrived today, but I got separated from their group, so I think they were registered ahead of me. Have you seen them? Tata is tall and walks with a limp, Mama is a bit taller than me, then my little sister and brother . . .” My voice died, unable to formulate words around the lump in my throat, put there by the woman’s guarded expression.

  The Jewish woman cast a furtive glance over her shoulder and dropped her gaze. “You’ll see your family soon.” She left without waiting for a reply.

  If there was one skill I’d gained from studying opponents during chess games, it was how to read people. The clues that someone was lying were subtle—a change in pitch, a nostril flare, inability to maintain eye contact. Those indicators weren’t always reliable, but I could usually tell when they were. In this case, the signs were as obvious as the kapo’s club that cracked across my shoulders and forced me into motion.

  The woman had lied. I wasn’t going to see my family. Where had they been sent? A different camp? A prison? Would they be coming back? I rolled the tiny chess piece around in my palm, wishing I’d never dropped it so I could’ve stayed with the correct group.

  As I walked and attempted to ignore the damp, itchy uniform chafing my bare skin, I noticed an open iron gate leading to a courtyard between Blocks 10 and 11. Even though I’d learned my lesson about falling behind, the sight left me too weak to move.

  A truck waited near the gate, and prisoners piled dead bodies onto it. At the far end of the courtyard, a gray wall stood in front of a brick wall, and that seemed to be where the prisoners were fetching the corpses from. Naked bodies were tossed onto the pile like sticks being gathered for firewood. I didn’t know which horrified me more: the irreverence for the dead or the indifference with which the prisoners completed their task.