The Last Checkmate

by Gabriella Saab

  A sudden snap made me flinch, then the decapitated pawn lay at my feet. My father’s last gift.

  While I stared at my pawn and combatted the tightness in my throat, Fritzsch returned to his companions. I didn’t hear what they said, but a few guards scattered in various directions. When they returned, one carried a small table, another two chairs, and another a box. They brought the items before me, shooed the prisoners aside, and ordered me to sit. I took a quick look at the bewildered faces surrounding me while Fritzsch pointed to one inmate a few meters away.

  “Do you know how to play chess?”

  The man’s eyes widened, but, after he understood the question, he let out a visible breath and nodded. “I’m a decent player, Herr Lagerführer.”

  Fritzsch instructed him to sit across from me. Once he was settled, the guard holding the box placed it in front of us. A chess set.

  Following a nod from Fritzsch, I swallowed hard to settle my pounding heart and glanced at Father Kolbe, then opened the box and removed the pieces from the two interior compartments. According to the stamp inside, the set was a Deutsche Bundesform. How fitting that we were being forced to play with a set manufactured by the Nazis.

  The sturdy pieces were nowhere near as delicate and ornate as my Staunton set at home. Once I’d set up the white pieces, I made my opening play, queen’s pawn two spaces forward. I decided to concentrate my attack on black’s weak square, defended only by its king. Black moved his queen’s pawn to meet mine, so I positioned my light-squared bishop along the left diagonal, testing my plan. If my opponent failed to defend his king, I’d develop my queen early—a risky and often foolish move, but one I was willing to utilize if my opponent proved careless.

  The man scrutinized the center of the board and seemed focused on establishing control there, not defending his king. Excellent. He developed the black knight to my left, which didn’t hinder my strategy at all. I developed my queen so she and my bishop both had a direct line of attack to black’s weak square, an attack devastating for the black king. Black continued concentrating on the center with his second knight, losing his opportunity to defend himself.

  White queen took black pawn on the weak square, white bishop was in place for attack, and the black king couldn’t move without fear of capture. Queen’s pawn to D4, light-squared bishop to C4, queen to H5, queen to F7.

  Four simple moves, one opponent’s carelessness.

  I set the captured black pawn on the table and looked up from the board. “Checkmate.”

  The häftling opened his mouth, as if preparing to dispute me, then closed it while the guards erupted into laughter and shouts. I offered him the black pawn I’d captured, so he extended his hand to accept it.

  Suddenly Fritzsch drew his pistol in a swift, fluid motion and shot my opponent in the forehead.

  People gasped, some screamed—maybe I screamed—while the man collapsed, but, when Fritzsch turned to me, everyone fell silent. My only consolation was knowing that the prisoner’s death had been instantaneous, so surely mine would be the same.

  Instead of firing a second time, Fritzsch returned his gun to its holster and gave me an approving nod. “Well done.”

  My ears rang from the gunshot. The dead man had fallen from his chair onto the ground. The hole in his forehead was small, an expert shot, and blood trickled from the wound and surrounded his head. Eyes blank, face slack. One moment alive, the next dead.

  Fritzsch took a few steps toward the onlookers. His words floated on the frigid breeze, something about if anyone else would like to play against me, but I couldn’t focus, not on his challenge, not on anything. Another noise broke the silence—laughter, except it couldn’t be. No one would be laughing at death.

  As the guards’ laughter faded, my own shuddering breaths filled my ears. Near me, Father Kolbe murmured a prayer for the repose of the dead man’s soul. I thought he told me to avert my eyes, but I was transfixed by shock and morbid curiosity. I’d never witnessed a murder before.

  When I was learning how to play chess with my father, sometimes I’d choose a move, then realize I should have selected another. Discouraged and frustrated, I’d ask Tata if I could change my play, start the game over, or quit altogether. He’d never let me. Finish the game, Maria. That was his response every time, no matter my persistence.

  All I could do was obey. Sometimes I’d emerge victorious, despite my errors. Other times the mistakes cost me the game. Those losses were the most bitter.

  “Prisoner 16671.”

  My name sounded harsh and grating on Fritzsch’s tongue, and I closed my eyes as he drew closer. God, please change his mind and let him shoot me, let it be quick, take me away from this place.

  “Remove the body.”

  Surely I’d misheard him. When I opened my eyes, Fritzsch jerked his head toward a nearby block. The rising sun washed the bricks in crimson light and illuminated a dark heap propped against the building, a tangle of arms and legs and torsos. Corpses.

  Let me quit, Tata, please let me quit.

  Before I could do more than blanch, Father Kolbe stepped forward, removed his striped cap, and spoke in clear, precise German. “Herr Lagerführer, would you permit me to assist?”

  Fritzsch’s gloved fist collided with Father Kolbe’s jaw, and I gasped, but the priest made no sound. Fritzsch turned to me. “Do you need this pathetic bastard’s assistance?”

  Despite the question, something told me I had no choice in my answer unless I wanted more bodies added to the death count. I shook my head.

  Father Kolbe dipped his head in concession. As he returned to his place, I swore his lips moved, could almost hear a faint prayer.

  Something inside propelled me toward the dead man, though I wished I could trade places with him. Never did I imagine I’d envy a corpse. I got out of my chair, lifted his ankles in trembling hands, and, with awkward, labored efforts, trudged toward the pile of bodies while everyone watched. As I crossed the square, my attempts transitioned from staccato tugs into a slow, continuous drag across the dirt and gravel, but I kept moving. I had to keep moving.

  When I reached the corpses, I stopped.

  Pawiak had smelled like suffering, but Auschwitz smelled like death. A repugnant stench permeated the air around the naked bodies. I left the man beside the pile of rotting, maggot-infested corpses and buried my nose in the crook of my arm to stifle a gag. Although I didn’t have the strength to run, I stumbled away. When I was far enough to breathe again, I gathered my uniform in my hands, hands that had touched a dead body.

  Once I returned to Father Kolbe’s side, I bit the inside of my cheek, praying pain would distract me, but pain wasn’t strong enough to keep me from noticing the blood-splattered chessboard or Fritzsch’s eyes on me.

  I fell to my hands and knees, unable and unwilling to fight my heaving stomach this time. Vomit spewed onto the gravel and splashed my uniform and skin. My body purged itself of everything it once held vital until nothing remained. I was hollow, useless. Nothing but a number.

  Chapter 7

  Auschwitz, 20 April 1945

  DESPITE HAVING TO play with the black pieces, I’m satisfied with my development so far. Fritzsch and I remain evenly matched, both with secure defenses around our kings, both setting up strong attacks.

  As I contemplate my next play, a sudden clatter breaks both the steady thrum of rainfall and my concentration. I gasp and snap my head up. On Fritzsch’s side of the board, a few pieces lie on their sides.

  “My fault,” he says as he rights them.

  I release a slow breath to calm the fluttering in my chest, then I return my attention to the board and evaluate my pieces. Silence settles over us until I reach for a pawn. The clatter comes again, and I draw back with another sharp breath.

  “Damn this rain. It makes everything more slippery, doesn’t it?” Fritzsch picks up the pieces once more. “Why so skittish? A few falling chess pieces shouldn’t—”

  “Let me focus.”

&n
bsp; The snap comes out before I can stop it, but I can’t fathom why I’ve done it, why I’ve demonstrated such blatant insolence toward Fritzsch, of all guards.

  “Forgive me, Herr Lagerführer.”

  I swallow the words back, but it’s too late. My tongue has betrayed me. He’s not my superior, I know he’s not, but my mind debates me and claims Fritzsch holds the power. It’s not true, not anymore . . .

  Closing my eyes to sort through the chaos does little good. The lines between memory and reality are blurred and indistinguishable.

  When I hear Fritzsch shifting in his seat, I open my eyes to find him studying me. He gestures to the board, indicating that I should proceed, so I select my pawn and capture one of his in the center of the board. This time, when I hear his chuckles, I make sure the fury stays contained before I look up. Control is essential if I’m going to play my best.

  “You play with such intensity,” he says. “You treat chess as if every move were a matter of life or death.”

  There’s no point in pretending I missed the jab, but I won’t yield to it. Instead I sit back and pick up the two pawns I’ve captured so far, occupying my hands, hoping it will keep the quivers away.

  Chapter 8

  Auschwitz, 17 June 1941

  HARSH SEARCHLIGHTS ATOP the guard towers pierced the dark, ominous sky to illuminate the roll-call square surrounded by Blocks 16, 17, and the camp kitchen. It wasn’t time for roll call yet, but Fritzsch had summoned me anyway. When I arrived, he’d already set up the chessboard a few meters away from the wooden shelter booth near the kitchen, and various guards were gathered to watch.

  “Check. Your move, 16671.”

  The sound of Fritzsch’s voice broke my concentration, and I combatted a twinge of frustration. I knew it was my move, but I forced the response he was waiting to hear. “Yes, Herr Lagerführer.”

  A thin haze of cigarette smoke hovered in the air, acrid and oppressive. The guards formed a circle around us, some watching in tense silence, others conversing and predicting our next moves. I their circus act; they my ringmasters.

  On my side of the board, my white king was surrounded by a strong defense, but I needed to get out of check. As I moved my king one space to the left, the searchlights fell across a faded bruise on my wrist. My bruises from Gestapo interrogation had almost disappeared, and I’d watched them transition through various shades of yellow, purple, blue, and black. A sad, twisted part of me wished they’d never heal. They were a physical reminder of my last days with my family. Now even that was being taken from me.

  All I had left were my cigarette burns. As Fritzsch placed a black rook next to his king in the far right corner, I slipped my fingers into my sleeve to feel the uneven skin. They’d evolved from oozing blisters to scabs and now scars, ugly and a deep, vicious red. I was strangely grateful for them. These were scars that would never heal.

  I didn’t expect the pain of my family’s death to go away, like my bruises. Anger and grief were intense and debilitating, warping everything beyond recognition. The prison that held my body was trivial by comparison. My true prison was the one that held my soul.

  A clatter pierced the quiet morning. At once, I drew back. Fritzsch had a few captured pieces in his hands, and he dropped a second one. “Your move.”

  “Yes, Herr Lagerführer,” I whispered, trying to prevent another reaction when he let a third piece hit the table.

  Fritzsch and I both had most pieces in play, but I could already see my win. All that remained was the bait, a pawn he eagerly took. My trap had worked. I moved my queen and captured the pawn shielding his king.

  “Checkmate.”

  It took our audience a moment to realize why I’d won; when they did, they erupted into cheers or groans and settled whatever exorbitant bets they’d placed on our game.

  My victory didn’t hold its usual satisfaction. It wasn’t playing in front of a crowd that bothered me—after all, I’d once dreamt of competing in championships. It was knowing that, whether I played against Fritzsch, another guard, or a prisoner selected as my opponent, whether we were alone or on display for the entire camp, chess had transformed into something I was forced to do. Nothing more. I was Fritzsch’s living, breathing game, one he’d keep playing until he got bored or he won. Whichever came first.

  When Fritzsch produced a fresh cigarette, a young guard struck a match and offered it to him. “Forgive me for betting against you, Herr Lagerführer, but since you won a few days ago, I suspected she had learned her lesson.”

  Fritzsch didn’t match the soldier’s grim smile; he regarded me as he always did—seeking my reaction.

  Sour bile nearly rose to my throat, mimicking our last game; I focused on the chessboard until it had transformed into a black-and-white blur. Following his win that morning, Fritzsch had suddenly grabbed my dominant wrist, slammed my hand down, and pressed his pistol to it.

  The barrel pinned me in place, fingers splayed across the board, soon to be joined by mangled flesh and rivulets of blood. I had played terribly; Fritzsch made concentration impossible, analyzing me, speaking to me, dropping so many pieces onto the board. Poor gameplay made for a dull game, its price my chess-playing hand.

  Fritzsch had told me once that, when he was a boy, his family had moved too much for him to receive a consistent education, but he had learned to play chess. Perhaps he sought to prove that my upbringing made me no better at this game than he, did me no good in this place where I held no power and he held all.

  The morning air turned noxious, the silence tight, cutting into me, slicing my breaths into short tremors. As he applied more pressure to the gun, he assessed me as he had after my arrival, as though confirming his initial impression. Unfit.

  Then he removed the pistol.

  Sometimes there were such consequences—hours of unceasing gameplay until I had won enough to satisfy him, a bullet through my opponent’s skull. Other times nothing happened. Fritzsch wrote the rules however he pleased, but the most important rule remained unchanged: one game would eventually be my last.

  I closed my hand into a fist to bury the memory. After Fritzsch indicated that I should get up, the guards cleared the chessboard, table, and chairs before dispersing for roll call. While he smoked, I stifled a yawn. The workday hadn’t begun, but I already wished it was over.

  “Did you know Kommandant Höss plays chess? I suggested he challenge you to a match.” Fritzsch flicked ashes from his cigarette as he strolled back and forth. “He hasn’t done so yet, has he? Perhaps it’s because he’s unhappy I let you live.”

  The morning was silent aside from the distant tramp of boots as the guards prepared to rouse the prisoners. A light breeze carried a steady stream of Fritzsch’s cigarette smoke over me, and I held my breath against it.

  He paused before me, but I knew better than to look at him. “I assured the kommandant my decision was best for the Reich. You’re beneficial for both the guards and the prisoners. The guards enjoy seeing how you fare against the men, and everyone enjoys your chess games. Public entertainment has a way of boosting morale—until the onlookers get bored. Then it becomes useless.”

  When he fell silent, I didn’t know if I should answer or if he simply wanted me to be aware that my sole purpose was to provide amusement. I knew better than to speak out of turn, so I waited and hoped it was the right choice.

  “It’s been almost three weeks since you arrived, Prisoner 16671. We’ll see how long you can entertain us.”

  If the suggestion of my impending death was supposed to frighten me, Fritzsch should have been disappointed. Death didn’t scare me nearly as much as the idea of spending another moment in Auschwitz did.

  Distant shouts reached my ears, followed by prisoners who poured from their blocks and hurried to the square to assemble for appell. Fritzsch dismissed me and moved to the front so he could watch the bedraggled crowd for signs of poor posture or moving lips. Once I located the members of my block, I took my usual place next to Father
Kolbe, who didn’t look surprised to find me already outside. This wasn’t the first time Fritzsch had summoned me prior to roll call to start the day with a chess game. As we assumed formation, Father Kolbe caught my eye and flashed a small smile. Even in this living hell, somehow he remained joyful.

  When everyone was in place, the sudden quiet sent a shiver down my spine, even though this morning was warm compared to others. Thousands of people were gathered in this square, yet the only sound was that of SS officers barking out numbers.

  As the officers continued counting, I focused on the tall wooden sentry box in the distance. Stationed inside, the faint outline of a guard clutched a massive machine gun. One bullet, that’s all. One bullet could have liberated me from one life sentence and condemned me to the next, from living hell to eternal damnation. Surely the suffering would be more bearable in the next inferno.

  I curled my toes and clenched my teeth, irritable and impatient, until the gentle hum of a Marian hymn broke the quiet. Every time he whispered prayers or hymns, I was shocked by how quiet Father Kolbe managed to be. The only reason I could hear him was because I’d trained my ear to detect his reassuring murmur.

  After appell, I concealed myself in the crowd, avoiding the kapos’ blows and ignoring the guards’ screams, and joined my labor assignment. Once in line, someone who didn’t belong in my kommando pushed through the crowd—the other female inmate, Prisoner 15177.

  “Where is the girl?”

  No need to specify further.

  I didn’t intend to acknowledge her, but another prisoner shoved me toward her. I whirled on him with a glare. “Don’t touch me.”

  “Oy vey, I asked where she was. I didn’t say throw her at me,” the Jewish woman said, frowning as she joined us.

  The man smirked, as if amused by my fury and her displeasure. He forced his way into the center of the throng, securing sanctuary from the blows that would descend upon us while we marched.