The Last Checkmate

by Gabriella Saab

  “You’re the white pieces, I’m the black,” Father Kolbe said, his eyes alight. “I must warn you, I play to win.”

  My reservations nagged me, filling my mind with angry shouts, but a small, persistent voice argued in return. Father Kolbe had gone to the trouble to do something kind for me, to bring enjoyment back to the game that had become nothing but my lifeline. He was my friend, my only friend, and it would have been cruel to spurn him. Both voices took turns trying to win me over before I silenced them with my decision.

  I’d made an exception for Father Kolbe regarding my name, so I could make an exception here, too. Just this once.

  My strategy sprang to my mind, clear and distinct: I’d open with the Queen’s Gambit, and, if Father Kolbe countered with the Queen’s Gambit Declined, I’d lead into the Rubinstein Attack. So I picked up my queen’s pawn and moved it to D4.

  This was chess the way the game was meant to be played. Two opponents coming together of their own free will to engage in a battle of wits. This was the chess that had been a part of me for so many years. Fritzsch could use the game to control my time here, but, when it came to me and the board, I would play as if nothing had changed, as if I weren’t desperate to leave this place. As long as I lived, I would play chess, and play well.

  And I did play well, but, the deeper we got into the game, the more agonizing each passing moment became. Father Kolbe had helped me so much this past month, and now he’d done this, for no reason other than to provide me with joy. All I’d done was keep secrets from him.

  The realization was all-consuming, so much so that when the second gong sounded and sent us into evening silence, I muttered a quick thanks for the game, gathered the pieces, and turned away. As we settled down for the night, I begged sleep to come immediately so the nagging thought would leave me alone, but it didn’t work. There was only one way to escape the weight pressing upon me.

  Father Kolbe had treated me with compassion. I could at least give him honesty in return.

  After allowing a few minutes for people to fall asleep, I got up. If I waited longer, I’d lose my nerve. I reached across to Father Kolbe and tapped him on the shoulder, trying not to disturb the clusters of slumbering people.

  We moved to the far corner of the room, where we sat while I gathered my courage. Even though he couldn’t see my expression in the darkness, I imagined that Father Kolbe knew I had something important to say. He waited for me to speak. If I told him the truth, there would be no going back, but I couldn’t bear the deceit any longer.

  So I told him what I’d never told anyone else—the story of how my family and I were sent to Auschwitz, beginning with our arrest.

  Chapter 9

  Warsaw, 25 May 1941

  LET’S PLAY MONOPOLY, Maria,” Zofia said, twirling her finger around a loose curl. She rolled a ball to Karol, but he missed it, so it continued past him toward Tata’s chair. Tata sipped ersatz coffee and used his cane to guide the ball back to my siblings.

  “Sorry, Zofia, I can’t.” I refrained from mentioning why, but she wouldn’t need an explanation. If I refused her on a Sunday, the reason was always the same.

  “Are you leaving for the convent? May I go, Mama?”

  “No,” Mama said too quickly. She grabbed the nearest dishrag and gathered crumbs from the table with meticulous care.

  Ignoring Zofia’s complaints, I went into my bedroom and pulled on a thin pale pink sweater over my white shirtwaist. I watched my reflection in the mirror as my fingers moved through the familiar pattern to secure my hair in a braid. Once finished, a few tiny strands refused to be tamed; otherwise, it was suitable. I straightened my green plaid skirt and made sure my Kennkarte was in my handbag, then fetched my basket from the kitchen, checked the false bottom to ensure the documents were inside, and arranged a couple of potatoes over the compartment. When I returned to the living room, Zofia was still prattling.

  “Please, Mama? We take food to Mother Matylda every Sunday. Sometimes you go, sometimes Maria goes, but I never get to go.” She inserted an extra dose of complaint into the words and cast an envious glance at me.

  “I want to go with Maria and Zofia!” Karol exclaimed. He tugged on Mama’s skirt, as if a trip to the convent were life’s greatest joy.

  Not him, too. I turned an accusatory eye on my sister and waved a hand toward Karol. “Now look what you’ve done.”

  She faltered over a suitable retort, mouth agape, and called on Mama to demand justice. I sat on the rug by the coffee table and scooped up a white rook from my chessboard. Smooth and sturdy, a tiny turret that held so much power. More power than a pawn, a loud voice in my head jeered, but a little whisper shooed it away. Power wasn’t enough to win a chess game. Strategy was far more important.

  “Plotting your famous rook endgame, are you, Akiba Rubinstein?”

  At Tata’s query, I smiled and put the rook back. From one of my favorite chess grand masters, I’d learned to take the endgame into account from the opening play. It was an interesting strategy, intense and aggressive, one that tended to serve me well. Rubinstein exercised a mastery of rook endgames, but my variations on his strategy favored the pawn.

  While Tata returned his empty cup to the kitchen, I made an opening play with a white knight. Chess required all my attention and sharpened the edges of my mind like a sword against a whetstone. Queens and kings and bishops, knights and rooks and pawns. Each intermingled until the board was an intricate black-and-white web of my own design. Two opponents, black versus white, were united in a common quest for triumph, but were otherwise irreconcilable. One prevailed by overcoming the other. In the case of a stalemate, where neither player emerged victorious, only by playing additional games could the winner be established. Two enemies, one victor, and one ultimate way to determine who that victor would be. The checkmate.

  But there would be no checkmate for me and my sister. We remained locked in a stalemate where neither Rubinstein’s rook nor my pawn could affect the outcome.

  “You don’t have time to play Monopoly, but you have time for chess?”

  I hadn’t noticed Zofia approaching, but the scornful question came from right beside me and ruined my concentration. “I’m only playing for a few minutes before I leave. Be quiet so I can finish.”

  “You’re going with Irena, aren’t you?”

  She voiced it as if I’d committed the most heinous crime imaginable. I surveyed the board and selected a rook. “No, but even if I were, that’s none of your business. Stop bothering me.”

  It was the wrong thing to say, and I knew it as soon as I heard the words. I opened my mouth to make a desperate attempt to salvage the conversation, but Zofia erupted.

  A sudden flash of movement, then a few chess pieces clattered against the table and fell to the floor. Gasping, I dove after them, but I’d hardly collected them before she knocked a few more off, encouraged by my protests. An angry shout—probably from Mama—rang in my ears in the midst of Zofia’s third attack, and I pushed her back with the hand not clinging to chess pieces. Undeterred, she lunged again. I screamed at her to stop, blocked her with my arm, and wrestled her away, because if the little brat broke my chess pieces . . .

  “Girls.”

  The quiet, firm tone was one we both knew better than to disobey. We froze. I clutched the chess pieces to my chest, refusing to loosen my grasp or lower the arm that held my sister back, and Zofia remained folded over me, one hand centimeters from the board. I tried not to wince upon meeting Tata’s unrelenting gaze.

  “That’s enough.”

  Usually when his voice carried that particular note of warning, not even Zofia would persist. This time nothing could douse the flames of her temper, not even Tata’s reprimand or Mama ordering me to the convent now and Zofia to the dishes immediately. With a furious huff, she pushed me away, stomped to our bedroom, and slammed the door behind her. The silence that followed was suffocating.

  During my past few months of resistance work, I’d del
ved into the heart of lies, danger, and rebellion, a world far removed from my sister’s. The war had forced us apart, but until the danger had passed I didn’t see a way to remedy it. As I combatted the tears blurring my vision, I made sure none of the chess pieces had been damaged by Zofia’s tantrum. Mama came to her knees beside me, and I ran my fingers over the black queen. My chess pieces were intact, but somehow I felt as if they weren’t.

  When Mama brushed a few stray hairs from my forehead, I spoke in a whisper. “Can’t I tell her?”

  She sighed and covered my hands with her own. “All we can do is pray this war ends soon.”

  A stalemate until things changed. If they ever did.

  Mama kissed my cheek before going to our room to check on Zofia, so I gathered my belongings. Tata stood, put on his brown tweed jacket over the matching waistcoat, and donned his favorite fedora, gray with a blue Petersham ribbon. In the security of my mind, I begged him not to follow me, but he picked up his cane and dashed my hopes. If he wanted to speak to me alone after an argument, I had a feeling it meant punishment. Silence remained until we stepped out into the hall, then I seized my chance to argue my case.

  “I’m sorry, Tata, but Zofia wouldn’t leave me alone, and she almost broke my—”

  He cleared his throat, so I fell silent. It was worth an attempt. The wait was agonizing, but I stared past him and focused on the apartment door labeled FLORKOWSKI, our family name. At last he sighed.

  “Well,” he said slowly, “I must say, you have impressive reflexes.”

  The words conjured a sudden smile, and Tata chuckled while I nestled into his comforting embrace. He held me close. One hand cradled my head as if I were small, and I almost wished I could go back to those times. When I was small, there wasn’t a war. I didn’t have to keep so many secrets from my sister.

  “You understand why you’ve been so busy these past months. Zofia doesn’t,” Tata murmured. “She can’t. All I ask is that you try to be more sensitive toward her feelings.”

  I sighed. “That would be easier if I could tell her the truth. But I’ll do my best.”

  “Would you rather I go to the convent for you today?”

  “Did the thief who stole Mama’s handbag find your Kennkarten inside and return them?”

  He chuckled. “No, but considering none of the information is accurate, I would have been impressed if he had. Our replacements should be ready in a few days, then we’ll be able to work again.” He kissed my forehead. “Be careful, my brave girl.”

  Instead of loosening my grasp, I clung to him a moment longer. His familiar scent was laced with faint traces of wax and pine, evidence of the polish he’d used on his cane that morning. The combination was oddly appealing. At last I lifted my head, and Tata brushed his thumb across my cheek, tracing the remnants of a tear stain.

  Once he disappeared into the apartment, I pushed the argument aside and bounded down the stairs. The convent visit was exactly what I needed to lift my spirits. Outside, sunshine kissed my cheeks and lent a golden tint to the beige stucco of our four-story building, but the beautiful day was marred by a disgusting sight.

  A large truck and two cars drove through the intersection. The sight brought me to a startled halt, and I lingered by the door while they parked. SS officers and men dressed like civilians swarmed onto the street like ants upon carrion. As one of the men got out of his car, he tucked something into an interior coat pocket. The sunlight glinted off a chain and silver disk.

  A warrant badge.

  I’d never seen one, but Irena and my parents had described them to me countless times. It was the only way to identify the people we feared most. Someone had betrayed my family, I was sure of it, otherwise the Gestapo wouldn’t have come.

  When the Gestapo agents didn’t charge into my building, I loosened my grip on the doorknob. They stood by their vehicles while one consulted a piece of paper and said something about needing to go down one more block, but one of the SS officers scanned Bałuckiego Street until his sights locked on a new target—me.

  “Come here.”

  Resistance members and Gestapo agents played a similar game. We hid our identities and completed our missions in secret while no one around us knew the truth of who we were. I’d probably passed countless Gestapo agents on the street without knowing it, perhaps had even been stopped by SS men who were also secret members, but this time I was fully aware of who had beckoned me.

  Swallowing hard, I obliged and took small steps to buy time to think. The street was bare and quiet, magnifying the shuddering breaths that announced my panic like the loudspeakers in the square announced every German victory. They couldn’t have suspected me of anything when all I’d done was leave the building . . .

  I clutched my basket tighter to focus my thoughts. Stay calm. Study them.

  There were six and, judging by the insignia that determined his rank and the number of medals on his uniform, the man who had spoken was in charge. As I drew closer, his unyielding gaze remained fixed on me.

  “Identification,” he said.

  That particular order never got any easier to hear. I searched for my Kennkarte, delaying as long as possible. This officer wasn’t a boy who prided himself on shiny jackboots, massive weapons, and titles. This was an officer whose mission was to crush the resistance. I needed to ensure that he didn’t consider me a threat. After handing over my Kennkarte, I took a moment to gather myself, then inserted a level of lightness into my voice.

  “If you’ll forgive me, Herr Sturmbannführer, I’m on my way to—” Both my voice and my courage fled when he looked at me. I’d never had so much difficulty attempting to be calm before an officer. “To meet a friend.”

  “The basket.”

  Everything in me screamed in refusal. “Of course, but my—”

  The Sturmbannführer nodded to another man, who snatched the basket. My plan wasn’t working. I needed to figure out what I was doing wrong, and I needed to reclaim my possessions, but I was at a loss. All I could think about was the warrant badge.

  The man shuffled through the basket. “Nothing, Sturmbannführer Ebner.”

  I kept my eyes lowered so he wouldn’t see my relief, but I was aware of him extending the basket toward me. Before he could return it, Ebner ripped it from his clutches, and I bit back a cry of protest.

  “Name,” Ebner said as he began a painstakingly thorough search.

  “H-Helena.” I paused, hoping it would banish the quaver from my voice. No one had ever interrogated me over the contents of my false papers. I’d memorized the information, of course, but it was difficult to recall any of it when my heart wouldn’t stop thumping against my chest. “Helena Pilarczyk.”

  This time when Ebner looked at me, I forced myself to look back, and I saw what I was afraid I’d see.

  Suspicion.

  No, it was in my head, just in my head. He wasn’t suspicious; his thoroughness and the warrant badge had unnerved me, that’s all. Irena and I had gotten past soldiers countless times, and I’d done it alone, too. If I could do it before, I could do it now.

  “Date of birth.”

  The longer I stayed, the more questions he’d ask, and the more he’d go through my belongings. I had to answer quickly. I had to think of a way to make them leave or convince them to let me go.

  Don’t panic, think. Study him. Ignore the guns pointed at you. Think.

  “Date of birth.”

  The impatient snap made me realize I hadn’t said a word, so I mumbled the falsified date and tried to develop an escape plan, but the thoughts didn’t come. Nothing came, nothing but an overwhelming urgency that plagued my insides but didn’t prompt me to action, not when Ebner dropped the basket and stomped on it, not when the weave splintered while pieces of potato oozed around his boot, not until he kicked the broken basket apart and the baptismal certificates scattered across the cobblestones.

  Run.

  It was foolish, it was desperate, it was all I could do. I put on a b
urst of speed, but I didn’t make it three steps before an SS man raised his rifle butt. A heavy, blinding pain drove the air from my lungs and threw me to the ground. I coughed and gasped until an ironlike grip pulled me to my feet. Ebner was yelling, but I was too distracted by my pulsating gut to listen, so he grabbed my face and twisted it toward the handful of blank documents.

  “Answer me, you stupid girl. Where did you get these, and where are you taking them?”

  I could have spat in his face or begged for mercy, and neither would have made a difference. I was in no condition to be defiant, but I chose defiance anyway. It was all I had left.

  “I don’t know, Herr Sturmbannführer. I’m just a stupid girl.”

  The slap was almost worth it. Almost.

  The stinging blow split my lip, and I was too busy spitting blood to hear what he said next; then the Gestapo agent spun me to face someone.

  It was Mrs. Kruczek, our neighbor. She couldn’t have picked a worse time to leave the apartment building, but it was too late. She stood frozen in the doorway, petrified, and clutched her baby, Jan, to her chest. I stared at her, pleading through silence.

  Some of the guns pointed at me turned on Mrs. Kruczek. She gasped and held Jan tighter, as if her arms could have somehow fended off bullets.

  “Identify this girl and where she lives, or all three of you will die.”

  Another man repeated Ebner’s order in Polish. She had no choice. I knew she had no choice. But I kept praying anyway.

  Please. Please don’t. My family.

  Mrs. Kruczek’s glassy eyes met mine, as if issuing a silent apology, before she lowered them. Her voice shook so much she hardly got the words out. “Maria Florkowska. Second floor.”

  Think, think, for God’s sake, think.

  They dragged me past a sobbing Mrs. Kruczek, inside, and upstairs. Thank God Mama and Tata’s false identifications had been stolen. My parents wouldn’t be implicated, and Zofia and Karol were children. Surely the Gestapo didn’t care about children, so they’d tell my family about my arrest, nothing more.