The Last Checkmate

by Gabriella Saab

  “The Polack bitch has a mouth on her, Herr Kommandant.” His voice held no remorse—not that I’d expected any.

  “Then follow protocol to discipline her. I don’t see a whipping block. Was she medically examined before the punishment was administered?”

  “No, Herr Kommandant.”

  “For God’s sake, I won’t have incompetent officers in my camp. The next time you penalize a prisoner, follow protocol, do you understand?”

  The world swam around me, a sea of searing anguish, but, as he spoke to someone else, the kommandant’s voice began to fade. I assumed he was leaving. The guards ordered the prisoners to their labor assignments, and their footsteps grew fainter as they shuffled away—but a different set of footsteps grew louder.

  A firm grip closed around my scrawny, torn shoulders and lifted me up, igniting the fire anew, and I screamed.

  “Block 11 awaits, 16671.” As the sneer brushed against my ear, a chill mingled with the scorching heat consuming my back. He threw me down, and everything continued to spin.

  A slick warmth spread across my mangled back while remnants of sweat and salty tears streaked down my face. The pain was excruciating. But I would go to my new assignment.

  I didn’t even make it to my hands and knees before I collapsed. I had to get up, I had to get to Father Kolbe, I had to live and fight. But I was so tired and in so much pain, even though I didn’t regret what I’d done. My plan had succeeded, and defying Fritzsch had armed me with renewed vigor. That same vigor told me to get up, and I would, I had to, but the sun beat me as eagerly as Fritzsch had, robbing me of what little energy I had left, and my mouth, lips, and throat were as parched as the hot, dusty ground beneath my cheek. Maybe I’d rest for a moment . . .

  A shadow crossed over me, bringing me back to the present, reminding me to go to Father Kolbe. I dragged myself a few centimeters across the ground while the rough, blood-soaked gravel dug into my chest and palms and the painful effort made me retch. At the same time, I tensed, waiting for more blows to force me to my feet, but they never came. Instead the hands that touched me were gentle. They must have been Father Kolbe’s—no, that was impossible, he was in Block 11. Maybe my mother’s . . .

  “Shhh, I’m not going to hurt you. Don’t close your eyes, do you understand? Stay with me.” A female voice. Not Mama’s. This one was a bit deeper and accented. Familiar.

  Somehow I ended up off the ground. Maybe I was walking, maybe I was being dragged or carried, but I was changing locations one way or another. Amid the woman’s comforting murmurs, one phrase stood out. Don’t worry. Such an odd saying. In my experience, such a phrase meant that you should, in fact, worry. The realization should have been concerning, but I was too tired for concern. Instead I closed my eyes, even though the woman had told me not to.

  Chapter 13

  Auschwitz, 30 July 1941

  WHEN I CAME to my senses, a sharp throb traveled across my back and shoulders. Something covered the pulsating sensation, something tight. Bandages. I opened my eyes and blinked as the world came into focus. I was on my stomach, lying on what must have been a thin mattress, in a large space crowded with other people. Some wore bandages; others were frail and sickly; others moved from bunk to bunk to examine the inhabitants. When had I been admitted to one of the hospital blocks?

  Father Kolbe.

  The thought sprang to the forefront of my mind, and I started to get up, but I paused with an agonized cry when the pain made my stomach turn.

  “Don’t move. You were flogged yesterday, remember?”

  Slowly, I turned my head to locate the voice’s owner. Standing at my bedside was Hania Ofenchajm, the young Jewish woman.

  “I’ve been here for almost four months, and I’ve never seen a prisoner provoke the guards into giving additional lashes,” she said. “That took a lot of chutzpah.”

  I had no idea what chutzpah meant, but I had a feeling she wasn’t paying me a compliment. My suspicions were confirmed by her disapproving frown.

  “Out of every SS man you could have aggravated, you chose Fritzsch? The entire camp heard you carrying on about that priest. And if a flogging wasn’t enough, you chose to be brazen, too? Did you expect that to win you anything other than harsher punishment?” Hania allowed me to mull over the queries, then she took a deep breath and softened her tone. “You can’t take risks like that. Not if you want to survive.”

  She was right, of course. As intentional as my actions had been, I knew they were stupid. But I didn’t regret them.

  “What are you doing here?” The raspy, raw sound that came from my mouth took me aback. I cleared my throat, even though it wouldn’t make an improvement.

  “Translating and interpreting is a good job compared to others. It gives me additional privileges, such as the ability to move freely around the camp if I have responsibilities here rather than at the SS administrative offices. Today, I’m needed in the camp, so I slipped into the hospital to check on you.”

  Must have been nice, having the freedom to wander. I didn’t dwell on it. “My name is Maria.”

  “So I heard in the roll-call square. Where are you from?”

  “Warsaw.”

  She arched an eyebrow and flashed a pleased smile. “So am I. Did you work for the resistance? What kind of work did you do?”

  “Different things, but mainly I helped a group of religious sisters who smuggled Jewish children from the ghetto.”

  “How long were you involved before you were caught?”

  “A few months. From March until May.” I paused, wincing as I shifted positions. “You brought me to the hospital, didn’t you? Why?”

  “I wasn’t going to leave you bleeding to death in the roll-call square.”

  I looked at Hania, studying her features. Sharp cheekbones jutting above hollow cheeks. Probably in her early twenties, though she looked older. Thin, but not as thin as I was, which made sense because indoor labor assignments meant less strenuous conditions. Large, deep-set eyes as dark and rich as the stain on my father’s wooden cane. The shorn hair peeking from under her headscarf was the same shade. Despite her thin form and aging beyond her years, she was beautiful. The guarded look in her eyes wasn’t uncommon, so it didn’t surprise or concern me. We shielded ourselves however we could.

  “I told you to hold still,” Hania said when I shifted again.

  “Something is poking me through the mattress.”

  “Did you expect otherwise? This isn’t the Hotel Bristol.”

  I wished she hadn’t mentioned the hotel, because suddenly it was all I could think about. It soared above the heart of Warsaw and boasted an exquisite white stucco façade—a neo-Renaissance design, if I remembered what my parents had said. The stately belvedere on the rounded corner was my favorite part of the building. I imagined that I was at the hotel café for breakfast, feasting on eggs, sausage, apple-and-prune chutney, fresh orange juice, and assorted breads with jam, honey, and butter. I clung to the fantasy until a new voice broke through the desire lingering on my taste buds.

  “How is she?”

  “Awake,” Hania replied. “Maria, this is Dr. Janina Ostrowska.”

  “Nurse, Hania, Nurse. My medical degree doesn’t change the fact that I’m an incompetent Pole, remember?” Janina didn’t mask the bitterness in her voice.

  “An incompetent Pole, or an incompetent Jew?” Hania asked with a dry laugh.

  “Both, I suppose. Take this, Maria.”

  Janina handed me pain medication, which I dutifully swallowed while she unwrapped the bandages.

  Hania peered around Janina to glimpse my back. “Merde,” she muttered, in what I assumed was French.

  “I’m sure Maria appreciates the comfort,” Janina said. “Keep comforting her like that and I’ll throw you out.”

  Hania chuckled and said something in Yiddish, and Janina responded in kind while she checked my injuries. Her brow was furrowed in concentration, hovering above eyes that were light brown and flecke
d with gold, and the fuzz on her head had a red hue, reminding me of the chicory powder Mama and Tata added to their coffee when the drink became scarce. Although it was difficult to keep my eyes on her from my face-down position, I watched her while she treated my lacerations with expert care.

  “You know, staring at the doctor is an excellent cure. That’s what I always tell my patients.”

  The dry remark brought me out of my stupor, and heat rushed to my cheeks. “Sorry. I’m shocked to see another woman, that’s all.”

  “You and everyone else. Hania saw me when I arrived last week, struck a deal with an SS man to spare my life, and secured a position for me here.”

  “Janina and I were neighbors before the ghetto,” Hania said. “My family moved, but with the help of forged documents, she passed as a Gentile, remained in an Aryan district, and worked for the resistance.”

  “Until someone informed on me, and now here we are, neighbors again,” Janina said as she finished applying fresh bandages. “You’re as well as can be expected, but we’ll monitor your progress over the next few days. Get some rest.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Ostrowska.”

  She flashed a wan smile. “Don’t let the guards hear that. Call me Janina.” She moved from bed to bed, a flurry of instructions and bandages and medications. When she’d gone, I braced myself against my bunk and pushed myself up.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Hania asked, watching me.

  “Block 11 for my labor assignment. Help me up, please.”

  “You heard Janina, you’re not—”

  “Father Kolbe is all I have,” I whispered. “This is all the time I have left with him.”

  She remained silent. At last she voiced an unintelligible complaint in Yiddish before sighing. “Janina will have our heads for this.”

  I eased myself upright, but even with Hania’s help my progress was painstakingly slow. By the time I was seated, I was already exhausted and lightheaded. Hania offered me a cup of water and a morsel of bread, and while I consumed them she stared at the back of my uniform. It was still open and exposed to my lower back, thanks to Fritzsch, barely clinging to my thin frame.

  “I repaired your collar while you were unconscious, but I didn’t have enough thread for the rest of the rip,” she said.

  “That’s all right. I’ll sew it later.” I felt for the small hidden pocket until I found the beads contained inside, and I suppressed a relieved sigh.

  After instructing me to meet her in the hospital block during free time so Janina could evaluate my injuries, Hania helped me to the door. The progress was even slower than my attempts to sit up, but determination drove me forward. Once outside, I paused to catch my breath.

  “Hania, the last time we spoke, I—”

  She held up a hand, cutting my apology short. “It’s all right. Now, are you certain you can work?”

  I nodded, and we pressed on. She supported me until we neared Block 11, then allowed me to continue alone. She watched me go, probably waiting until she was satisfied I could make it on my own, then I heard her walking away.

  “Hania,” I called after her, and she turned around. “Do you know how to play chess?”

  “No,” she replied, offering me a small smile. “But I’d like to learn.”

  * * *

  When I reached Block 11 and staggered through the door, I insisted I was fit to work, and the kapo didn’t dispute me. He assigned me to fetch waste buckets, so I spent my day in the basement.

  As difficult as outdoor labor had been, Block 11 was worse. The prisoners crammed into the cells were condemned to terrible punishments and slow, torturous deaths. Moans, curses, and lamentations echoed down the dingy halls as I entered each cell. My progress was slow—even with pain medicine, every movement hurt. Some men glared at me, as if they resented my relative freedom; others begged for help, food, or water; others were too weak to acknowledge me. I evaluated the unfortunate faces long enough to look for Father Kolbe, then stared at the floor as I completed my tasks. Their tormented, hopeless gazes reflected my inability to alleviate their suffering.

  It was the end of the day before I found him. Cell 18.

  His gentle voice led prayers, accompanied by the other prisoners’ murmurs, and I paused outside the door. They were reciting the final decade of the rosary. I closed my eyes, reached for the small pocket in my uniform, and grasped my rosary beads, listening as his familiar murmur rose above the rest and filled me with its usual peace. When the prayer was over, a reverent silence descended upon the cell.

  Taking a deep breath to steady myself, I ensured the kapo wasn’t nearby and pulled open the heavy door. The effort reopened a wound, making me gasp as it sent flames of agony across my back. The men turned toward the sound. Father Kolbe was kneeling in their midst, and he looked at me, eyes wide. He stood and opened his mouth to speak, but I went first.

  “What you did for that prisoner, offering to take his place . . .” My voice caught, and it took me a moment to find it again. “You’re an incredible man.”

  He shook his head. “That young man has a family. God willing, he’ll return to them.” Father Kolbe allowed the prayer to linger between us, then he took my hand and covered it with his own. “As for you, my friend . . .” The words trembled, and he swallowed hard.

  I offered him a sad smile through eyes filled with tears. “How will I go on without you, Father Kolbe?” The answer was clear, but I had to hear it from him.

  “You will live and fight, Maria.” He gave my hand a small squeeze while he stepped closer and focused on my injuries. “Child, what have they done?”

  I glanced at my lacerated shoulder, which had bled through the bandage hours ago. “A small price to pay for the reassignment I wanted.”

  As my words sank in and brought realization with them, I watched the shock register on Father Kolbe’s face. I dipped my head in a single nod, confirming the unspoken question, and his eyes filled with grateful tears.

  “Dear, clever girl, what a sacrifice you’ve made for me,” he whispered.

  He made a small sign of the cross over my wounds. When he was finished, I closed my fingers around his wrist, rotated his hand upward, and placed an item in his open palm. A pebble I’d picked up from the roll-call square, just like the ones he’d given me for a chess set.

  Chapter 14

  Auschwitz, 6 August 1941

  HANIA, WON’T YOU get in trouble for this?”

  Because Hania and Janina insisted that I stay in the hospital to recover from my flogging and I was adamant about visiting Father Kolbe, we’d struck an agreement: I’d visit the hospital to rest and let Janina examine me, but I’d work in Block 11 enough to steal time with Father Kolbe. Hania dragged me back to Block 19 each day—she didn’t trust me to uphold my end of the bargain—and as long as I kept returning, Janina was satisfied.

  Janina had bathed my wounds in antiseptic—a process almost as painful as the injuries themselves—and bound them with fresh, clean bandages, and I voiced my question as Hania passed me my uniform. In response, she stole a glance around the room before dropping her voice.

  “I had to translate some reports from this block anyway. I’ll be fine, but if not, I’ll take care of it.”

  The implications behind her words were clear. Fluency in five languages gave her an excellent advantage. She’d explained that she made deals with prisoners and guards alike, translating for them and receiving benefits in return, then kept the goods or used them for trade. Still, at the thought of bartering with our captors, I wrinkled my nose.

  “My connections are the reason you’re getting special treatment,” Hania said, raising an eyebrow at me. “All the pain medicine you’ve received from Janina, for instance. Most prisoners are lucky to get half a pill. Thanks to my connections, Janina is alive, working here, acting as my hospital contact, and accessing additional resources through suppliers I’ve established inside and outside the camp, meaning she gives you proper dosages.”


  “Right, I’m sorry. I’m grateful for everything you’ve done,” I replied with a sheepish smile while I put my uniform back on over my new bandages. “But you’re Jewish. You should hate the Nazis even more than I do.”

  “If anyone hears you talking like that, all the hard work I’ve put into your recovery will be for nothing.” She cast another wary glance around. “You can disagree all you want, Maria, but establishing connections with prisoners and guards alike has its perks. How do you think I got my own life spared? I have my younger brother to look after, too, so I’ll welcome help in any form.”

  “Your brother is here?”

  She nodded before sitting at the foot of my cot. “Izaak works as a locksmith. I have an SS connection who transferred him. When we first arrived, he was part of the road crew.” One of the most arduous positions, where prisoners pulled heavy concrete cylinders to level the grounds.

  “You can get labor reassignments?” I asked, genuinely impressed.

  “As long as I offer the proper repayment. In a place like this, you have to give something to get something. It’s not always pleasant, but I’ll do anything to return to my kinderlach.” A sad, fond smile tugged at Hania’s lips, then she translated for me: “My children.”

  “How many children do you have?”

  “Two, both sons. Jakub and Adam.” A faraway look crossed her face, so I waited for her to continue. “They were three years old and four months old when my husband and I handed them over to the resistance. Eliasz, my husband, said it was for the best, but I wasn’t so certain. Not until we were arrested.”

  “You saved their lives,” I murmured. “How did you get arrested?”

  Hania studied a small hole in her uniform before explaining. “In the ghetto, my elder sister, Judyta, lost her husband and newborn to dysentery. Her four-year-old daughter, Ruta, was all she had left, and she refused to give her up. One afternoon, my family and I were walking down the street, and four SS men were coming our way, so we kept to the gutter. My niece was chasing a pigeon, and when it flew onto the sidewalk, she followed. Judyta called to Ruta and tried to stop her, we all did, but Ruta wasn’t paying attention. As my sister fetched her from the sidewalk, she apologized to the SS men for violating the law and assured them it was unintentional. It didn’t matter. The officers didn’t say a word before they threw them back into the street and started beating them.”