The Last Checkmate

by Gabriella Saab

  “For being on the sidewalk?” I asked softly, and she nodded.

  “Izaak, Eliasz, and my parents tried to protect my sister and niece, but they were attacked, too. As I watched, those men beat my family. I screamed at them to stop, but I couldn’t move. I was paralyzed. All I could think about was the same thing happening to my sons if I hadn’t sent them away.

  “When the SS men relented, my niece was dead, right there in the gutter. They’d crushed her skull. Judyta wouldn’t stop screaming over Ruta’s little body, so the officers shot her and arrested us. My parents died in Pawiak from their injuries, then Eliasz, Izaak, and I were transferred here.”

  “I’m so sorry.” My words sounded trivial and useless. No apology could change such injustice. “What labor assignment does your husband have?”

  Hania stared across the room, face blank, fingernails digging into her palms. “Eliasz died from a construction injury two months ago. I was in the process of striking a deal to have him transferred, but I didn’t work quickly enough. My sons are all Izaak and I have left. We promised each other we’d survive so we can find them again.” She ran a hand over her finger where her wedding band should have been. As I watched the simple gesture, a heavy ache settled in my chest.

  “Hania, there’s a guard looking for you,” Janina said as she rushed by on her way to her next patient.

  I knew she’d get in trouble.

  The young SS man came into view, and the sight of Hania brought an easy smirk to his lips. My throat ran dry. It was Protz, the guard who had assaulted me when I first arrived. Before I realized what I’d done, I’d crossed my arms over my chest.

  If Protz hadn’t been so repulsive, his sharp, chiseled features could have been handsome. He ran a hand over dark blond hair styled in the typical SS undercut and took Hania in with pale blue eyes. Hitler’s perfect Aryan specimen. His tall, muscular frame crossed the floor in long strides while arrogance radiated from him, both stifling and nauseating.

  “You owe me for those cigarettes, 15177,” he said.

  “Let’s discuss this outside, please, Herr Scharführer,” Hania replied, an odd tightness behind her lilt.

  As she led the way past him, Protz grabbed her arm and brought her to a sudden stop. She didn’t look at him, but she closed her eyes for an instant and clenched her jaw. When she opened them, her expression was as controlled and emotionless as the words that followed.

  “When shall I repay you, Herr Scharführer?”

  Neither Hania nor Protz seemed to remember my presence, or that they were in the middle of the hospital block, for that matter. I searched my frantic mind for a way to intervene if necessary, but, for now, I watched and held my breath.

  “Tonight.” He stepped closer and tightened his grip enough to make Hania stiffen. “Scheisse-Jude.” Although she didn’t react, he allowed the insult to sink in, then shoved her away.

  Once Protz was gone, a flicker of revulsion cut across Hania’s face before she replaced it with stony indifference. Clearing her throat, she pulled cigarettes and matches from a hidden pocket, placed a cigarette in her mouth, and took a few short draws as she lit it.

  In the silence, I reviewed the exchange in my mind, not daring to believe I’d understood it correctly. But I had never forgotten the day Hania had counseled me on how to survive here, on one particular resource that could be exchanged for goods or services: yourself.

  “You said you translate for them.”

  “I didn’t say that’s all I do. When I was separated from Eliasz and Izaak and sent to Block 11, I suspected execution was next. Protz pulled me aside and would have taken what he wanted anyway, so I suggested a deal. Myself in exchange for my life and whatever goods I request.” She took a slow drag and gave a mirthless chuckle. “You’d be surprised how often they overlook their so-called ‘race defilement’ laws.”

  I shivered in disgust, so she offered me the cigarette, but I shook my head in refusal. “You warned me about taking risks, yet you’re sleeping with a guard? You’ll be severely punished if you’re caught, and so will he. Don’t you know that?”

  “Of course, but Protz’s family is heavily involved in the Nazi Party. He has uncles, brothers, and cousins fighting, and his father is a high-ranking Waffen-SS officer who played a key role in some German victories. He stays here, evading the real danger, stealing whatever he pleases from transports, and using his family name to avoid trouble. We’re careful, of course, but if we’re caught, he’ll protect me.”

  “Right, trust the man who considers us untermenschen.” I spat out the German term.

  “If staying alive for my brother and children means crawling into bed with a schmuck, so be it. Besides, he enjoys having a subhuman to call his own. He won’t let anyone take that from him.”

  Though I could hardly fathom such bizarre logic, the overwhelming pity I felt after learning about her family returned, twice as strong.

  Every moment came flooding back. Protz’s tight hold on my wrists, my own helplessness, his sweeping, lascivious gaze. A stroke of sheer luck was the only thing that had prevented him from following through with his intentions. My experience had been repugnant enough, but the idea of agreeing to his demands was beyond my comprehension, particularly when the agreement could prove detrimental.

  Hania was a female Jew, even lower on the hierarchy of untermenschen than I. No amount of intelligence or skill changed her religion or the blood running through her veins. Appealing to man’s carnality was all she could utilize to gain some perverted form of leverage, and even that could be insufficient. Although she’d found a man salacious enough to overlook the dangers of the forbidden exchange, the arrangement hung by a thread that could be cut the moment he gave the word.

  She was in check. One wrong move, and it was checkmate.

  Hania tossed the last of her cigarette onto the floor and stared deliberately at my arms across my chest. I removed them. Something glimmered in her eyes, something akin to concern or perhaps sympathy—or maybe I imagined it. The only thing I saw now was a knowing, macabre gleam.

  “Gave you a warm welcome during registration, did he?”

  It took some effort to relax my clenched jaw enough to respond. “That’s not funny.”

  “Did he?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t lie to your elders, young one.”

  “Don’t accuse me of lying, old one. Checkmate.” I couldn’t resist a triumphant grin while she chastised me in French. Besides, it wasn’t a lie. Protz’s welcome hadn’t gone as far as she thought.

  “Oy vey, you’re insufferable,” Hania said, shaking her head even as she smiled. After a moment, it faded. “You’re not a yenta, are you, Maria?”

  “Can I be a yenta if I don’t know what it is?”

  She chuckled. “Right, you’re a Gentile, I almost forgot. You’re not a gossip? Because Protz might be able to protect me if we’re discovered, but I’d rather not have to find out.”

  “I won’t say anything. But now that I know what yenta means, I’m tempted to be one so I can claim that title.”

  “That’s what I get for opening my big mouth.”

  Hania accompanied me back to my block. Along the way, a breeze swept over us, carrying the faint, unmistakable scent of jasmine. Although the source must have been near, I failed to locate it. Perhaps it was beyond the barbed-wire fences. The fragrance took me away from the lingering ache of my injuries, but it reignited an ache of another sort, one that tended to flare unexpectedly before I subdued it. It was an ache of longing to be wherever the jasmine was, somewhere outside the gate.

  Since we had time before the first gong, I set up a chess game with the twigs and gravel, and we began to play. Hania was no Vera Menchik yet, but she was learning. Even champions were beginners once.

  We’d hardly begun when I waved a hand, indicating that she should stop. While I repositioned her pawns, Hania let out a huff.

  “I’ve only moved two pieces,” she said.

 
“Both of which weakened your king, so you’ve made it far too easy for me to win. Keep the king protected.”

  “Do you coach Fritzsch like this?” she asked, shaking her head while I made my first play. “How did you become his personal chess grand master?”

  I shifted positions, trying not to upset my injuries. “Do you remember when you asked me why I’d been spared? So long as Fritzsch enjoys playing chess against me, he’ll let me stay.”

  Hania nodded, then she gave a dry chuckle. “I suppose we were both kept for their pleasure.” When I didn’t respond, she sighed and reached for her knight. “It was a joke—”

  I placed a hand over hers to prevent her move, and she drew back with sudden haste. She stared at me, as if unsure what to make of the gesture. Something wavered, something that seemed to pierce her wall and expose her to the fullness of realities that were too difficult to face, before she blinked and retreated behind her refuge. She laughed, though it sounded a bit forced.

  “Don’t tell me you’re worried about me.”

  “All I have to do is play a game,” I murmured.

  “One that your life depends on, if I understood you correctly. In my case, Protz is an arrogant schmuck, but harmless as long as I keep him happy. Fritzsch, on the other hand . . .” She let her voice die and lifted a questioning eyebrow while she moved her knight.

  I doubted that Protz was as harmless as Hania would have liked me to believe, but I held my tongue in that regard. Instead I leaned closer to her. “I can trust you, can’t I?”

  “That depends. Would you trust someone who saved your life?”

  “You also took me to Janina, and sometimes I think I’d prefer another flogging to her treatments.” I grinned while she smirked, then I lowered my voice. “Do you want to help me get Fritzsch transferred?”

  She waited, as if expecting me to take back the words. When I didn’t, her eyes grew wide. “Oy gevalt, Maria, did Fritzsch flog your back or your head?”

  “I’m serious. My life depends on chess, like you said, but if I can get rid of him first, I might have a chance of surviving. Besides, I’m not the only prisoner who wants to see him gone.”

  “Of course everyone wants to see him gone, but unless Kommandant Höss decides—” Hania paused while her mouth dropped open. “Don’t tell me you goaded him into that flogging just to get the kommandant’s attention.”

  “Not exactly,” I replied as I examined the board before selecting my queen. “That was luck.”

  “You and I have very different definitions of that word.” She fell silent long enough to move a rook, which I captured. “What if Fritzsch figures out what you’re trying to do?”

  “He wants to kill me either way, so at least I’ll have done everything I could. Please, Hania.” I grabbed her hand again, and she didn’t pull away this time. “You have access to the administrative offices, so all I need you to do is let me know if you hear Kommandant Höss will be in the main camp. Nothing to jeopardize yourself. Will you think about it?”

  Hania played one more move and stayed quiet while I played my checkmate, but she looked pensive. “You’re certain Fritzsch plans to kill you when chess no longer holds his interest?” she asked, and when I nodded she got up. “Well, we can’t have that, can we?”

  I grinned. “Chess tomorrow, but only if you’ve learned to defend your king.”

  After responding in Czech, Hania walked to the door and disappeared. I gathered the chess pieces and savored the comforting embrace of gratitude. With her help, my odds of getting Fritzsch transferred had improved considerably.

  I was settling into my bunk when someone called my prisoner number. The häftling handed me a small slip of paper and left before I could ask for an explanation.

  To the girl who told me to leave her alone,

  I realize I’m disrespecting your wishes, but I haven’t seen you in a while, so I wanted to make sure you were all right. If you’d write back and let me know, I promise to respect your wishes from this day forward. My family owns the bakery in town, so give your note to a prisoner who works there, and he’ll pass it to me. I don’t know if this message will reach you, but if it does and you don’t respond, that’s rude, and you should be ashamed of yourself.

  Respectfully,

  Mateusz Kolczyk

  P.S. I’m really sorry about your black eye.

  Well, the stupid boy wasn’t so stupid. I could give him a chance. The odds of seeing him again weren’t likely, but smuggling letters to a civilian seemed far less risky than speaking to one, and the idea of another friendship held a surprising appeal. I rummaged through some organized goods I’d gotten from Hania until I found a piece of paper and a pencil to craft my response.

  Dear Mateusz,

  I’m fine, but my labor assignment changed, which is why you haven’t seen me. I’ve been employed on camp grounds for some time now, so I’m afraid our paths won’t cross in the future. As for my black eye, it’s long since healed. All is forgiven.

  Your friend,

  Maria Florkowska

  P.S. It’s rude to disrespect a girl’s wishes, and you should be ashamed of yourself.

  Chapter 15

  Auschwitz, 14 August 1941

  YOU CAN DO better than that, Maria. Ofenchajm.”

  “Ofenchajm.” Laughter interfered with my attempts to insert additional phlegm into my pronunciation, which was the only way I could think to make it sound right.

  “Ofenchajm,” Hania said, more forcefully this time. Still laughing, I mimicked her, and she sighed. “You sound more like a Gentile every time. Do I want to hear the Shema?”

  “If I can’t say your surname properly, do you think I can say an entire prayer in Hebrew?” I asked, grinning as I moved my knight along the chessboard we’d drawn on the filthy floor. “Your turn. How much do you remember?”

  Hania contemplated for a moment. “Pater noster, qui es in cælis, sanctificétur nomen tuum. Fiat volúntas tua, advéniat regnum tuum—” She feigned offense when I failed to mask my chuckle, then seemed to realize she’d switched the order of the last two phrases. She waved a dismissive hand and moved her rook. “I was close enough.”

  As our chess game continued, we snacked on a small cup of mare’s milk and some potato skins—payment Hania had received from a stable worker and kitchen worker in exchange for favors. She’d insisted on sharing, though I tried to refuse, because she was the one who’d earned them.

  When the milk was gone, I chewed two potato skins slowly, making them last as long as I could, and closed my eyes. These were no longer potato skins—they were pierogi stuffed with meat and cabbage, potatoes and onions, mushrooms, and, best of all, strawberries and blueberries.

  Once the game was over, we gathered the pieces into a jewelry pouch, and I tucked it into the corner of my bunk. Hania brushed herself off.

  “I’ll practice the Our Father, and you study the mathematics we discussed today, then practice your Yiddish and my surname. You need all the help you can get,” she said with a teasing grin. “We’ll save the Hebrew for after your Yiddish improves.”

  “My Yiddish is coming along well, if I say so myself. I heard it all the time before the war.”

  “Your pronunciation says otherwise.” This time it was my turn to feign offense, and she chuckled. “Get some sleep tonight and keep your wounds as clean as possible. They’re healing nicely, but you need to rest and—”

  “And make sure they don’t get infected.” It was what she told me every time. “You know, Hania, I think you fuss over me as much as Mama did.”

  “It’s a mother’s responsibility to fuss, Gentile or Jew.”

  Years ago, from frequent visits to the local Jewish deli, I had picked up the Yiddish word for grandmother, so I stole a mischievous glance at her while I tightened my headscarf. “Thank you for looking out for me, Bubbe.”

  Hania’s eyes lit up with pride, even though she was quick to protest. “I’m twenty-three!”

  As she departed, I
pulled Mateusz’s latest letter from my pocket and left it on my bunk. In it, he’d described a recent confrontation with a cantankerous old man on his paper route and mentioned that the bakery was doing well, but his parents hated that it had been overrun by SS officers. As I composed my response, I updated him on Hania’s chess skills and her complaints about my Yiddish. The lighthearted parts of my day had become even more important to me now, as they were the only things I wrote to him about.

  It was odd being friends with a boy I wasn’t certain I’d see again, a boy who could have been my friend in Warsaw. If things had been different, we would have met our friends at the movie theater, ridden our bicycles through town, talked about our families, and shared our dreams for the future. Instead Mateusz had the freedom to do those things—or as much freedom as the occupiers permitted—while I wasn’t sure I’d survive one day to the next.

  “Maria.”

  The unfamiliar voice reached my ears the moment I left my block. Aside from Father Kolbe and Hania, no one called me by anything other than my prisoner number. The man who had spoken motioned for me to follow him into the alley between Blocks 15 and 16. I obeyed, but I closed my hand into a fist. It was never a good idea to follow a strange man into an alley.

  Even among prisoners, it was difficult to know who could be trusted. When he paused and faced me, I studied his appearance. Red triangle, capital P, Prisoner 4859. Thin, but strong. Square jaw, slight cleft in his chin. Narrow nose, and the eyes on either side were as clear and blue as a cloudless sky, but sharp as ice, watching me beneath thick blond brows. Impeccable posture, scrupulous gaze, much like my father’s. Perhaps he was a military man, too.