The Last Checkmate

by Gabriella Saab

  After this inspection, I felt better, but I kept my distance. “How do you know my name?”

  “I heard you tell Fritzsch during your flogging,” he replied. “When that priest volunteered to die in place of another man, you created quite a scene.”

  “Father Kolbe is my friend.”

  “Surely you knew begging for his life would get you punished.”

  “At the time, I wasn’t thinking.”

  He smiled. Maybe he saw through my lie. “I’ve watched you play chess, and I’ve kept an eye on you outside of those public displays, too. You seem to be a smart girl. Very prudent. Not one to react without thinking.”

  “It’s difficult to be prudent when your friend is sentenced to death.”

  The man nodded. “Indeed. It’s even more difficult to successfully manipulate Fritzsch.”

  Even though I didn’t react, he stayed quiet, and I suspected he was waiting for the silence to goad me into a confession, one that would confirm the accuracy of his assessment. I wouldn’t tell him anything. If he knew he was right, he might tell Fritzsch, and if Fritzsch discovered my actions were intentional he’d never fall for a provocation from me again.

  When I didn’t say anything, the man chuckled. “Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me. In fact, you’re exactly the kind of person I need. We’re alike, you and I.” Before continuing, he closed the space between us, and I didn’t move away. “You’re a girl who has managed to survive in a men’s camp, you knew how to encourage Fritzsch to reassign you, and you accepted the punishment that came with it. I went outside during a street roundup in Warsaw so I would be arrested and sent to Auschwitz.”

  Surely he hadn’t said what I thought he’d said. “You came here on purpose?”

  He nodded. “The Nazis have done an excellent job covering up what happens in these camps, so I wanted to uncover the truth and send reports to the resistance’s military branch. The Home Army needs to know what’s really happening. I’ve been gathering information since I came here almost a year ago, but I can’t do it alone. That’s why I need people like you.”

  This strange man was fascinating, but I couldn’t resist a dangerous question. “How do I know you aren’t working with the Nazis?”

  “Because something tells you I’m not, just as something tells me you won’t betray me. Now you know exactly why I’m here, and one word from you to the nearest guard means my death. But you won’t betray me. We understand each other.”

  As strange as it was, he was right, but I reminded myself not to be too hasty. After what had happened the last time I worked for the resistance, I wasn’t sure I wanted to do it again.

  “Once they have enough information, the Home Army will help us. I’m sure of it. And we’ll be ready when they do. We’ll have weapons and numbers, we’ll fight, and we won’t stop fighting until we’re free.” The man fell silent, watching as I considered his words. Free. “You’d be a wonderful asset to my organization, Maria. Take all the time you need to consider it, and when you’re ready, find me. My name is Tomasz Serafiński.”

  As he said it, there was the slightest change in his pitch, so slight I would have missed it if my senses hadn’t been at their most heightened. I smiled. “That’s not your name.”

  “Of course it is.” When he leaned closer to me, I detected a knowing gleam in his eyes. “If you look for a man named Witold Pilecki, I’ll tell you I don’t know anyone by that name.” He winked, then he left the alley and disappeared into Block 15.

  Intrigued, I stared after him, but I pushed the encounter aside for the time being and hurried to Block 11. During the past two weeks, I’d visited Father Kolbe’s cell every day to empty the waste bucket, even though it had been dry for days. Thirst had driven the men to desperation, prompting them to drink its contents. Each time, I’d found Father Kolbe standing or kneeling, lifting his voice in prayers and hymns. The tranquility that filled his cell never ceased to astound me, but not even his efforts could prevent death from claiming his fellow captives.

  How Father Kolbe had survived immurement for two entire weeks was beyond my comprehension.

  The moment I entered Block 11 and closed the door behind me, a familiar voice echoed down the empty hall.

  “Prisoner 16671.”

  He stood near the stairs to the basement, and I couldn’t bring myself to move away from the door. Above his head, the yellow lightbulb flickered, lending an eerie gleam to the vicious smile that spread across his features. That smile meant he had something terrible planned for me.

  Fritzsch’s boots thudded against the concrete floor as he closed the distance between us. I stood still, hoping he believed I wasn’t intimidated, but in reality it was fear, not courage, that rendered me immobile. I was alone. Alone in the death block with the most wicked man in Auschwitz.

  “I was hoping I’d find you here,” he said as he reached me. “You’ve saved me the trouble of fetching you.”

  Something hard collided with me and forced my back against the door. The impact reignited the agony of my flogging injuries, and I cried out and looked down to find Fritzsch’s pistol pressed against my chest.

  “That priest is a stubborn bastard, isn’t he? Two weeks without food or water, and he’s still alive.” Fritzsch grabbed the back of my collar, and I shrank away, but he pulled me close. “Well, I have something special planned for you and Prisoner 16670.”

  Even if I could have found words, I didn’t have time before Fritzsch shoved the gun between my battered shoulder blades and dragged me downstairs toward the damp, dark cell. I bit my lip against the pain, but every time I stumbled, Fritzsch dug the barrel into my back, forcing me to move more quickly to alleviate the torment.

  Voices came from the open door to Cell 18, indicating that a few guards were there. The older SS officer I’d noticed during my flogging stood outside the cell, alone, staring at the ground. Fritzsch forced me into the doorway, giving me an unobstructed view of the inside. Father Kolbe sat with his back against the wall. Despite the frailty of his tormented body, his face was serene, eyes as bright and kind as always. I looked from him to the guards, and I didn’t understand what was happening, why the guards were here, why Fritzsch wanted me here.

  Not until I noticed the guard preparing the injection.

  “Father Kolbe—”

  When I started toward him, Fritzsch jerked me back, and my collar cut across my throat and silenced my gasping cry. This reaction was exactly what he wanted from me. I knew it was, and I shouldn’t have given him the satisfaction, but I didn’t care. The only thing that mattered was saying goodbye to my friend. All I wanted was one moment, just one final moment.

  Eyes brimming with tears, I turned to Fritzsch, my voice hardly a whisper. “Please, Herr Lagerführer.”

  As the plea escaped my quivering lips, his eyes gleamed with malice. Instead of acknowledging me, Fritzsch nodded at the guard with the injection, giving him permission to proceed.

  I should have said something to Father Kolbe, especially since Fritzsch wouldn’t permit me to go to him, but I couldn’t find words. When I met his gaze, suddenly I felt as if my presence was enough. Somehow the suffering, dying priest was still able to comfort me.

  Fritzsch had brought me here for his own vindictive pleasure, and even though despair wrapped its relentless hold around me, a small part of me was grateful. Every day, I’d feared coming to this cell and finding Father Kolbe dead, and once his fellow prisoners died I was afraid he’d die alone. Now he wasn’t alone.

  Father Kolbe offered his arm to the executioner. The guard hesitated, clearly taken aback by the gesture; for a brief, foolish moment, I was convinced he wouldn’t carry out the sentence. Then he glanced at Fritzsch, swallowed hard, and proceeded.

  As the tears streaked down my cheeks and I sank to my knees, the guard administered the injection, and Father Kolbe’s gentle voice lifted in one final prayer.

  “Ave Maria.”

  * * *

  When Fritzsch t
ossed me from Block 11, it felt like coming out of a daze. The daze had been one of grief, raw and piercing, sucking up all my energy, but I emerged from it with a stronger clarity than any I’d ever known.

  I’d promised Father Kolbe I’d fight to survive; until now, I hadn’t realized the full extent of the greater purpose my promise would serve. Fritzsch was using chess against me, but to use my friends was a play so bold and aggressive that it left me no choice but to redouble my efforts and regain control of the board. The game between us had become far more ruthless, and it was time to adjust my strategy.

  Rubbing the last of my tears from swollen eyelids, I made my way down the poplar-lined street before reaching Block 15, and I didn’t slow down until I’d burst through the door and shouted his alias.

  “Tomasz Serafiński!”

  Pilecki turned toward me, and I spun on my heel and led the way to the alley between the blocks.

  “I want to join the prisoner resistance movement,” I said once he’d joined me.

  Pilecki didn’t look surprised or pleased, just pensive. At last the corners of his mouth turned into the slightest of smiles. “Welcome to the Związek Organizacji Wojskowej, Maria. We’re called ZOW for short.”

  That was all I needed. I closed my eyes and savored the words while the energy inside me swelled to capacity.

  Protocol violations were useful toward my goal, but, if the entire camp rose up in rebellion, Höss would have no choice other than to punish Fritzsch to the full extent of his power. Transfer and demotion, surely. Perhaps something even worse.

  Chapter 16

  Auschwitz, 20 April 1945

  WITH EVERY PASSING move throughout this chess game, my throat gets tighter. I’ve spent years waiting for this conversation with Fritzsch; now that the time is almost upon me, suddenly I’m afraid I won’t be able to voice everything I need to say. As we progress through the middlegame and Fritzsch’s queen takes my bishop, he holds the captured piece between his fingers.

  “You’ve done very little talking, 16671. I’m sure you didn’t come here to bore me.”

  The words make me sit up straighter. I planned to keep quiet until our game progressed further, until I feel ready; now he’s tired of waiting. Fritzsch sets the bishop beside the other pieces he’s captured while I stay quiet, buying a few more precious seconds. When his thumb strokes the gun at his hip, I have no choice but to alter my strategy.

  “You did it, didn’t you?”

  Fritzsch wipes rainwater from the back of his hand. “With a question so vague, I’m afraid I can’t answer.”

  I clench my jaw to contain the fury he always manages to produce in me. If this game is going to end how I want it to end, I need to maintain control. “The execution wall, 1941. They were political prisoners. You killed them, didn’t you?”

  “Is that your purpose for this meeting? To badger me with senseless questions?” Fritzsch waits for my reply, but my tongue can’t form the question I long to ask, and he narrows his eyes against the rain. “The next words out of your mouth had better be worth my while.”

  The question dislodges itself from my throat, so I release a slow breath and concentrate on each word to keep from blurting it out. “Did you kill my family?”

  How long I’ve waited to ask that question, to find the confirmation I’ve sought all these years, to get justice for them. But, when my voice catches, Fritzsch snatches his opportunity as easily as he snatched my bishop from the board. The tension in his jaw releases, and he chuckles.

  “Do you expect me to remember a few particular prisoners?” He sighs and shakes his head. “Besides, I was Auschwitz’s deputy, not an executioner, remember?”

  He’s playing his game, extending control to the center of the board, positioning me exactly where he wants me. The heat racing through my veins won’t be quelled, and I swallow hard.

  “Tell me if you killed them.”

  “You’ll need to be more specific. You were sent here with parents? Siblings? Grandparents? And none of them were registered?” He crosses his arms and settles back into his chair. “Fascinating. Such a shame I can’t remember.”

  “Liar!”

  The accusation comes out before I can stop it, then I’m halfway out of my seat and clutching the edges of the table. This is a feeling I recognize all too well, the one that always comes when I teeter on the edge, and if I don’t pull back then there’s no regaining control. With considerable effort, I relax my grip on the table.

  Fritzsch acknowledges my outburst with nothing more than a heavy sigh. “Are you going to keep spewing nonsense, or shall we continue?”

  As he gestures for me to move my next piece, a small smirk plays around his lips. He knows the truth, I’m sure of it, and he’s going to admit it. I sink into my seat and move my remaining bishop without taking my eyes off him.

  “An eyewitness told me everything. Remember that before you answer me again.” I give him a moment to contemplate my words before asking once more. “Did you kill my family?”

  “You seem to have made up your mind, so what I say isn’t going to matter.” Fritzsch leans closer to me. “Perhaps you can jog my memory. Why don’t you tell me what you think you know?”

  Chapter 17

  Auschwitz, 11 January 1942

  WINTER IN AUSCHWITZ was a vicious beast. I’d never been as cold as I’d been these past few months. When it became unbearable, I thought of evenings spent drinking hot tea in our cozy apartment on Bałuckiego Street while playing chess against Mama and Tata or Monopoly and checkers with Zofia and Karol. Memories warmed me as no fire ever could.

  Early one evening, during free time, Hania and I walked through the camp while snow fell around us and transported me to wintry family outings at Park Dreszera. The ARBEIT MACHT FREI sign above the main gate was quick to remind me that I wasn’t in Warsaw. To its right, four bodies dangled, stiff from death and cold and covered in a dusting of snow. Hanged for attempting escape, left on gruesome display to deter anyone brave enough—or foolish enough—to follow their example.

  I swung my arms at my sides, and my fingers bumped into Father Kolbe’s rosary. I let my hand linger. Hania noticed my fingers brushing over the hidden pocket and offered me a small smile. She didn’t know what I’d witnessed the day of Father Kolbe’s execution, but she knew I always kept his rosary close.

  “Maria, was it your idea to take a walk?” As I turned my head to acknowledge Hania’s younger brother, Izaak puffed on the last of his cigarette, tossed it into the snow, and pulled his collar up for more protection from the icy wind. “You’d be the only one crazy enough to suggest going out in this weather.”

  In response, I scooped up a handful of snow and hit him squarely in the chest. Izaak retaliated, but I darted behind Hania, so his snowball found her instead. She cursed in Yiddish while he and I laughed, then she eyed us with disapproval before flicking snow off her shoulder.

  Izaak pointed an accusatory finger at me. “She started it.”

  “You’re the one who hit Hania,” I replied. “Checkmate.”

  Before I could launch my next missile, Hania knocked the snow out of my hands. “Enough, kinderlach.”

  “Truce, Maria?” Izaak asked. “My sister is no fun.”

  Giggling, I nodded, and Hania and Izaak continued bantering in Yiddish and Czech. Listening to them reminded me of tugging on Zofia’s curls or scooping Karol into my arms and kissing his cheek before he could run away.

  Thoughts of my family reminded me of finding them outside Block 11, of the chess game that had taken place shortly after I joined the resistance. A memory so fierce it pulled me from this frigid day and shoved me into the roll-call square on that warm summer evening.

  The sun sank low and washed over the chessboard, staining it blood orange. Fritzsch hadn’t invited an audience, so we were alone. I attempted to focus on the game instead of him, and, when I moved a bishop, a little sound hummed in his throat. Impressed, or simply mocking me, I wasn’t certain.

/>   “You play well for a child,” he said. “Who was your instructor?”

  The query elicited recollections of home. Countless evenings playing chess against my father. His patience, guiding me from the most basic strategy to the most advanced. His fingers developing pieces across the board, eyes bright each time I begged for one more game.

  His body, pale and glistening with raindrops, piled among dozens in the back of a truck.

  The familiar clatter of a chess piece struck the board, never failing to seize my attention. Fritzsch held another at the ready. Before he let it fall, I hastily provided the answer to his question.

  “My father.” The words sounded too shrill. I drew a shaky breath and made a second attempt. “He taught me how to play.”

  Fritzsch nodded and selected a knight. “When we met on the arrival platform, you were looking for your family. Was your father with them?”

  He hadn’t dropped a chess piece, but I flinched as if he had.

  I shifted in my chair, attempting to disguise my reaction, and played my nearest pawn. One he easily captured.

  “I hope you managed to find them.”

  His words wrapped around my throat, preventing my response. Fritzsch held the captured pawn between his fingers, evaluating me with an intrigued gaze, the same one that had sent me to registration. The look that indicated something more, a deeper intention and purpose.

  I closed my hand into a fist, though I didn’t have my pawn from Tata to grip this time. Why now? Why ask of my family now? He controlled everything—my name, my punishment, my life, each move intentional, calculated. Fighting tremulous breaths, I dissected every word and glance as if studying a grand master. Something about my family had excited him. But what?

  Then it hit me. His game. This game. He enjoyed seeing me react, seeing me remember. He knew something more than I, and this was his way of telling me: Your move, Prisoner 16671.

  Could there be more to their deaths? Perhaps I hadn’t considered the possibility because it had been easier to assume that their fates had been the same as countless others’. Now the possibility was before me. I peered at him, certainty filling my lungs. His words were a chess piece too easy for me to capture, baiting me, luring me into my next move. The only way to uncover the truth—to reveal what he knew—was to find someone in this camp who had witnessed my family’s execution.