The Last Checkmate
Page 17
It was useless to pretend otherwise, so she didn’t. Hania took a slow drag on her cigarette and reassumed the mask of stony indifference I’d seen on her before, but now I realized I’d never seen it. Not for what it was—detachment. From me, from herself, from everything.
“With SS connections, it’s easy to make people cooperate,” Hania said with a chuckle. “I thought it would be easy to strike a deal with you, given your position, but you never gave me much opportunity. Not until your flogging.”
I lifted a hand to the back of my shoulder, feeling the uneven lumps of skin that suddenly throbbed as if they were fresh. “You helped me because I wasn’t in a position to refuse.”
A fresh stream of smoke surrounded us, thick and pungent, making it impossible for me to speak further even if I could have found words. Hania watched the smoke rise from the end of the cigarette, then looked to me. “I intended on getting a substantial repayment for saving your life, but after we talked, I decided this deal would be different from my others. I needed to help you stay alive and keep you close until the time was right.”
The words stung more than the smoke, which had found its way into my eyes. “Is that why you’re helping me get rid of Fritzsch?”
“Of course.” She finished her cigarette and used the bottom of her shoe to extinguish the remaining embers. “If he gets tired of you and kills you, that would interfere with my plans.”
“So, you’re keeping your shikse alive for her usefulness.” I spat out the word she’d taught me and stood up and marched past her toward the door. “I suppose I should be accustomed to that by now.”
As I left her with the half-finished chess game and stepped out into the frigid evening, the bite of her betrayal was as acute as the wind lashing through my thin uniform. I was nothing more than her most prized deal. I couldn’t comprehend why I had confronted her, but it was rash and foolish. Too late for regrets now.
Besides, I didn’t regret it. If Hania attempted to hinder me in any way, I’d fight back with everything I had. Even without SS connections.
As I trudged down the frigid street, our conversation lingered in the air around me, echoing with each gust until a new shout pierced the wind whipping past my ears.
“Do you think you can walk away? It’s far too late for that, Maria.” Hania latched onto my forearm, and I attempted to pull away, but she held fast and forced me to face her.
“You won’t hurt me if you need me alive.” Though I made the claim, I wasn’t certain it was true.
“I also need you to cooperate, and if I have to make you, so be it. Protz will do what I ask, and he won’t be merciful, so unless you want to contend with him—”
“Stop, Hania!” This time I managed to twist out of her grasp. “If you think you have to force me to help you find your sons, you must not know me very well.”
Upon those words, Hania gaped, then she narrowed her eyes, as if deciding whether or not to believe me. I took a deep breath to settle the heat racing through my veins. Threats didn’t mask the unspoken plea behind her dark eyes, eyes that bore pains unlike any I’d ever known, eyes that betrayed the war raging within her. I was someone she’d chosen to use to her advantage, no matter what it took. But I was also someone she’d befriended, despite her initial intentions, and I was a girl who had lost her parents, just as her children had lost theirs.
She wasn’t the same conniving woman I’d seen a moment ago. She was a young widow desperate to reunite with her children. My parents had felt this same desperation, surely, when they realized I was missing. When they realized my siblings were to suffer for my actions. When they realized all hopes of reuniting our family were to be stolen from them.
I crossed my arms against a burst of cold air, turned away, and spoke in a soft voice. “While working for the resistance, sometimes Mama and I would imagine life after the war. We were both looking forward to reuniting the children we helped with their parents. Such work would be an honor, but to do it for one of my closest friends . . .” I broke off with a shaky breath. “All you had to do was ask.”
When I looked at her, Hania stared into the distance, gone to a place far from here. Her tears glistened through the darkness before she blinked, as if coming out of a daze, brushed a stray tear, and spoke in a whisper. “Maria, I—”
I shook my head to stop her. We were creatures of war, and sometimes we’d morph into unrecognizable imitations of our former selves. I didn’t need her to apologize for something the war had created. I just needed her to be the woman I recognized again.
When I offered her my hand, she took it, and I stepped close enough to wipe another tear from her cheek. “We’ll find them, Bubbe. I promise.”
She gave my hand a gentle squeeze. “In a place like Auschwitz, it’s easy to forget decent people still exist.”
Back in my block, we sat on my bunk. As we huddled together with my thin blanket across our laps, life gradually returned to my fingers and toes, resurrected by a bit of warmth from the small wood-burning stove. It was insufficient for heating the space, but it was better than no heating at all. Other prisoners weren’t so fortunate.
“When the war is over, I’ll contact Irena and her mother, and they can help us,” I said, once my teeth stopped chattering. “Would you tell me more about your sons? How long has it been since they were smuggled out of the ghetto?”
“Nine months. Jakub’s birthday is in March, so he’s about to turn four, and Adam is fourteen months.” A sudden realization seemed to hit her, one I imagined she’d dwelled on so often before, but with fresh pain each time. “My son is growing from a toddler to a little boy, and I missed my baby’s first words, his first birthday . . .” After a moment, she took a calming breath. “I’ll never forget the night they were taken. It was late Saturday evening, the twelfth of April. We had one final Sabbath as a family. The rest of us were arrested a week later.”
The date stood out in my mind. Something important had happened on the twelfth of April. It was a date I’d promised myself I’d remember because it was the day I completed a resistance errand by myself for the first time. I had delivered papers. Mama was supposed to have joined me, but I’d gone alone because she’d gone to the ghetto.
I sat up a bit straighter, reminding myself to breathe. It was a coincidence, that’s all.
“What about the person who took your children?”
“They went with a woman I’d met a few times, and I had friends who let her take their children. She persuaded me into letting my boys go. She was kind and friendly, but I don’t know much personal information aside from her name. I doubt it was her real name, but she went by Stanisława.”
A resistance woman named Stanisława who rescued children on the twelfth of April. The same alias Mama used, the same night she went into the ghetto.
“What did Stanisława look like?” I kept my voice light. If my suspicions were wrong, I didn’t want to get Hania’s hopes up. After all, I was sure plenty of resistance women went by that alias and had gone into the ghetto that evening.
“She was a Gentile and older than me by ten years or so. Average height, blond hair, beautiful. She wore a wedding band, so I assume she was married.” Hania was quiet for a moment. “Once, she said she had a son a bit older than Jakub, my three-year-old.”
At the time, Karol would have been four years old. “Did Stanisława say anything else about her personal life?”
“No, but she spoke German like a native. She took my sons during curfew. Adam was sedated so he wouldn’t cry, and Jakub was so confused. He asked me why, why wasn’t I going with them, why was I sending them away, and I—” Hania broke off when her voice caught. “How was I supposed to explain it to him? Before I could say anything, Stanisława knelt down, held his hand, and said, ‘Jakub, listen to me. Your mother and father love you and Adam so, so much. Will you promise to be a brave little boy for them?’ That calmed him down. He nodded, and she never let go of his hand. That’s the last I saw of them.”
Now I imagined Mama kneeling in front of me, and I met her bright blue eyes and felt the warmth of her hands over mine. She took me away from the cold, hunger, and fear that constantly surrounded me in this place. I clung to her, seeking the clarification she’d already given me. A slight smile played on her lips while she stood and placed a gentle hand on my cheek.
Please don’t go, Mama.
I kept my eyes closed a moment more, clinging to warmth and peace, then opened them. Next to me, Hania was silent, lost in a world all her own.
“Stanisława Pilarczyk,” I whispered. “That’s who rescued your children, Hania.”
“Oy gevalt, you know her? Are you certain it’s the same woman?”
I nodded and ran my fingers over my cigarette-burn scars. “Her real name was Natalia Florkowska. She was my mother.” I took a shaky breath and met Hania’s incredulous gaze. “Which means I know how we can find your sons.”
Chapter 18
Auschwitz, 15 January 1942
DESPITE HOW MUCH I loathed working in Block 11, where so many innocents were sentenced to punishments and executions, it had its perks on some days. At least I was indoors most of the time.
During a vicious January morning’s appell, I stood as still as possible, teeth chattering, knees knocking, while the wind howled across the dark sky and snow and freezing rain pelted my emaciated form. When the häftling beside me collapsed, I kept my eyes forward and listened as his breaths weakened and then stopped.
The SS men were safe inside their guard towers, protecting themselves from the raging weather. When roll call was finished, I would have run to Block 11 if I hadn’t been required to march with SS escorts. As I stood in line, waiting for the order, Pilecki appeared beside me.
“Do you remember the day you were registered, when you spoke to a man removing bodies from the death wall?”
I dipped my head in a discreet nod.
“That prisoner is one of our recruits now, and I asked him if he knew anything about you or your family. He remembers speaking with you that day, and he remembers an SS officer who didn’t work in Block 11 often, but who was there when you approached the truck. He suggested you talk to him. The officer’s name is Untersturmführer Oskar Bähr. Middle aged, gray hair. He’s assigned to Block 11 today.”
I remembered noticing a middle-aged officer when I’d found my family. I opened my mouth to voice my thanks, but Pilecki had already melted into the crowd. When the SS men ordered us to Block 11, the members of my kommando pushed, shoved, and tripped over one another to get indoors.
During my reprieve from the horrible cold, I performed miscellaneous tasks and hunted for the gray-haired SS officer; at last I found him. He was stationed at the end of a small hallway leading outdoors to the courtyard, calm and observant, watching the condemned men file past him. His uniform indicated he was an Untersturmführer, as Pilecki had said, but, to ensure that he was the man I sought, I cast my mind back, pinpointing the other places I’d seen him. Father Kolbe’s cell for his execution. The roll-call square during my flogging. And the courtyard between Blocks 10 and 11 when I found my family.
Don’t be too hopeful. I can’t afford to be too hopeful.
Combatting my hopes was more difficult than I anticipated as I returned to work. The officer stayed near the washroom and courtyard all day. When it was over, the guards shouted for my kommando to line up outside. Ignoring the order, I rushed back to the hallway as the officer made his exit.
“Herr Untersturmführer, may I have a word with you?”
He paused, likely taken aback by my boldness, but before lowering my gaze I noticed his own held no anger as it assessed me. “What’s this about?” he asked.
“My family. They were sent to the wall in May of 1941. I saw you there that day, so I have reason to believe you—”
“I’ve seen thousands of people march to that wall,” he said with a bitter laugh. “Even if I’d seen your family, I wouldn’t remember them.”
When he turned to go, I grabbed his arm. “It’ll only take a moment.”
Oh, God, why did I touch an officer?
Gasping, I released him, anticipating the consequences of my brazenness. Instead of a blow, I noticed the officer extending a hand toward me before hesitating and withdrawing it. I’d already been far too daring, but there was no turning back now. I lifted my eyes to his and found they held something I hadn’t seen in a long time—pity. My voice fell to a quiver.
“Please, I’ll do anything. Please help me.”
He chewed on his lip and grappled with his decision. At last he gestured for me to accompany him. The officer told his companions he needed me to stay to finish a few things, so he’d escort me to my block later. They seemed satisfied with the excuse. Once the block was empty, he led me to an interrogation room. He cast a furtive glance down the hall, ushered me inside, and closed the door behind us.
“What’s your name?” he asked as he sat across from me.
What an unusual query, considering my prisoner number was on my uniform, easy enough for him to see. I waited for him to correct himself, but he didn’t. He was genuinely asking for my name, my real name, and the realization was so baffling that I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I enunciated each syllable, listening as my name rolled off my tongue, so familiar, yet so rare and precious to me now.
“Well, if I’m calling you Maria, you can call me Oskar,” he said. “Tell me about your family.”
“My father was tall, and he had light brown hair and a crippled leg, and my mother and siblings were blond. They spoke perfect German. Zofia was nine, and she was the only one with curly hair, and Karol was four. My parents were Aleksander and Natalia, and the surname was Florkowski. Like I said, it was May of 1941, and I saw you near the courtyard when I found them, so I was hoping you’d seen something.”
He stayed silent, his expression unreadable; then he nodded. “There was a family around that time which matched your description. They stood out to me because they were together in the men’s washroom, and I’d never seen females there. Someone said the woman had asked if they could stay together. Her husband couldn’t walk on his own.”
I blinked to clear my blurry vision. Of course my parents had found a way to ensure they stayed together.
“Fritzsch came into the washroom, but he didn’t look surprised to see the woman and children there. Maybe he was the one who permitted them to stay together, I’m not sure. Once they’d undressed, he was eyeing the woman—” Oskar broke off, cheeks flushed, and cleared his throat. “I happened to be standing close to the family, and I was intrigued by them. The woman—Natalia, was it? She saw Fritzsch looking at her—”
“You’re certain it was Fritzsch? And you’re certain he saw my family?”
Oskar nodded. “He spoke to them.” He opened his mouth again, then closed it. “Do you want to hear this?”
I nodded. “Please keep going.”
“Tell me if you want to stop,” he replied. “After Fritzsch went back into the hall, Natalia spoke to her husband, then she went after him. Like I said, I was intrigued, so I followed at a distance. I didn’t hear their whole conversation, but I heard the last thing Fritzsch said before—”
“What did he say?”
Oskar’s face fell. His chair groaned in protest as he shifted position, and he rubbed the back of his neck. “I’d rather not repeat it.”
“What did Fritzsch say to her?” I asked with as much force as I could muster. “Tell me his exact words.”
Oskar took a deep breath and ran his thumb across a nick in
the table. “He smiled, then he said, ‘I’m not doing a damn thing for your children, you filthy Polack bitch.’”
The words hung heavy between us, and I bit my bottom lip until I tasted blood. I was certain my parents had realized what fate awaited them, and their first thoughts would have been how to spare their children. They would have agreed that Mama should talk to Fritzsch, though Tata would have hated for her to put herself through that. They had to die knowing they’d done everything they could. Mama would have offered Fritzsch anything, anything at all, to spare her children’s lives. Not her own, not even Tata’s. Just her children’s.
And Fritzsch would have delighted in her desperation before refusing her.
My parents had put forth their best efforts, but it wasn’t enough.
“Fritzsch sent her to the holding cell where they’d placed the rest of the family, and when it was time to go to the wall, they went together. He went out, too, and I stood at the far end of the courtyard. I don’t think the little boy was aware of what was happening. Your father was distracting him, but the girl—your sister, I suppose—looked panicked until your mother knelt beside her and said something. Then she calmed down. All four started speaking in Polish, and I couldn’t hear very well or understand it, but it didn’t sound as if they were voicing their patriotism, and they weren’t singing a Polish national anthem. Whatever they were saying sounded . . .” He seemed to search for the right word. “Comforting. Prayerful, even.”
My hand strayed toward the secret pocket in my uniform. They’d been praying the rosary.
“They held hands and faced the wall, and Fritzsch . . .” Oskar let his voice trail away.
“Fritzsch didn’t let the executioner do it,” I finished for him. “He killed them himself.”
Oskar didn’t look at me, but he nodded. “Your siblings first, one right after the other. It was quick; they didn’t suffer.” The words were apologetic, as if they were meant to be a small comfort. He cleared his throat and removed the SS cap from his head, but I already suspected what happened next.