When it was Hania’s turn, she stood before the same man. She extended her arms to the side, and he jerked his thumb to the right, sparing her. As she joined her group, Hania’s gaze found me across the snow-covered ground, her blue lips twitching into a faint, appreciative smile, as she likely suspected what I’d done.
“I have another bracelet identical to the first, Frau Aufseherin,” I whispered. “If you’ll bring me a loaf of bread, it’s yours.”
“Tonight,” she muttered. She moved away before anyone caught us speaking.
I relished my success and blinked to clear the snowflakes obscuring my vision. Bartering with guards was a risk, but I was willing to take it.
When the selection was finished, the guards shoved the condemned into a truck. It roared to life and hauled them away, never to bring them back, while the rest of us marched to our labor assignments. Surrounded by vicious dogs, SS guards on horseback and on foot, and my fellow inmates, I followed my kommando across the frozen, snowy ground until we reached the basket-weaving workshop.
Each day in the workshop was as monotonous as the last, though far better than Block 11. It wasn’t the worst job, but my fingers were made for chess, not meticulous weaving. Sometimes as I worked, I imagined twisting Zofia’s hair into the basket patterns instead of our usual braids, though the mental images were always accompanied by a heavy ache.
The workshop was humid, thick with the stench of humans who hadn’t had a real bath in God knew how long. At the far end of the room, Pilecki was bent over his own basket. He’d transferred into the kommando a few days ago, which made it far more enjoyable for me. Toward the end of the day, I stationed myself next to him. We kept our eyes on our individual tasks while I updated him on the morning’s selection and the female guard willing to barter with me. He was particularly thrilled to hear I’d secured a whole loaf of bread, which I’d share among as many women as possible. I’d reserve a larger portion for Hania, but I wouldn’t tell her I’d tweaked the proportions.
“Any news from the main camp?” I asked, once my narrative was over.
“No updates on the war, but a friend of mine recently escaped through the sewers, so I sent a report with him. I plan on transferring to the parcel office soon. The SS men take the packages sent to dead prisoners, so we have to organize those goods before they do.”
Pilecki had an uncanny ability to secure the most advantageous labor assignments. Even without his numerous connections, his cleverness and confidence were enough to bend anyone to his will. He was in the basket-weaving kommando only because I worked here, and he wanted to spend time discussing the women’s resistance with me before relocating. Sometimes I thought Pilecki could have convinced Kommandant Höss himself to step down.
“Do you miss Warsaw, Tomasz?” I asked as I finished my basket. I was proud of myself for remembering his alias, even though I knew his real name. For some reason, calling him Tomasz was much easier than referring to Irena as Marta had been.
“I miss the city and my family, but I won’t go back until my work here is done.” Pilecki paused to inspect his basket. “And you, Maria? Will you return to Warsaw when we’re free?”
“Warsaw is home. I’d like to go back, but with my family gone, I don’t know what I’ll do when I get there.”
“You’ll establish a life for yourself beyond Auschwitz,” he replied as he set his finished basket aside; then we separated to avoid drawing suspicion.
A life beyond Auschwitz was what I’d imagined these past two years. It was an encouraging thought, but, as I pictured myself back in Warsaw, I couldn’t erase my family from the image. We were together, as we’d been before. It was a wonderful dream, but that was all it was. Survival was easier to fight for when all it required was living from one day to the next; when it required a new life in a place once familiar and reassuring, now devoid of loved ones, of security, of vivacity, of home, it felt impossible.
The space Pilecki vacated was quickly occupied by Mateusz. When he sat beside me, we didn’t acknowledge each other, but, as he wove, he found my palm. I closed my hand around the pills he slipped me and tucked them into my pocket. In return, I passed him a sapphire, as dark blue as his eyes. Gems were worth a fortune to him, and medication was worth a fortune to me.
“I have news,” he said under his breath, pushing a strand of dark hair away from his face. “I heard from my connections about that man in Flossenbürg, Karl Fritzsch. This news isn’t public yet, but the SS is investigating internal corruption within their organizations, and he’s a prime suspect.”
Corruption. How fitting. “You mean to tell me the SS is concerned with such a thing?” It made sense, given that those like Höss were obsessed with order; then again, others, like Fritzsch, had no regard for rules of any kind. Still, as I focused on my next basket, the thought of the SS disciplining their own sent a little rush of warmth through my veins. “Is he going to be arrested?”
“Not yet. The investigation has hardly begun, so it’ll be some time before they take action. My connections will let me know once something develops.”
“Thank you, Maciek. You don’t know how much this helps.”
“Does it help enough for you to tell me why you’re so interested in him?”
I should have known that Mateusz’s lack of curiosity wouldn’t last. I envisioned Fritzsch’s vicious sneer as he fired the pistol at my family, recoiled as the whip cracked across my back, strained against his firm hand clutching my collar while the guard shoved the injection into Father Kolbe’s arm. “He was our camp deputy at one time,” I said at last.
“If he’s facing a potential corruption charge, I can’t imagine he was the best fit for that job. What was he like?”
How was I supposed to answer that? He was a man who used me for entertainment. He was a man who murdered my family. He was a man I had to find.
“He scared me.” It wasn’t a lie.
Mateusz stopped working, and I corrected my last weave, pretending not to notice, but he waited. I lifted my eyes to his, always surprised by the look I found there. Few people regarded me as if I was more than a number anymore.
“What’s he done to you, Maria?”
If you only knew, Maciek.
“Nothing.” The lie didn’t make me feel guilty, even though it should have. “But he did hurt people. I’m afraid he’ll be transferred back, that’s all.”
Mateusz placed his hand briefly over mine before returning to his work. For a moment I was too taken aback to listen to what he was saying. “If Fritzsch is sent back, I’ll make sure you have a warning. Try not to worry.”
How little he knew of the world I lived in. Worry was a constant companion. In the workshop, he saw a glimpse of how prisoners were treated, but it was nothing compared to what we experienced each day. And I didn’t share details.
If he knew my history with Fritzsch or my plans for when I found him again, Mateusz wouldn’t have helped me. He would have said confronting Fritzsch would be dangerous, which is what Hania would have said, too. That was why I couldn’t tell them. Anyone privy to the truth could interfere, and I couldn’t have that. Besides, the less Mateusz knew, the safer he’d be.
Pilecki wouldn’t return to Warsaw until his work was done, and neither would I. With Mateusz’s help, I was keeping a close eye on Fritzsch, and, once I was free, I’d get justice. Sometimes my vow was the only thing that got me through the day. I’d return to Warsaw and live the life I’d promised my loved ones I’d live.
But first, I would confront Fritzsch.
Chapter 24
Birkenau, 26 April 1943
WHEN LAGERFÜHRERIN MANDEL announced that there would be no labor, I should have been relieved. But the Beast was never the bearer of good news.
I took my place with my labor assignment, but I would have almost preferred another arduous workday to whatever Mandel had planned. As she ordered this häftling to shut up and that häftling to straighten the line, she dealt ten times as many blows.
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At last she stationed herself by the gate and ordered her beloved women’s orchestra to play. The inmates, women forced to use their skills for survival as I had been with chess, struck up the Horst-Wessel-Lied, so we marched in time to the Nazi national anthem while the guards sang along. Thank goodness we weren’t ordered to join in. When the music ended, the guards descended on us with curses and blows while their Alsatians growled and strained against their harnesses, herding us like cattle, ready to sink their bared fangs into our flesh at a word from their handlers.
A woman ahead of me turned around to look at Mandel. At once, a guard pulled her out of the ranks. She wouldn’t be coming back. Those who turned to look at the Beast never returned.
As I marched, I drank in a crisp morning breeze. After a long, frigid winter, the earth was reawakening. Instead of trekking through snow and ice on the way to the workshop, now I passed wildflowers along the road and orchards and fields in full bloom. Springtime reminded me of Warsaw, where friendly street vendors sold roses, geraniums, crocuses, and poppies, and Mama would fill every vase and pot until our apartment was as colorful and fragrant as a garden.
Like buds bursting from the earth in springtime, the residents of Oświęcim were reemerging from their homes. Sometimes I’d catch glimpses of them seeking little moments of normalcy, as if the SS soldiers had never occupied this area and life was as it had been before the war. Gray-haired couples took leisurely strolls, young people turned their faces toward the warm sunshine, and children laughed as they raced across open fields.
What struck me most were the girls my age, girls with long hair, flowing dresses—thin from strict rations, perhaps creases of worry across their brows, but finding whatever joys there were to be found in wartime. Girls who picked wildflowers with friends or darted behind trees to steal kisses with handsome young men. An existence so different from my own. Sometimes I felt as if those girls didn’t exist at all. They were just products of my imagination, the result of a fairy tale too idyllic to be true. They weren’t reality. Reality was hunger, labor, suffering, death.
Then they would avert their eyes when we walked by, and I remembered that their lives were real. And so was mine.
It was my second spring in Auschwitz. While the world around me teemed with new life, my own deteriorated. Springtime was when the ache for freedom became most acute.
At last we reached the main camp, and they ushered us into Block 26, the same block where I’d been registered. Inside, the massive room was already packed with inmates. I didn’t see Hania, so I supposed I’d lost her somewhere in the crowd. I fell into line, but I was too far away to determine what was happening.
After I’d been in line for a few minutes, a familiar whisper came from behind me. “Have you noticed recent transports have been given prisoner number tattoos?” Its owner extended her forearm to display the ink etched into her skin.
“That’s what they’re doing to us?” I whispered, staring at the bubbles of blood mingling with the ink. “How badly did it hurt?”
“Not as badly as this.”
At her words, I turned to look at Hania, wincing at the fresh gash on her forehead.
“Courtesy of the Beast,” she said as she rubbed excess dried blood from the wound. “Well, I should get back to my kommando, but before I go, what are we going to do with our day free from labor, shikse?”
“Will you listen to my Yiddish? I’ve been practicing.”
“Oy vey, if I must, but my head hurts enough as it is.”
I narrowed my eyes in mock reproach, but a new voice wiped Hania’s smirk away.
“Prisoner 15177.”
Over her shoulder, I glimpsed Protz standing between the lines of prisoners. Hania muttered a Yiddish curse, so quiet that I was probably the only one who heard. I opened my mouth, though nothing I said would have convinced Protz to leave her alone, but a tiny shake of her head made me close it.
“We’ll practice Yiddish some other time,” she whispered. She closed her eyes and took a small breath, then she squared her shoulders and followed Protz out of the block. Once Hania was gone, I swallowed the lump in my throat and faced the line.
The hours ticked by until it was finally my turn. The tattooist placed my left forearm on the table. When his needle pricked my skin, I automatically pulled away, but he held me steady, despite a brief, apologetic glance. Guards stood near, and I had no choice but to yield, so I clamped my teeth together and tried to remain still while my fellow prisoner worked. The needle’s sharp point injected blue-black ink into my skin, and I watched in numb silence. Worse than the pain was the knowledge of what it would leave behind.
When the process was complete, 16671 was forever branded into my skin. It lined up perfectly beneath my five cigarette-burn scars.
Following orders, I exited Block 26 to wait for the other women before returning to Birkenau. As I fretted over whether or not Protz had let Hania go yet, movement near Block 20, one of the hospital blocks, drew my focus. Pilecki motioned from the shadows of the building. After making sure no guards were watching, I hurried to meet him.
“It’s time for me to finish my report and speak to the Home Army about the attack,” he said as I reached him. “I’m getting out tonight.”
“You’re escaping?”
“Through the bakery in town during my night shift. I got myself admitted to the hospital a couple days ago and was informally discharged today. Those in my block think I’m still sick, but I switched to the bakery kommando and reported to Block 15 instead of my own.” He flashed a sly smile.
“If you have trouble at the bakery, the owner’s son is my friend Mateusz. They’re on our side.” A guard’s distant shout reached my ears, so I moved deeper into the shadows to avoid detection before continuing. “And tell the Home Army when the time to fight comes, we’ll be ready.”
If Pilecki managed to speak to the Home Army, the battle we’d been anticipating for so long would be a real possibility. The idea stirred something inside me, something powerful and irrepressible, and I let it expand until it filled every part of me.
Soon, I’d be free. And once free, I’d make my way to Flossenbürg.
* * *
In the workshop the next morning, thoughts of Pilecki’s freedom prompted hopes for my own, but I didn’t dwell on them. My current reality was vastly different, and warping my perception of it could prove dangerous. A glimmer of hope, on the other hand, sometimes meant the difference between life and death. Striking the right balance was delicate.
When Mateusz sat next to me, I leaned as close to him as I dared. “Did he get out?” I asked before he could speak.
“You mean the three men who escaped from the bakery last night?”
“They were successful?”
He nodded as his fingers flew over his basket, weaving far more expertly than I ever could. Unlike me, he completed the meticulous work with exceptional skill. “By the way, the investigation against Fritzsch is moving forward, and my connections think he’ll be arrested within the next few months. Assuming he’s convicted, you won’t have to worry about him returning to Auschwitz, Maria.”
Good news, but also bad. Fritzsch deserved far worse, but if he were imprisoned it would be difficult for me to confront him. There was no sense in worrying about that yet. For Mateusz’s sake, I flashed a relieved smile. One he didn’t return as he paused from his work.
“My parents have friends in Pszczyna, and the hospital has a position available.” He stopped to clear his throat and ran a hand across his chin. “Since I’ve been considering a medical field if I attend a university, I feel as if I should—”
“That’s a wonderful opportunity.” Forcing the words out was difficult, and forcing a smile was worse. He’d become a constant for me, a tie to the life I might have had, the girl I might have been. I couldn’t bear to hear more, so interrupting him with feigned delight was my only choice. “Of course you should do it. I’m happy for you, Maciek.”
“It
’s not far, so I promise I’ll stay in touch. Especially if I hear anything else.”
He looked as if he wanted to say more, but then refocused on his work, and so did I, distracting myself from waves of disappointment and panic. I didn’t want him to go. I’d grown fond of the stupid boy who’d earned me a black eye, but I’d miss far more than his company. I was losing a friend, a source of goods, and the only aid in my mission against Fritzsch.
Chapter 25
Auschwitz, 20 April 1945
WHEN THE SURGE of rage pushes me to my feet, my chair clatters to the ground. But Fritzsch doesn’t flinch as I produce my pistol. He calms at once, raising an eyebrow while his hand strays toward his own weapon.
“Don’t.”
He places a hand on his gun, but he doesn’t draw it. He waits—as if daring me to pull my trigger—before taking his seat, lacing his fingers together, and propping his elbows on the table. “Does this mean you resign?”
His flippancy ignites the rage again, though it had never completely died. All this time, the pain and anger have ebbed and flowed; now they course through my body, manifesting in every word and deed, every twinge of pain in my head and quake in my voice.
“Stop talking.”
“You’re the one who has been carrying on about your family, and now this.” He waves a hand at the gun before flicking rainwater from his sleeve. “Sit down and shut your mouth. If you get distracted, you’ll get careless, and it would be a shame if you didn’t play your best.”
“I said stop talking.” I grip the pistol with both hands, hoping it will steady my aim. “Put your gun on the ground.”
Fritzsch sighs and rubs his temple. “Can’t we finish the game? It’s your turn.”
Keeping my eyes on him, I take one hand off the pistol and reach for a rook. I recall every play we’ve made and every position on the board, and I don’t need to look at it to know my next move.
The Last Checkmate Page 21
