The Last Checkmate

by Gabriella Saab

  Irena didn’t linger to hear my response. Once she’d gone, I relished the fire’s warmth and considered the news. We were leaving Auschwitz. Surely that meant freedom would come soon. Once we were resettled, I’d have to get a note to Mateusz so he’d know how to contact me with updates on Fritzsch.

  Upon hearing my whispered report, Hania laughed dryly. “Our liberators are coming, but there will be no one to liberate.”

  “We could come across Allied forces during relocation. If not, at least we’ll be out of Auschwitz. That calls for a celebratory chess game.”

  She sighed, but it didn’t prevent a smile. “More chess?”

  “We can play by the stove, so we’ll be warmer than we are here.”

  “Fine. One more game, shikse.”

  I jumped down and grabbed the jewelry pouch from its hole beneath the loose brick, and Hania followed more slowly, an odd, vacant expression on her face. Something wasn’t right. I’d been too absorbed in our chess games to notice, but I saw it now as she descended from our bunk. When her feet touched the ground, she swayed, and her knees buckled.

  Gasping, I caught her before she hit the floor. To my relief, she was still conscious. “Hania, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, nothing.” She waved me away until I reluctantly released her. “I’ve had a splitting headache all day, so I got a little dizzy. And before you ask, no, I didn’t organize vodka.”

  I touched her forehead before she pushed my hand aside. “You have a fever. Does anything hurt?”

  “It’s just a headache, and I don’t have a fever.”

  “Answer the question.”

  “My joints ache a little, but that’s because I’ll be twenty-seven in a few months. Age is catching up to me,” she said with a teasing smile. She led the way to the stove, but she used the bunks for support. When I lifted her uniform, she snapped a Yiddish curse, yanked her skirt from my hands, and turned to me, her brow furrowed. “What was that for? Stop fussing and set up the game. I’m not sick.”

  But I’d already seen what I’d been attempting to locate. The rash.

  “Hania.” I let her name hang between us as I struggled to keep my voice calm for what came next. “You have typhus.”

  She pressed her lips together and looked at me as if I’d been speaking complete nonsense. “We were vaccinated against typhus, remember?”

  “That was a long time ago, and you—”

  “Enough. I need rest, that’s all, and I don’t want to hear another word about it.” She held my gaze, but when she spoke again she softened her tone. “I’m not sick, shikse.”

  Hania wasn’t denying the illness to keep me from worrying. She’d convinced herself she wasn’t sick. I saw it in the obstinate set of her glassy gaze, in the newfound fear present in her dark eyes, despite what she was telling me and herself. She wouldn’t relent, because to admit illness was to take one step closer to death. And she had children who needed her.

  “You’re going to be fine, Bubbe, but you have typhus.” I wrapped my arm around her before she could protest. “You’re getting rest, and I’m getting help.”

  Hania stumbled along beside me while I escorted her back to our bunk, but she carried on in multiple languages, and I caught a few stubborn mutters that emerged in Polish and German. “Impossible. I don’t have typhus. I didn’t survive this long just to die of typhus . . .”

  Once she was settled beneath our blankets, I stepped outside. The frigid air stung like a slap to the face, but the bite of terror was far sharper. Not Hania. Please God, not Hania.

  I pressed my back into the wall, sank into the shadows, and took a few slow breaths to keep my panic at bay, watching my breath form smoky puffs. After a moment, I began the arduous journey through the deep snow and ice. The hospital. I needed to get to the hospital.

  When I reached the proper block, I hurried inside, shouting and ignoring the doctors and nurses telling me to be quiet. “Janina? Janina, where—?”

  “I’m right here, Maria, now stop disturbing my patients.” The words came from a familiar red head, which remained bent as its owner administered medication to a semiconscious prisoner.

  By the time she was finished, I was already at the foot of the patient’s bed, blurting out my story and begging for medication. Janina disappeared to check her supply, and I waited in agitated silence. When she returned, her grim expression crushed my hopes.

  “I’m low on everything, and the guards have stopped providing me with supplies. This is all I have.” She placed three pills into my outstretched palm. “That’s not enough to cure Hania, not by any means. But a few doses are better than none.”

  Suppressing my disappointment, I clutched the precious pills and voiced a small thanks before allowing myself out. I retraced my steps across Birkenau’s grounds.

  Hania will be fine. A few doses are better than none. Hania will be fine.

  I didn’t know how many times I’d repeated the mantra before I spied a familiar face heading across the camp—Protz.

  “Herr Scharführer!” I shouted and chased after him even though he ignored me. “Herr Scharführer, I need your help.”

  At this, he stopped to listen. If there was one thing I’d learned about Protz, it was that his greed was limitless. “What are you offering?” he asked.

  “This in exchange for medication.”

  His gloved hand was already extended, and I dropped the biggest diamond I had into his palm. He inspected it while I waited, fighting the cold and my own impatience. Once satisfied, he looked at me, but, when I saw recognition in his gaze, his eyes narrowed.

  “Is Prisoner 15177 sick?”

  I’d been counting on Protz to not remember me, but he’d seen me with Hania countless times. Fortunately, I’d had a lot of practice lying.

  “The medicine is for me.”

  “Prove it. Bring her here.”

  When I didn’t move, he smirked, having gained the upper hand. I started developing another lie, but abandoned my efforts. Even if he’d been wrong about my motives, he seemed convinced he was right.

  “I should shoot you for lying, but I’d rather adjust the terms of our deal. This,” he said, showing me the diamond, “is in exchange for your worthless life. And if you’re stupid enough to get medicine from anyone else, I will find out, and our deal will be off.”

  The diamond was so close to me, I could have easily snatched it back, but the little voice reminded me that I couldn’t help Hania with a bullet in my skull. Relishing his victory, Protz pocketed the diamond and left me with a final taunt.

  “Give the Scheisse-Jude my regards.”

  His words triggered the part of me that disregarded all potential consequences, the part that cared only about taking action, and words poured from my mouth so quickly I couldn’t stop them even if I’d wanted to.

  “Hania! Her name is Hania, you ignorant—”

  Before I finished, something smacked against my cheek and knocked the breath from my lungs. As I landed amid the fresh snow, Protz loomed over me. He regarded me with his usual contempt, and I dropped my gaze to his feet in anticipation. The feeling of a boot colliding with my body was all too familiar, so if it was going to come, I wanted to be prepared.

  “I’m sure you’re aware Prisoner 15177 has a brother who works in Crematorium II. Lately, there’s been no need to operate its gas chamber, but I can change that and give the lazy bastard someone to drag out of it. Another word out of your mouth, Polack, and he’ll be burning the Jewish whore’s corpse.”

  Whether or not Protz had the power to fulfill the threat, I didn’t know, but it wasn’t a risk I could take. There was no point in replying, anyway. Instead I watched a few drops of blood fall from my nose onto the white snow—he must have punched me. Sometimes I wondered why I wasn’t better at dodging blows by now. Protz’s footsteps crunched against the snow, growing fainter until they disappeared altogether. Then I was alone. I sat up but stayed where I was, clinging to the tiny pills.

  I
t was during such times, when I’d failed, that I missed Father Kolbe most. When the misery overtook me, he’d always known what I needed, whether it was a kind word, his comforting presence, a chess game, or his rosary. I placed my hand over the hidden pocket, feeling the round beads through the thin fabric. It helped, but, no matter how hard I’d tried during the past few years, I’d never found Father Kolbe’s resilience.

  “What the hell, Maria? You’ll freeze to death, and you’re bleeding.”

  I wasn’t sure if a few minutes or hours had passed when Irena’s voice broke through the howling wind. As I stood up, I wiped the lingering blood from my nose and discovered it was frozen. That was when I realized how cold I was.

  “Hania has typhus.” Speaking through my chattering teeth was almost as difficult as voicing those words. “There’s not enough medicine in the hospital block to treat her, and Protz refused to help. Do you have anything?”

  Irena shook her head. At first the small pills in my palm had been better than nothing; now they taunted me, reminding me how helpless I was. I could provide her with some relief, but not enough. And the evacuation was tomorrow.

  The same thoughts must have been on Irena’s mind. She dropped her voice to a murmur. “Maria, the evacuation plan only includes the fittest. The sick will be left here.”

  It took a moment for her words to register. They were leaving thousands of sick people to die. As the realization settled over me, I shook my head. I wasn’t surprised, not at all. Just angry. And I wouldn’t let that happen to Hania.

  People died every day in Auschwitz. Losing friends, strangers, and fellow resistance members was a normal part of the life I’d led for so long. But this was different. This was Hania, my oldest friend in the camp, the friend who had mothered me, educated me, and taught me Yiddish words, the friend I’d taught Catholic prayers and how to play chess. The woman whose children Mama had smuggled from the ghetto, the children she’d fought to remain alive for no matter how desperate the measure, the children I’d promised to help her find. We’d gone through too much for it to end like this. I wouldn’t let it end like this.

  I had a plan.

  After making sure no guards were approaching, I stepped closer to Irena and lowered my voice. “Go to Crematorium II and find Hania’s brother. His name is Izaak Rubinstein, and he’s Prisoner 15162. Bring him and meet me in the latrines as soon as possible.”

  She nodded, and we parted ways. Once I returned to my block, I gathered fresh snow into my small cup, melted it over the stove, and took it to Hania. She was more delirious now, but I roused her and coaxed her into taking a pill. After drinking the melted snow, she settled back into her feverish stupor.

  We were supposed to be in bed, so I was forced to bide my time until the SS guards finished prowling outside the blocks. I nestled close to Hania, providing some additional warmth, voicing gentle reassurance in a hushed tone. After the barks of both the guards and their Alsatians had fallen silent, I slipped out into the frozen night, avoiding the searchlights, cloaking myself in darkness. My journey was maddeningly slow, but, between the frigid temperature and the guards who would shoot at any movement, speed was impossible.

  Inside the latrines, two familiar figures waited in the shadows, and the sight of one brought me to an abrupt halt.

  Izaak had changed. He looked as if he’d aged ten years, but that wasn’t what shocked me. It was his eyes. I’d expected to find relief and happiness upon seeing me after all this time. Instead the eyes that once held richness and warmth now displayed a haunted, painful darkness and anger. So much anger.

  “Why am I here, Maria, and who is this?” He pointed an accusatory finger at Irena.

  “A friend, but there’s no time to explain. It’s Hania.”

  At the mention of his sister, I hoped a bit of worry or love or something, anything, would chase away his hostility. Instead he shifted into an even deeper fury. “What did that bastard do to her?” Izaak didn’t need to name Protz for the implication to be clear; I refrained from lifting a hand to the tender imprint his fist had left around my nose, certain to develop a bruise.

  “Nothing. She’s sick. The camp is being evacuated tomorrow, and the sick will be left behind.” I swallowed hard, unnerved. “I . . . I thought you’d want to stay with her. You can hide in the latrines, and when everyone is gone, you can care for her until the Soviets arrive.”

  “I’ve already added your number to the list of dead,” Irena said. “Your absence won’t be detected.”

  Izaak was silent. He looked between me and Irena, then jerked his head in a quick nod. Once I’d voiced my thanks and promised to visit him in the morning, Irena escorted me back to my block. As we walked, I felt as if his eyes remained upon me, and I crossed my arms to suppress a shiver.

  “I’ve only been near the crematoria and gas chambers a few times, but it was a few times too many,” Irena said. “If you were allowed to see what the Sonderkommando has seen, you’d understand.”

  Back in my block, I lay in silence, unable to sleep. Hania’s shallow breaths hovered around me while I moved my fingers along my rosary beads. Almost four years of my life had been spent in this place. Tomorrow, they would come to an end. The thought should have brought me comfort, but it didn’t. Not now that I was leaving Hania and Izaak. And I was leaving liberation. The Soviets would arrive any day, but I would be gone. Freedom dangled just beyond my reach—and with it my ability to confront Fritzsch. Until I had heard the truth from him, my fight for survival—for justice—would continue. Justice alone held the power to ease the ache in my chest—one that longed for my family, prompted me to imagine them standing in the courtyard between Blocks 10 and 11. Their confusion; their grief; their terror.

  I gripped the rosary tighter, pushing the thought away while I drew a shuddering breath. Someday, escape would come; for now, the bars on my prison were no weaker.

  My captivity wasn’t over. Just changing.

  Chapter 30

  Auschwitz, 20 April 1945

  DESPITE MY ORDER to disarm, Fritzsch hasn’t touched his gun. Instead he glances at his king in check before settling back into his chair and watching me, watching the pistol in my shaking hands. “Do you plan to kill me like I killed those Polacks? Watch me die like you watched Prisoner 16670?”

  Every part of me wants to shoot him, to pull the trigger and bury a bullet in his skull. Pain urges me to do it. But my wits, my final piece in this game, urge me to play a different move. The weight of Father Kolbe’s rosary is heavy in my pocket, and I can almost hear his gentle voice guiding me as he did so many times before, removing me from the darkness within this dreadful place, within myself. My cigarette-burn scars tingle, five marks for the five Florkowskis, aligned above five tattooed numbers, 16671, the brand upon my skin like the brand this place left upon my soul. And here, so close that the barrel of my gun is hardly a meter from his chest, the man who murdered everyone I loved.

  Fritzsch waits for my answer, so I choose my play. I choose my wits.

  “I didn’t come here to kill you. You have the rest of eternity to burn in hell. Put your gun on the ground, and after I take you to the authorities, you’ll confess to everything you’ve done. You’ll be arrested and charged for your crimes, and I’ll verify your confession and show everyone the scars you left on my back. You’ll be sentenced to death or prison, but I hope it’s prison so you’ll live a long and miserable life in captivity. And you’ll never escape.”

  The rain has stopped. The only sounds are my unsteady breaths, the heartbeat pounding in my ears, and the names playing over and over in my mind. Mama, Tata, Zofia, Karol, Father Kolbe.

  Fritzsch laughs. “Deranged rants and a few scars won’t win a trial. Why go through all that trouble when you could simply pull the trigger?”

  The suggestion banishes everything else—everything but the chorus of names keeping pace with my racing heart. As if of its own accord, my finger moves toward the trigger. One bullet. That’s all it would take
.

  “If you attempt to testify before a court, you won’t make it through without an outburst, then you’ll lose all credibility. No one will believe a word you say.” Fritzsch pushes his chair away from the table and stands, exposing the front of his body to me. “You’ve managed to get this far, Prisoner 16671. Don’t let it fall to ruin.”

  The trigger is smooth and slick against my wet, cold finger. One bullet.

  Just one bullet.

  Chapter 31

  Death March, 18 January 1945

  AFTER A FITFUL night’s sleep, I slipped from my block while our nighttime curfew was still in effect. Armed with a bundle of belongings, I hurried to the latrines.

  Though it was still dark as I slipped inside and eased the door shut, I found Izaak sitting with his back against the far wall. As I tiptoed closer, he didn’t stand; suddenly I felt like an intruder.

  “Is Hania dead?”

  The question sounded so impassive. I blinked and cleared my throat.

  “Um, no, but her fever is worse. I’ve brought the last two pills, so make sure she takes them. Here, this will help until the Red Army arrives.”

  I offered him my bundle. Wrapped inside a blanket, I’d stashed the additional organized goods Hania and I had saved: food, the pills, socks, mittens, soap, an extra toothbrush, a small bowl, a broken comb, matches, cigarettes, and coal. Izaak accepted it with a terse nod.

  Mumbling a farewell, I returned to my block before my absence was noticed. Huddled on our bunk, Hania looked smaller and weaker than ever. I climbed in next to her and wrapped my arm across her midsection and watched the fluttering rise and fall of her chest. My only reassurance that she was alive.

  Outside, a hum of voices indicated the SS guards had started to gather, and when I glanced out the window I saw that the sky threatened snow. It was almost time.

  I flipped onto my stomach and rose on my forearms so I could look at her face. “Listen to me, Bubbe,” I whispered. “I have to leave, but Izaak will take care of you. You’re going to live, and we’re going to meet in Warsaw and find your children. Jakub and Adam need you. And so do I. Stay alive, Hania, do you understand? Stay alive.”