The home destroyed by the Gestapo. By my failure.
When I try to leave again, Irena holds firm. Perhaps she’s right; perhaps there’s no need to see it, not when I can close my eyes and revisit that day with fresh agony every time. Four years I dedicated to justice, expecting it to assuage me. I had left Warsaw a broken girl; now I returned a broken young woman. Broken things, even if reconstructed, remain cracked, imperfect, never fully whole.
A cool breeze sweeps over us, so I cross my arms against it while Hania emerges from the convent, leading a son on either side. As they approach, I take a shuddering breath and look to Irena.
“What do I do now?”
She laughs. “Dammit, Maria, you’re such an idiot.”
Now isn’t the time for flippancy. I open my mouth to protest, but Irena is already setting her usual brisk pace toward her family’s apartment. She doesn’t slow down, but she calls to us over her shoulder.
“Come on, we’re going home.”
* * *
When we enter the Sienkiewiczes’ apartment, I remember the girl who came here with her mother, anticipating her first day of resistance work. How young she was, how eager. In many ways, it remains the same comforting, inviting home, though a newfound heaviness lingers in the air. The war has impacted this place as it has all of us—battered, almost ruined, yet fighting on.
Irena directs Hania and the boys to the living-room floor, where Franz sits with a little girl, surrounded by toys and games—each showing signs of age, likely having belonged to Irena as a child. The girl hugs a doll close and turns a page in her picture book, which she’s too young to read. A pink ribbon holds golden brown hair away from her face, and she wears a simple dress, paying the skirt no mind as she sits with her legs wide apart. Beneath the girl’s lingering roundness, I recognize her mother’s long, lean frame, but, before Irena can summon her daughter, Mrs. Sienkiewicz emerges from the kitchen.
She’s thinner than I recall, the work of something far more severe than meager rations. Each line on her face and crease in her brow tells a tale of suffering, fighting. From losing her husband and nearly losing her daughter to protecting her granddaughter, all while smuggling Jewish children to safety and playing an integral part in the resistance. This brave, selfless woman, my mother’s dearest friend.
Without a word, she bestows three alternating kisses on my cheeks and pulls me close, and I wrap my arms around her. She shudders beneath my grasp; upon releasing me, she takes in Tata’s eyes, Mama’s nose, all the pieces of my family that melded into me.
Tears glimmer in her eyes, sympathetic and affectionate; I lower my gaze, unable to bear it. Not when the truth still lurks inside me, as it has for so long, coming free only when I revealed it to Father Kolbe. One day, they will hear everything from me. One day, if I can ever manage to reveal the truth without bringing the memories with it.
After kissing her daughter, Mrs. Sienkiewicz takes Irena’s tiny crucifix between her fingers. She heaves a wistful little sigh before Irena covers her mother’s hand with her own.
“We’ve nearly done it, Mama,” she says, a sudden break in her voice. “It’s nearly over.”
“God willing,” she replies softly, blinking back her tears while watching Franz point to an image in Helena’s book. Her lips turn in a little smile. “Witold said Patryk would have adored both of them.”
I look at her in surprise. “Pilecki?”
She nods. “During the invasion, he served in the Nineteenth Infantry Division alongside my husband. They were dear friends.”
“Through the resistance, Mama stayed in touch with Witold and the Home Army, and when I was caught, she got a message to him,” Irena says. “He arranged the bribe which saved my life.”
“Yes, and he came by today to—” Mrs. Sienkiewicz breaks off. “Never mind, I’ll let you get settled first.”
She excuses herself, and Irena motions for me to follow her. When we reach Helena, she crouches next to her, and the little girl looks up from her book and grins.
“Helena, this is Mama’s cousin,” Irena says with a playful smile, reminding me of our favorite resistance scheme. “You can call her Aunt Maria.”
Helena looks at me and focuses on my tattoo, visible since the sleeves of my floral shirtwaist stop at my elbows. Before I can explain, she tugs on Irena’s arm.
“What are you doing, silly?” Irena laughs as Helena wrestles her forearm toward the ceiling.
“Where is the number?”
“What number?”
“The number, Mama! Like Aunt Maria’s.”
Irena’s smile fades while her cheeks flush. She grabs her daughter’s hand to end the eager search. “Enough.”
Startled by the sharpness in her mother’s voice, Helena freezes, as if unsure what she’s done wrong.
“Your mother doesn’t have a number, Helena, but would you like to see mine?”
Following the rebuke, the little girl casts an uncertain glance at Irena, who nods her consent. With her confidence renewed, Helena approaches me and studies the tattoo. “Why did you draw on yourself?”
“I didn’t, but someone else did. Look, it doesn’t come off.” I rub my finger over the numbers to prove my point.
Wide-eyed, Helena runs a pudgy finger over the markings, confirming my statement, before placing a finger on each number and naming it aloud. “One. Six. Six. Seven. One. One-six-six-seven-one.” Her triumphant smile fades when she evaluates the numbers again. “Mama says to draw on paper.”
“Good. If you were to draw on yourself, it might not come off, like mine, right?”
Helena nods solemnly, then scampers toward Irena, who catches her in waiting arms and kisses her cheek. Over her daughter’s head, she gives me a small, appreciative smile, and I brush my thumb across the tattoo. When Helena announced the sequence, I expected the headache to follow, but it hasn’t.
Someone knocks on the door. Brow furrowed, Irena motions for Franz to answer, so he obliges, and standing in the hall is Izaak.
His face is one I hardly recognize—still fighting for recovery, as we all are, yet a vast difference compared to four months ago. His skin, leathered from years of labor, radiates a newfound warmth, his hair is dark and shiny, he’s grown a thick, full beard, and the places that once held mere skin and bone now boast muscle. The strange darkness remains in his eyes, but as Hania gasps and throws her arms around him the hard edge softens.
“I thought you weren’t returning to Warsaw until the end of the summer,” she says as she releases him.
“We found the war criminal I was looking for and took care of him,” Izaak replies. “I came back to Warsaw and reconnected with Witold. He told me you’d be here.”
Izaak doesn’t reveal the war criminal’s name, but, based on the look he gives Hania, I know exactly who it was. Protz. The blow to the head didn’t kill him after all. Hania steps back and lifts a shaking hand to her mouth as her eyes well with tears. Izaak pulls her close, murmurs something in Yiddish, and kisses her cheek.
“Come in, Izaak, make yourself at home,” Mrs. Sienkiewicz says. “To think you and Hania are related to these sweet boys.” She casts a fond smile at Jakub and Adam. “When Helena and I stayed at the orphanage in Ostrówek, she played with Jakub and Adam all the time. That was before we knew Maria’s mother had taken them from the ghetto or that their mother was Irena and Maria’s friend. Quite a coincidence, don’t you think? It’s as if everyone here was meant to find each other.”
When I wrap my arms around Izaak’s midsection, he returns the embrace, tentatively at first, then tightens his hold. “The organized goods you left me and Hania saved our lives,” he says.
“Hania was responsible for most of those items. She was better at organizing than I was.” I nudge him in his sister’s direction. “Now, I think your nephews would like to get reacquainted with their uncle.”
Smiling, Hania takes Izaak by the hand and leads him toward the boys. Mrs. Sienkiewicz bustles around, fussing ov
er adults and children alike, and prepares beef goulash with the meat and vegetables Franz brought from the farm. After dinner, she gathers everyone in the living room. As she faces us, she draws an unsteady breath before speaking.
“Today, Germany signed a total and unconditional surrender, and the Allies will formally accept it tomorrow. The war is over.”
Silence falls. This long-awaited news felt so far off for so long; now it’s here, real. A few relieved sighs and breathless prayers of praise fill the quiet even as a sudden tightness seizes my chest. This nightmare of a war is over, but mine lingers. Sometimes I feel closer to the end, surrounded by these people whose presence strengthens and sustains me. Other times I feel as I did that first day in Auschwitz, finding my family and realizing that the life I had known was shattered beyond repair. What is life after war? Returning to the lives we left is impossible, yet creating a life anew feels nearly as insurmountable. We live, fight, and survive while the memories—and the past—endure.
As murmurs and chatter take over, Irena leads me to her bedroom. Once there, she pulls a box from underneath the bed and runs a finger along the closed lid.
“I’ve had this since the twenty-seventh of May, 1941. When you didn’t meet me for our resistance work, I went by your apartment. I didn’t think you’d be alive to claim any belongings, but I gathered these before pillagers had a chance. That way, if anyone came looking for you, I’d have a few items to offer them. It’s not much, but it’s something.”
Irena places the box in front of me. Slowly I remove the lid and pull each item out, one by one. Three of Karol’s toy soldiers and two of Zofia’s hair ribbons. Tata’s favorite gray fedora with the wide brim and blue Petersham ribbon and Mama’s favorite crystal vase. Our rosaries. Best of all, a framed family portrait. It’s the last photo we took together, and I clearly remember that April day in 1941. We dressed in our finest clothes and spent hours with the photographer, taking picture after picture so we could get the perfect shot. That was a few weeks before everything changed.
I look at Irena, but I can’t speak through the tears that close my throat and blur my vision.
“Don’t forget these.”
She produces the items I didn’t notice, too distracted by the keepsakes. A few large stacks of zloty, money my parents likely withdrew from their bank account and kept hidden in the apartment. I hardly glance at them.
“This didn’t fit into the box.”
Irena reaches under the bed and produces Tata’s cane. The wood is as dark and rich as I remember, and though the silver head is tarnished, it’s as beautiful as I recall. I clutch the handle, smooth from his grasp, and tap the cane to the floor, then grip it with both hands. Suddenly it’s the only thing keeping me on my feet.
“One more thing. This didn’t fit into the box, either.”
I place Tata’s cane on the bed while Irena reaches under it once more. This time she pulls out my chess set.
I trace my finger over the checkered board before lifting the lid to reveal the green felt–lined interior, where the wooden pieces are nestled into individual compartments. Each one is there, even more beautiful than I remember, and I turn the delicate carvings over in my hands. The last game I played with these pieces was against my parents the evening before our arrest. I pick up a white pawn. The lacquer is chipped, probably from when the piece crashed to the floor during the Gestapo invasion. Somehow that makes me tighten my hold.
“Dammit, I should’ve said something first.” Irena sighs and pushes a loose strand of hair away from her face, perhaps taking my silence as discomfort. “If you don’t want it anymore after . . .” She lets her voice fade, likely recalling the blood-splattered chessboard from the roll-call square, then starts over. “If chess—”
I shake my head to stop her. Despite everything, chess is still my game. It always will be. This chess set reminds me of a father who gave his daughter this board and taught her this game, and of a girl fortified by a tiny handmade pawn.
“You know what this means, don’t you, Irena?” I ask, smiling through my tears. “Now you have to let me teach you how to play.”
“Shit,” she mutters, but I’d like to think I hear a certain fondness in her tone, and she doesn’t complain when I wrap my arms around her neck and kiss her cheek.
A gentle rap sounds against the door before Hania steps across the threshold. “Wiktoria is wondering why you two disappeared, so if I’m interrupting, let me be clear that she’s the yenta and not me.”
“Good Lord, she’s never going to let any of us out of her sight again,” Irena says with a sigh.
Hania chuckles and starts to turn away, but pauses when she notices the items on the bed. She comes closer and cradles the portrait in both hands, then brushes her finger over each face, ending with Mama’s. “Could I show this to the boys?” she asks. “I don’t want them to ever forget her. Or any of you,” she adds, glancing between us, eyes bright.
Another reality of war: those who survived together may be forced apart at its conclusion. This war has already taken my family; I refuse to accept any more losses, no matter what the future holds. If anything comes between us, we will find our way back to one another.
Irena looks to the door. “We should join everyone before Mama thinks I’ve run off to become a fake Nazi again,” she says, but I place a hand on her forearm to prevent her departure.
The little twinge returns to my head as I anticipate what I’m about to say. I take a small breath to alleviate it. “You both deserve so many explanations from me, and I want to give them to you, but I don’t know if I can yet. I promise I’ll keep trying.”
“When you’re ready, shikse,” Hania says as she takes my hand in hers.
Irena nods. “And not a moment before.”
I intend on saying more, but the words don’t come, so I don’t force them. Instead I pull my friends close, and the scattered pieces of my life cease to matter. When our arms encircle one another, peace dispels chaos and my heart recognizes its home. Together we will help one another pick up all the fallen pieces.
When we return to the living room, everyone gathers in a wide circle around the coffee table, where Hania sits across from me, flanked by Adam and Jakub. Irena sits beside me with Helena in her lap, and Franz settles next to them. Izaak and Mrs. Sienkiewicz sit on the sofa, watching as Hania and I set up the game.
“This is a horse,” Adam exclaims, holding up a black knight.
“That’s right. There should be two black ones, and you can put one here, and the other here.” Hania points to squares B8 and G8.
Helena scrutinizes her chosen piece and shows it to Irena. “A tower.”
“Those are called rooks, and they go in the corners.” I point to the spaces. “You can put the two white ones in these corners by me, and the two black ones go in Aunt Hania’s corners.”
“How do you win the game?” Jakub asks as he sets Hania’s final bishop in place.
“That’s the only question I can answer,” Irena says. “You put the opponent in checkmate.”
I set up my last pawn. “Watch us play, Jakub, and I’ll demonstrate a checkmate in a few minutes.”
“Oy vey, gloating already, Maria?” Hania asks, flashing a competitive grin. “It’s a bit early for that, even for you.”
As Hania and I begin our game, we explain the rules to our curious onlookers. The children watch with wide eyes, interrupting to ask questions or voice exuberant suggestions about our next moves. When we reach the endgame, I make my final play, share its significance, and smile at her.
“Checkmate, Bubbe. And just for you, that’s all the gloating I’ll do.”
She chuckles. “Excellent game, shikse. Your turn, Irena.” She moves over and pulls her sons into her lap, allowing Irena to take her place across from me, despite her visible apprehension.
Once the little ones have set up the pieces, we begin. I allow Hania to act as coach—after all, it’s Irena’s first game. I might enjoy winning, but
I enjoy a challenge even more. As my fingers navigate the familiar board, strategizing and planning and predicting her next play, I feel more like myself than I have since liberation. Most of all, I feel alive.
I’m alive. I’m safe. And I’m free.
The game I’ve played for so long still feels unfinished, but, when I learned to play chess, one of the best pieces of advice Tata gave me was to take my time. Consider each move, then make the play when the time is right. Finish the game, Maria. No matter how long it takes.
From terrible suffering and crippling loss rises a special kind of resilience, one unique to those who endure. Every tap of a chess piece against the board, every whisper and peal of laughter fills the room and sends a flicker of warmth into my chest. These are voices that evil attempted to silence, voices of bravery, kindness, strength, intelligence. Voices of resilience. Those ravished by hatred will be healed by love, and their courageous spirits and compassionate souls will lead them through the darkness to a life beyond.
Epilogue
Auschwitz, 12 October 1982
THIS PLACE. THE place I never thought I’d revisit.
We hadn’t returned to Europe since immigrating to New York a few months after the war ended. Together we had survived; together we would rebuild. Although the headaches and memories had become less frequent once I told my friends why I’d returned to Auschwitz after escaping, we didn’t speak of anything else that had happened during the war. We’d endured it once, and once was more than enough. But a few months ago, while planning the trip to Vatican City for Father Kolbe’s canonization, Hania suggested visiting Warsaw, too, and the little voice whispered that I needed to come back to this place. The loud voice protested, but I listened to the little whisper. I always do.
Light fog and misting rain settle over the early morning. It’s been thirty-seven years since I stood in this same spot, an eighteen-year-old girl, wounded and broken and desperate for justice, and forty-one years since I first stood here, a fourteen-year-old child who had no idea what horrors waited beyond the gate, the same gate staring at me in the distance.
The Last Checkmate Page 33
