Stalemate

by Icchokas Meras

  “The council sent me.”

  “ ‘Mr. Commandant’!” Schoger shouted.

  “…Mr. Commandant.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “I want to ask you not to take away the children, Mr. Commandant.”

  “We won’t take them far—to a children’s home,” Schoger replied. “They’ll be better off there. They’ll be fed and clothed there, so you have nothing to worry about.”

  “The council wants them to remain in the ghetto. The council asks you not to take away the children. Let them live with their parents, Mr. Commandant.”

  Schoger was silent, and Lipman added, “Everyone believes that you will let the children stay, Mr. Commandant. And we will make for you—”

  “What will you make?” Schoger interrupted. “What can you make? I already have everything; I don’t need anything else.”

  “We will make for you—”

  “Lipman…you would be better off saying nothing. Don’t ask. I’m still going to take the children tomorrow. Do you know what I’m thinking about now? I’m thinking about something completely different. I knew you’d come today, but I didn’t think they would send you. I was waiting for Mirski to come. I love to make him laugh, that Mirski of yours. His beard is all white, with black tufts here and there. When I tear out one of the black hairs, he laughs right in my face, that Mirski.”

  Lipman was silent.

  “So why did they send you? You have no young children or grandchildren. I don’t understand why you have come, Lipman.”

  Lipman was silent.

  “Why did you come? You have no young children, Lipman.”

  Then Abraham Lipman replied, “All children are our children and my children. I have many children.”

  “ ‘Mr….’ ”

  “Yes, Mr. Commandant.”

  “But you are still asking for no reason.”

  “We will build—”

  “Wait, wait! Do you know the story about the golden fish? If I caught a golden fish, I wouldn’t know what to wish for—unless it would be a game of chess. Ha, ha, ha!”

  “I beg you, Mr. Commandant. Don’t take away our children. They’re our last children, Mr. Commandant.”

  Schoger stood leaning against the table, his legs crossed, his arms folded across his chest, his face held high.

  Lipman took off his hat.

  He pulled the hat from his head slowly and began to crumple it in his hands. He bowed his head low and said, “Mr. Commandant, leave us our remaining children.”

  “All right,” he said. “I’ll agree, Lipman. But I’m not a fisherman and you’re not a golden fish. Children, children, children! I’ll agree if your son Isaac plays chess with me. We’ll play only one game, and if…”

  Lipman shuddered, but he did not take his eyes from Schoger’s face.

  “We’ll make this agreement, Lipman. Listen well. Listen very well. If he wins, the children will remain in the ghetto, but I will shoot your son. Myself. If he loses, he’ll remain alive, and I’ll order the children taken away tomorrow. Do you understand?”

  “I understand, but Isaac…is now my only…”

  “I am not to blame, Lipman,” Schoger replied. “Am I to blame if today you came to me, and not that joker Mirski? And why should you be so sad, Lipman! Isaac can lose to me and everything will be just as it is now. I’m not forcing you. You can disagree or decide to think it over. I’m not forcing you—I’m only offering you the conditions.”

  Lipman thought.

  “And how have you begotten such a son, Abraham, huh? He could be a great chess player. He could play against Capablanca himself, you know. Well? Are you thinking it over, Lipman?”

  Lipman was thinking it over.

  He looked at Schoger, at his congealed face, and then put on his hat.

  “All right,” he said. “I agree. But Mr. Commandant, you have forgotten one other possibility. What if there is a stalemate?”

  “You don’t understand the game of chess, Lipman. Your son would not have asked such a thing. It is more difficult to reach a stalemate than it is to win or lose. No, there won’t be a stalemate. But—all right. I will give in to you this time, Lipman. If there is a stalemate—if your son manages to make a stalemate—he will remain alive and the children will stay in the ghetto. Are you satisfied?”

  “Yes,” Lipman replied.

  “You can go now, Lipman.”

  “Does Isaac have to come to you?”

  “No, this time I will come myself. Let the entire ghetto watch how we play chess.”

  “All right, Mr. Commandant.”

  Lipman turned to go.

  He was already at the door, reaching for the brass handle, when Schoger caught up with him and patted him on the shoulder.

  “Listen, Lipman,” he said. “I’ll tell you something as a friend, and you listen. If you’re protecting your hat, then protect your son. Protect his hat and his head. All right, Lipman?”

  Abraham Lipman was silent.

  Before his eyes once again was the uneven battered street.

  Lipman returned to the ghetto slowly, one step at a time.

  “Hey, you! You old goat!” the policeman shouted. “You could move it a little. I’ve been off-duty for a long time already, and I have no desire at all to walk slowly with you, the way I do with my girl.”

  Lipman pretended not to hear.

  The policeman took the rifle from his shoulder and poked Lipman in the back with the barrel. But Lipman still walked slowly.

  It was a beautiful autumn evening. The sun, having rolled to the other side of the sky, elongated the shadows of trees, houses, and men. Somewhere near the edge of the city, in small gardens or beneath windows, blossomed fragrant autumn flowers, and above the river gathered the mists of night—thick, full of small drops of water.

  When he returned to the ghetto, Abraham Lipman called his son.

  Isaac listened to his father without saying a word.

  “Do you understand everything, my son?” the father asked.

  “Yes,” answered the son.

  “You must not have been listening. I’ll repeat it.”

  “It’s not necessary.”

  “You’re not angry, my son?”

  “Can I be angry with my own father?”

  “Come closer,” the father said. “I want to look into your eyes one more time.”

  Isaac came near.

  Father and son looked at one another without breathing.

  “Father,” Isaac said, “do you remember how you tickled me when I was small?”

  “I remember,” he replied.

  “Your beard then was not yet gray.”

  “All people grow old, child.”

  “You’re not very gray now. You’re only turning gray.”

  “I know what I am now. Well, raise your chin.”

  The son raised his chin.

  The father took his grayed beard into his hands and rubbed it across his son’s neck.

  “It tickles. Your beard tickles. Just like it did then,” Isaac said, but did not giggle and laugh as he had when he was small.

  Then the father firmly embraced his child and said to him, “Remember, you have to protect yourself. You can make a stalemate, right?”

  “Don’t worry, father. I’ll do what’s best.”

  “I know,” said Abraham Lipman.

  He reached up and, taking his son’s head between his hands, kissed his forehead and eyes.

  “I know you’ll do what’s best,” he said.

  The Fifty-Second Move

  • 1 •

  Isaac did not listen to Schoger. He pushed the pawn forward. Schoger responded quickly.

  Now would come the final move.

  But there were two possible.


  At that instant there could be a stalemate—a perpetual check.

  At that instant, if the knight moved to the left—victory for the white.

  The white had two possible final moves.

  • 2 •

  I waited for my father for a long time. Whenever he leaves for a meeting of the ghetto council or to see Schoger, I always patiently sit and wait.

  He’s returned. We’ve talked. I still feel the touch of his dry lips on my forehead, his mouth framed by a grayed beard. But I have to hurry. A large flat stone doorsill waits for me. Esther waits for me. The yard waits for both of us, the log, the wooden box.

  I have already washed up and have pulled on my good blue shirt.

  It’s all not real or true.

  There’s nothing around.

  I’m Shimek.

  Esther is Buzia.

  Shimek is running to meet his Buzia.

  * * *

  —

  Today we sit side by side, I on the log and she on the log. My arms seem too long, unnecessary. They are in the way, and I have nowhere to put them. Buzia sits next to me, her head on my shoulder, and her long ash-colored hair billows across my chest.

  “I don’t want…” she says. “I don’t want you to be Shimek or me to be Buzia. That story ended sadly. Do you remember how that story ended?”

  “I remember: ‘Don’t force me to tell you the ending of my story. An ending—even if the best—is always a melancholy chord. A beginning, even the saddest beginning, is always better than even the happiest ending. That’s why it’s easier and more pleasant for me to tell you this story once again from the beginning…. I had a brother, Benny. He—’ ”

  “Enough!” Esther shakes me by the arm.

  “That’s enough, Isia!”

  “All right.”

  “You’re not Shimek, right?”

  “Right.”

  “And I’m not Buzia?”

  “Right.”

  “You’re Isia, my Isia. And I’m Esther.”

  “My Esther.”

  * * *

  —

  She presses closer against me. She runs her fingers through my short hair. She presses her face against my shoulder, and it must hurt her, because my shoulders are bony and sharp.

  Why do my arms always seem so unnecessary, so long? They are in the way, and I have nowhere to put them, and I’m afraid to move my arms.

  “Esther,” I say.

  “Do you want to tell me something?”

  “I do.”

  “Tell me—tell me. Why are you silent?”

  I make up my mind.

  I take her head between my hands. My hands are large, rough, and her face is delicate, and in her eyes now there are no imps, laughing or weeping.

  Her lips draw close to mine, and I whisper in a trembling voice, “Esther…I promised Janek I wouldn’t hurt you.”

  “Are you hurting me?”

  That’s what she asks, and her lips are right here. They are as red as ribbons and so close that I can feel her breath.

  “Esther…” I say once more.

  And we are silent again.

  We don’t have to say anything else.

  We are silent for a long time.

  Esther’s lips are as sweet as honey.

  Esther’s cheeks are as soft as velvet.

  Esther’s eyes are wet, and her tears are salty.

  My arms hold Esther firmly. They are very necessary, my arms, and I can’t tear them away. But I must. I must, I must, I must…. I hear the soft voice that calls for me.

  * * *

  —

  That’s right—it’s Janek.

  “Isia,” Janek repeats softly. “It’s time. You have to go.”

  “Why?” I ask just as softly.

  I know why. I ask only to ask, only so I wouldn’t have to get up yet and leave here.

  “The table’s ready. The people are waiting, and Schoger has arrived. He’s looking everywhere for you and can’t find you.”

  “Let’s go,” I say to Janek. “Let’s go, my friend.”

  We go.

  I go without looking back, so I won’t see the log on which Esther now sits alone.

  I’m afraid to look at her—I avoid looking so I won’t feel my eyes get wet and taste my salty tears.

  * * *

  —

  “Let’s go, let’s go,” Janek says.

  I’m going. Why is he hurrying me?

  We walk silently, and I can see how Janek has bowed his head. He wants to say something but is hesitating.

  “Speak—speak, Janek,” I say to him.

  He looks at me with his serious, wise old man’s eyes.

  “Don’t forget, Isia,” he says, “that tonight, at midnight, we are leaving for the forest.”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t forget.”

  Janek again bows his head, and I can tell that that’s not what he wanted to say.

  “Speak—speak, Janek,” I say to him.

  “Isia,” Janek says softly. “I’ll tell you later, there’s no time now. I’ll tell you in the forest. Only I’d like to ask you—don’t do anything that would force me to look for you….”

  “Don’t worry. Do you want a stalemate, Janek?”

  “Yes, I want a stalemate.”

  “I’ll try. I’ll try very hard, don’t worry.”

  “All right,” Janek says.

  He’s happy; he’s satisfied.

  Of course I have to reach a stalemate and tonight, at midnight, go to the forest.

  Stalemate!

  Long live the stalemate!

  The Final Move

  The white had two possible final moves.

  If I closed my eyes, and someone else, someone invisible, my guardian angel, lifted the piece that in truth should be lifted…I don’t have the right to make a mistake this time. I don’t have to hurry. I can think it over calmly and make my choice: stalemate or victory. I’ll take my time. Only now does he understand that I can win….

  Schoger stared his opponent in the eyes, jumped up from his chair, and screamed, “Put down your lamps and get away from here! Get away! Farther!”

  The people did not move; the circle of carbide lanterns did not grow larger. The people were silent and did not take their eyes from the two living figures.

  Schoger quickly pulled his chair closer, leaned over the chessboard, and said quietly so only Isaac could hear, “This is not a lottery. Everything here is clear, and you have no choice to make. Give me a perpetual check.”

  Schoger’s ears, the skin on his forehead, and his entire scalp wiggled.

  I could get up now and spit at you, thought Isaac Lipman. I could cover that Aryan face and your slick hair with spit. But it’s easy to spit. I would like to be an Indian and take your moving scalp; then I’d be satisfied. Don’t worry—I won’t spit. It’s important that today, as always, I’ll win. I have two moves and can choose whichever I want. Only I cannot make a mistake—this time I don’t have the right.

  Schoger sat leaning over the chessboard.

  Schoger’s face up to the line of his eyebrows was calm, frozen. The corners of his lips did not quiver; his cheeks did not tremble; his eyelids did not flutter. His eyes gleamed coldly, like grave holes in winter. Only his scalp moved, wiggling constantly.

  I didn’t know it could be so difficult to choose one move out of two, Isaac thought.

  He saw before him Schoger’s quivering ears.

  He turned away. Then he turned back and again saw the nervously trembling forehead.

  “I’ll tell you the truth,” Schoger said solemnly, having forgotten the people all around. “You won’t be able to save the children no matter what you do; you’ll be able to save only yourself.”

  I
saac closed his eyes.

  In the eye behind his closed eyes everything had a life of its own—the ears, the hair, the skin on the forehead.

  He opened his eyes. Again he saw the trembling scalp and, all around, the men, leaning forward, waiting, slowly slinking closer.

  He understood then that there was only one proper move.

  His hand, which had wavered between the two chess pieces, picked up the white knight, the unliving chess figure, pressed it with its fingers, and pushed it to the left, into the empty square. He now had to say to Schoger, “Check and mate,” but his throat dried out, and in it were stuck other words he had to utter.

  Isaac Lipman stood up, stretched, and said quite calmly, “You lost.”

  Schoger jumped up and fumbled to find his holster.

  When he finally found his holster and unsnapped it, a horrible silence collapsed over the town and over the entire world.

  * * *

  —

  Then Schoger felt himself in the middle of a circle. All around was a wall. A living wall, man pressed close to man. No one could pass through such a wall.

  He closed his eyes, opened them, and saw that the circle was contracting. The circus arena suddenly slipped from beneath his feet. The magician and his magic wand vanished. The living wall came closer. No one could hold it back, and it wasn’t a circle, but a noose, which would soon draw tight.

  In the center stood the chess table, two bright carbide lamps…

  Schoger still managed to touch his fluttering hand to his throat.

  Afterwards, the table and the lamps did not exist; the wall of people pushed close and united.

  The circle vanished.

  * * *

  —

  Is the ending a melancholy chord?

  Is the beginning, even a sad one, better than a happy ending?

  Sometimes the beginning can be an ending and the ending only a beginning.

  Do you know how the sun shines in the spring? You probably have no idea how it shines. You’ve never seen the smile that lighted Esther’s face.