A graying SS officer supervised from a few meters away, but, when I stepped toward the truck, he didn’t stop me. The sharp, metallic smell of blood reached my nostrils, and I clutched my stomach to suppress a sudden wave of nausea.
“What happened to them?” I asked no one in particular.
A man carrying a body jerked his head to indicate the gray wall inside the courtyard. “Resistance members and Polish political prisoners are taken to the wall for execution.”
Execution. These people hadn’t died; they’d been killed. The lump in my throat expanded. “That’s me and my family. Are we going to be—?”
“No, if you’ve been registered, you’ve been deemed fit to work. I wouldn’t call that luck, but at least you aren’t dead yet,” the prisoner said with a dark chuckle.
He carried a man’s body, and I noticed a small bloody hole in the back of the corpse’s head. Again, my stomach rose up in rebellion; I quelled it with the greatest difficulty. The prisoner set the body on the truck and accidentally displaced another, which landed in a crumpled heap on the wet ground. He tossed it back with a swift, mechanical motion.
“Some political prisoners are allowed to work; others are shot, especially the sick, disabled, elderly, women, and children. I wouldn’t wish this place upon the scum of the earth, let alone a child. If they kept you, they must be eager for more laborers, regardless of who they are.”
The litany of the unfit rang in my ears.
Tata is crippled. Mama is a woman. Zofia and Karol are children. I’m a child.
You’re going to the same place anyway.
The rain fell harder and soaked through my thin uniform. My whole body quivered, but not from the damp cold.
I didn’t want to look at the people in the truck, I couldn’t; but I had to. So I did. And that was when I noticed familiar blond curls nestled among the pile of bodies.
Once I’d located Zofia, I found the rest of my family clustered around her. Mama, Tata, Zofia, Karol. Dead. My entire family was dead because the Gestapo had caught me.
Something inside me shattered, sent me to my knees, a sharp, stabbing agony pummeling my chest. I’d have given anything to trade that pain for a thousand of Ebner’s clubs, to face Gestapo interrogation over and over again, whatever it took to change what I’d done.
Bring them back, dear God, please bring them back.
A rough grip pulled me to my feet. “Fall out of line again and you’ll wish you’d been sent to the wall like those Polacks.” The raspy voice let the threat sink in before its owner dragged me back to the group and pushed me along.
The wall had been meant for me as well. Had I not gotten lost, Fritzsch wouldn’t have sent me to registration. I should have been with them. No, they should have been safe at home. I got caught, but they paid the price. My parents, my sister, my brother—slaughtered, hair matted with crimson blood, piled among strangers.
A shout ordered us into Block 18. When the door slammed behind us, I didn’t bother taking in my surroundings. I was trembling and suffocating, and I had to get away. I rushed to the farthest corner of the room, away from my fellow prisoners, and I collapsed.
Fierce, painful sobs strangled me, and the tears burned as they streaked down my cheeks. The flames of guilt and desolation were more agonizing than any pain I’d ever experienced. My entire family was dead.
Now I knew what hell was. Prison wasn’t hell; torture wasn’t hell. Auschwitz was hell.
“I knew I saw a girl.”
The man’s voice was beside me. No one had weapons, but my mind issued a warning—there were countless men in this room and one of me; every single man could be like Protz.
At once, I sat up and swung a closed fist in the voice’s direction, and something crunched and gave way beneath the impact. With a yelp, the man brought both hands to his face before looking at me through wide eyes, which narrowed into a glare. When he lifted his head, blood streamed from his crooked nose.
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
I tightened my fist in anticipation, but he got up and walked away, muttering something about me being out of my mind. I curled into myself again. The uncontrollable sobs didn’t stop, and my hand throbbed, but the pain was negligible compared to the agony within.
“Things may look bleak, but keep your chin up. You’re not alone.”
Such words were a common sentiment, vain platitudes used in a useless attempt to provide comfort, but something was different. The new voice was so soothing, I didn’t even consider throwing a punch, and the words weren’t empty, but filled with simple confidence.
“What’s your name?”
Although I didn’t lift my head, I calmed myself enough to answer in a whisper. “One-six-six-seven-one.”
“Pardon?”
“My name is 16671.” I spit the number out as my tears welled up afresh. It was the only name fit for me anymore. Bearing the name my parents bestowed upon me was an honor I no longer deserved.
Despite my hostility, the man chuckled. “Well, then, by your logic, my name is 16670. Pleased to meet you.”
I peeked at his uniform. His prisoner number was the one right before mine, and he wore a red triangle with a P on the breast. He dropped to one knee, closer to my eye level, but kept a respectful distance, as if assuring me he meant no harm.
“I’m a Franciscan friar. My monastery printed anti-Nazi publications, so I and some of my brothers were arrested. Why are you here?”
Such a simple question, yet such a complex answer. Because I got my family arrested, because I got lost, because my family was dead. I swallowed the tears and wiped the moisture from my cheeks. “I worked for the resistance in Warsaw.” He didn’t need the entire truth.
“You must be a very brave girl,” he murmured, but, of all the words I’d have used to describe myself, brave wasn’t one. “My name is Father Maksymilian Kolbe.”
The priest had a slight cleft chin and a handful of distinct lines and razor cuts on his face. He must have had a beard before being shaved—which would have made sense, considering he was a friar—and he seemed a few years older than my father. He regarded me with such kindness, kindness I could have wiped away if I told him the truth. A sincerity swelled behind his eyes, but, no matter how much I trusted him, I couldn’t reveal what I’d done.
Still, he waited for my reply. For me to tell him my name. But I’d already told him what to call me.
Maria Florkowska was a stupid child who’d thought she could transform a meager pawn into a mighty queen. She was a fool, a pawn in a game she’d never win, outwitted, outplayed, and outmaneuvered by opponents far more intelligent and powerful. Her family had paid with their lives while she became a häftling, Prisoner 16671.
And Prisoner 16671 was nothing. I was nothing.
“My given name was Maria. My resistance name was Helena. My new name is Prisoner 16671.” My voice was gruff and sharp and angry, so angry.
Father Kolbe dipped his head into a small nod. “I see.”
He turned to comfort a man who was cursing and lamenting his fate. I looked around long enough to confirm that I was the youngest in our block, and the sole female prisoner. I drew my knees up, pressed myself into the corner, and stared at the stripes on my uniform. When the distraught man fell quiet, Father Kolbe spoke with a few others, then sat next to me. I didn’t look up.
“My given name is Raymund, but when I professed my vows, I received two new names. The first is Maksymilian. The second is Maria, after the Immaculata, the immaculate Virgin Mother of God. The name holds a dear place in my heart, and even small joys make a difference in times like these. If you wouldn’t mind, may I call you Maria?”
The name wasn’t mine anymore, so I should have refused, but he looked so hopeful. I could make an exception, simply because it comforted him. I nodded my assent.
“How old are you, Maria?” Father Kolbe asked, then he chuckled. “Forgive me, but they took my spectacles.”
“Fourteen.”
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“Is anyone here with you? A friend, perhaps, or your family?”
At the mention of my family, the tears returned, so I shook my head to hide them. It wasn’t a lie, exactly.
“Well, following arrest, my brothers and I were separated. I didn’t arrive with anyone, either, so we’re alike in that sense, you and I. Shall we be friends?”
He wouldn’t have offered to be my friend if he’d known my family was dead, lying in a truck in this very camp. Dead because I got us captured. I should have punished myself by refusing him, but his offer of friendship was all I had, the only chance to take my mind away from my sins.
I didn’t trust my voice, so all I did was nod once.
His small smile was so warm, so empathetic. “That’s settled, then. Friends.”
Chapter 6
Auschwitz, 30 May 1941
IT WAS BARELY after midnight following an entire day in Block 18, and I’d spent my time dwelling on my new existence. Prisoner 16671, orphaned and alone except for a kind priest who didn’t know anything about me or what I’d brought upon my family.
Steady breaths and light snores pierced the eerie silence. I hadn’t slept at all. I’d stayed on a lice-infested straw pallet on the floor, staring into the darkness, clinging to the tiny pawn from my father. When we’d settled down for the night, the two men crammed on either side of me had assured me I had no reason to fear them, but no amount of reassurance made me feel safe.
How could anyone sleep after the horrors we’d gone through? We’d had various panics and outbursts since arriving in our block, but now it was quiet. Maybe the others had accepted our situation or were too exhausted to care, or maybe they hadn’t seen their own family amid a pile of bodies.
I closed my eyes, because it was just as dark with them open. Even if I’d wanted to sleep, I couldn’t. The horrific day filled my head, though I tried to think of happy, carefree memories of life before the war. I could almost smell the tantalizing aroma of fresh bread in the oven while my family and I gathered in the living room to listen to our favorite radio programs and play board games, but I couldn’t cling to it long.
The memories faded, replaced by a chessboard, familiar and calming, a respite from the atrocities plaguing me. The pieces were black and red, and I closed my fingers around a red pawn’s slender neck. My grip slipped, the paint fresh and wet. I studied the bright scarlet filling the grooves of my fingertips while a metallic odor hit my nostrils. Blood.
Gasping, I scrubbed my hand on my plaid skirt, except it wasn’t my plaid skirt; it was a striped uniform. I grabbed a black pawn, but it was sticky and covered my fingers in dark, coagulated blood, and I looked across the board to find not one opponent but hundreds—naked bodies, piled on a truck. At once, I found them. Or maybe they found me. Mama, Tata, Zofia, Karol. Their eyes, which once shone with vivacity and love, now vacant and lifeless, staring at me, accusing me, reminding me this was my fault, all my fault.
Sobbing screams woke me, and it took a moment to realize they were my own. I’d fallen asleep even though I thought I’d never sleep again.
“Shut up!” an angry, groggy voice shouted.
The reprimand must have been directed at me, and some inmates complained about the disruption, but I couldn’t control the sobs.
“Shhh, you’re all right, Maria.”
“My family—”
The gasping cry emerged before I stopped myself from saying more. Don’t. Don’t tell him what happened.
Father Kolbe helped me up and guided me toward the wall, and we sat with our backs against it in the midst of the sleeping forms. He wrapped an arm around my shaking shoulders and allowed me to cry.
“Would it make you feel better if you told me about your family?” he whispered once my sobs faded into hiccups, but I shook my head in refusal. “Very well, we’ll sit here until you’re ready to go back to sleep.”
“I’m not going back to sleep.”
“In that case, we’ll sit for as long as you’d like.” Despite my panic, Father Kolbe’s voice remained calm. “Have faith, child. Even though your family isn’t here, they’re always with you spiritually. And you’re always with them.”
His words dispelled a bit of the anxiety coursing through my body. I didn’t reply, and Father Kolbe was silent before he started murmuring familiar words. He was praying the rosary. My family and I would gather in the living room to recite this same prayer every night before bed. The rosary’s large and small beads were a tangible reminder of each Our Father and Hail Mary passing over my lips while I contemplated Jesus Christ’s life. Now, I could almost imagine that Father Kolbe’s voice was my father’s, could almost feel the beads between my fingers.
Thoughts of my family would make me start crying again. Instead I concentrated on staying awake and listening to Father Kolbe’s prayer, but nothing alleviated the weight in my chest.
I ached, inside and out, heart and mind, body and soul. It was an ache that would never subside. In this game, my opponent surrounded me on all sides, allowing no foreseeable escape.
Listen to the prayers, think of the prayers. Don’t sleep. Stay awake, just stay awake.
Despite my resolution, Father Kolbe’s gentle recitation lulled me into slumber. This time, my dreams were peaceful.
* * *
Impatient shouts roused me. When I lifted my head from Father Kolbe’s shoulder, he stood, offered me his hand, and helped me to my feet. Through the darkness, I could see his bloodshot eyes beneath drooping eyelids, though he offered me a soft smile. I wondered if he’d gotten any sleep after I woke everyone.
Outside, on a large parade ground stretching between Blocks 16 and 17, soldiers instructed us to line up in rows of ten for appell, as they said in German. Some Poles didn’t seem to understand the order, but the guards’ clubs spoke a universal language. My uniform did little to ward off the morning chill, but anyone who moved or complained was struck, so I tried not to succumb to shivers. I stood near the front, next to Father Kolbe, still and silent, while the guards counted the prisoners.
“All here, Herr Lagerführer,” one man reported after we’d been standing for ages.
The lagerführer stepped into view, a man in a field-gray uniform.
Fritzsch.
I couldn’t bear to look at him, so I turned my attention to the stoic officer beside him. Thanks to the dark circles under his hooded eyes and the lines around his wide nose, pursed mouth, and broad forehead, he looked old, older than his age would likely predict. A Luger P08 sat on his hip, similar to the one Tata kept in the closet with his army uniform from the Great War. When he’d taught me how to clean and load the weapon, he’d told me how he saved his comrade-in-arms from a German bullet, so he’d kept the German’s pistol. Tata had shown me how to fire it, too, and he’d promised to let me shoot it someday. That day never came.
This wasn’t the time for tears. I couldn’t think of my family.
Determined to keep my thoughts guarded, I refocused on the man next to Fritzsch. He ordered one prisoner to move a few centimeters left to straighten the line. The häftling obliged, but I didn’t notice much difference.
“My name is Rudolf Höss, kommandant of Auschwitz,” he said, once satisfied with our formation. “Every morning, you will line up in the square for roll call, like you are now. Once each prisoner is accounted for, you will report to your work detail. You will obey commands promptly and labor with precision and efficiency. From this day forward, I turn you over to my camp deputy, Karl Fritzsch. I trust he will adequately maintain the standards I have regarding how my camp is to be run.”
As Höss concluded, his voice didn’t carry the same confidence in Fritzsch that his words did. He started to walk away and scanned the crowd one final time; then he stopped.
“Is that a girl?”
All eyes turned to me, the one in a headscarf. Next to me, Father Kolbe tensed. It was kind of him, but not even his concern was enough to keep my heart from springing into my throat. Now more
than ever, I wished the earth would swallow me.
A frantic SS man consulted a handful of papers. “There must have been a mistake, Herr Kommandant.”
“I don’t have time for mistakes!” Höss shouted, interrupting the man’s splutters. “I need men—workers, hard workers—and a girl isn’t fit for labor. Take care of this, Fritzsch.” Red-faced, he walked away, barking something about the sheer stupidity that ran rampant among those assigned to his camp.
When the kommandant was gone, I stared at the gravel, unable to look into Fritzsch’s eyes as they scraped over me and peeled everything away until I disintegrated into visceral terror. He’d sent me through registration just to send me to the execution wall. I was sure of it. All the female prisoners had been sent there except the Jewish woman I’d met, and she must have been spared because she served some purpose. Fear coiled around me, squeezing until I was certain it would kill me before the bullet had a chance. I tightened my fist around the tiny pawn.
The sound of approaching footsteps reached my ears, and I didn’t have to look up to know it was him. First I saw his feet, then his open palm. He must have realized I was holding something.
I didn’t have a choice. I dropped the pawn Tata had made for me into Fritzsch’s hand.
Although I expected him to walk away, he didn’t. Once I lifted my head, Fritzsch looked at me with that same eagerness I’d seen when we met on the arrival platform, as if he were a child and I was his new favorite toy.
“There’s no mistake. Daughter of intelligentsia, are you, Polack?” His cynical assumption was correct; my parents had been university graduates. I had lived under Nazi occupation long enough to know they despised intellectual Poles, planned to reduce us to a race of uneducated workers. “Unfit for labor,” he went on, assessing me. “Unfit for survival. Unfit for anything except this . . . for a time.” He gripped the pawn’s slender neck between his thumb and index finger, twisted it back and forth, back and forth, slow and calculated. His fingers whitened as he squeezed harder, harder.
The Last Checkmate Page 7