A heavy fist pounded on the door bearing my family name, but no one had the opportunity to respond before a booted foot delivered a swift, forceful kick. It caved with a splintering crack. They threw me inside, and I stumbled into my father’s arms.
When I lifted my head, I noticed my own blood had stained his shirt. I had only a moment to meet Tata’s horrified gaze before the men invaded and tore me from the security of his grasp. Their bellows mingled with Mama’s scream.
The Gestapo agents turned over furniture, emptied cabinets and drawers, broke dishes, pulled up rugs, and demolished everything in their path. I thanked God Tata’s resistance newspaper, the one piece of evidence they could have found, had already disappeared from its usual hiding place—beneath the seat cushion of his chair. One of the Gestapo agents flipped the coffee table over, and my chessboard crashed to the ground. The beautiful pieces scattered.
The sound of my name broke through the furious German shouts, and I found Mama with her back pressed against the wall. She clung to my siblings and implored me to come to her. Tata’s voice rose above the din, claiming he printed the baptismal certificates and distributed them himself and that his daughter had taken the wrong basket by mistake, and I remained in the middle of the chaotic scene, paralyzed.
An SS soldier turned to my father with a condescending sneer. “You mean for us to believe you deliver documents?” To emphasize his point, he struck my father’s bad leg.
Tata collapsed, and his cane clattered against the floor as a groan escaped his clenched teeth. I screamed and darted toward him, but another blow to the stomach brought me to the floor, and I curled into myself, willing the agony to subside while the world around me turned hazy. Mama’s shriek sounded distant. A foreign voice joined hers, followed by a sharp, deliberate smack.
Hands found me, and, as the ache in my stomach dissipated, a Gestapo agent hauled me down the stairs. I struggled, but he was too strong. It was like fighting a stone pillar. He tossed me into the truck, my hip taking the brunt of the impact, pain shooting down my leg. As I sprawled across the empty floor, a thud landed beside me, accompanied by a familiar gasp. Mama. More thuds followed, indicating the rest of my family, and the door slammed shut.
The truck began to move. I pushed myself up and held one arm across my throbbing stomach. Tata sat up, wincing as the movement angered his leg, then he helped Mama. She held Zofia and Karol as if she’d never let them go, and their hiccupping sobs joined into one. Mama nestled into Tata and gingerly touched the bright red mark on her cheek.
“Dear God,” she whispered. A small, desperate prayer.
What a fool I was. To think I’d almost convinced myself that my family would be spared.
“They stopped on our street, and I saw one of them had a warrant badge. I didn’t know what to do, and after they took the basket and found the certificates, they forced Mrs. Kruczek to identify me, and I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”
As my voice quivered, Tata guided me closer and wiped blood from my cut lip. “There’s no shame in fear. You didn’t do anything wrong, Maria.”
His words weren’t true, but I didn’t say so. If I’d thought faster, I wouldn’t have cost my entire family their freedom.
“Did we break the law?” Zofia murmured.
Tata placed an affectionate hand over hers. “This war has brought incredible cruelty upon Jewish people, so your sister, Mama, and I have been helping them. Helping innocents flee persecution is not wrong.”
Zofia stared at me as if I were a stranger. No one spoke further, and I moved away from my family and into the far corner, crippled by the sheer magnitude of what I’d done.
When the truck stopped, the doors swung open, and we were greeted by a rifle barrel. The soldier wielding it motioned for us to get out. Mama scrambled out with shocking speed and rushed to another soldier who stood behind the first.
“Please, they’re children, for God’s sake.”
He grabbed her arm before she could say more, and she stiffened and fell silent. Tata climbed out next and reached for Karol, who was closest to the door, but a soldier shoved my father back while another pulled Karol out of the truck.
I’d never heard my brother or my parents shriek the way they did, then Mama’s cry rose above the rest.
“Let me hold him, please let me hold him!”
Her pleas grew louder and her struggles more frantic until her captor looked so irritated that he released her. She snatched Karol out of the other man’s arms, held him against her chest, and spoke to him in a soft voice while he burrowed into her. When she looked at Tata, an escaped tear glistened against her cheek.
As two more soldiers came forward to collect us, Zofia’s hand found mine. The soldiers let us proceed to the door on our own, probably to avoid another outburst from Mama. I gave Zofia’s hand a small squeeze for comfort, even though I didn’t feel capable of providing any. I knew exactly what sight would greet me when I stepped outside.
A wall of gray stone surrounded the massive complex. Even before the invasion, I’d always thought Pawiak was harsh and ugly, a blight upon a city of stunning beauty. Now it wasn’t just a hideous building. It was a manifestation of all my fears.
There’s a special place in hell for resistance members who get caught.
* * *
Auschwitz, 17 June 1941
“My parents and siblings were shot as soon as we got to Auschwitz. I was selected for execution, too, but I strayed, and Fritzsch placed me with a group of workers. My family was killed while I survived because Fritzsch happens to enjoy chess.”
As I finished my story, Father Kolbe didn’t respond right away, and I was grateful for the dark. I didn’t want to see the shock and disgust I imagined on his face. But when he spoke, his voice didn’t match the expression in my mind.
“What happened to your family is horrific. Words can’t express how much my heart aches for you, Maria.”
“I didn’t mean to leave them.” My voice broke, but I was desperate to confess, desperate to transfer the weight of my sins to this poor, kind priest who had been foolish enough to befriend me. “When I got lost, I thought I’d find my family after registration. I didn’t know one group was condemned to death while another wasn’t. All this time, I’ve been using you, Father Kolbe, and I let you believe I’m someone I’m not, and I’m sorry.”
“My beliefs about you aren’t false, Maria, I assure you. And if our friendship allowed me to play a small part in alleviating your suffering, then I thank God for giving us that grace.”
Thank goodness Father Kolbe couldn’t see the tears on the brink of spilling down my cheeks. “I don’t deserve God’s grace.”
“None of us do, yet He gives it to us anyway.”
“Do you really believe that in a place like this?”
“It’s in a place like this that I believe it most of all. How else could we find meaning amid such suffering?”
When we fell silent, the gentle patter of raindrops reached my ears. It was comforting somehow, and I wasn’t sure why because very little comforted me anymore. Comfort had receded into my past, unattainable in this new world, a world of anything but comfort. Father Kolbe’s presence was the only thing that transported me back to that state. To have the rain do the same was unusual, as if I were sitting by the window in my family’s apartment in Warsaw, watching raindrops roll down the windowpane. But neither Father Kolbe nor the soothing rainfall was enough to change my mind.
Father Kolbe wouldn’t approve of my decision, but I was tired of lying to him. He needed to hear the truth, the whole truth.
“I’m ready to leave.” I intended to say more, but the words stopped coming. My decision was made; it had been for a long time, but I didn’t anticipate it being so difficult to share.
The quiet surrounded us once again, a silence that pierced my heart until I could hardly withstand it. This time, instead of shock and disgust, I imagined fury on Father Kolbe’s face, but even in my mind the image was ludicrous.<
br />
“That’s not the answer, my friend.”
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Father Kolbe, and I don’t expect you or God or anyone to have mercy on me, but I can’t live with what I did to them,” I replied, the words barely audible. “Besides, I was sent here to die anyway.”
“Not like this.”
I didn’t know how to respond. I wished he’d yell at me, curse me, tell me I was damned for all eternity. For some reason, that would have made it easier to remain firm in my decision. Instead all I sensed was quiet empathy. Of course he wasn’t trying to dissuade me through a fit of righteous anger. That wasn’t Father Kolbe’s way, but somehow his gentleness was harder to resist.
“Your life is a gift, even during terrible suffering. It’s been a gift to me. Your family wouldn’t want you to give it up.”
It was strange to hear him speak of my family’s wishes after I’d spent all this time suppressing my memories of them. Keeping them hidden was supposed to protect me from pain, but it had left me with nothing but emptiness. Now I allowed myself to picture my family, to let them fill my emptiness. During my time in Auschwitz, I’d detached myself from such recollections, watching from the outside. Remembering, but not remembering. This time, I was on the inside. Mama. Tata. Zofia. Karol.
Father Kolbe pressed something into my palm. I couldn’t see it through the darkness, but I recognized the feeling of the smooth, round beads. A rosary.
“When I arrived, I asked a soldier if I could keep my rosary. Now I want you to have it. You’re named after the Blessed Mother, and the rosary glorifies her Son’s life—even His suffering and death. Within Christ’s life, you’ll find the strength to make peace within yourself and survive this place.”
In the silence, my bony fingers moved along the beads and found the crucifix. I closed my hand around it, and the simple gesture broke every barrier within me. Everything I’d kept behind those barriers came tumbling out, and I sobbed as hard as I had when my family died. Father Kolbe’s rosary pressed into my palm while recollections filled my head, memories of nights spent praying these familiar prayers with my family. Somehow the acute pain was more bearable. And somehow I felt less despicable than I had in weeks.
When my tears subsided, Father Kolbe’s emaciated hand closed over mine. My grip on his rosary didn’t loosen, and his gentle murmur filled every corner of the room.
“Live, Maria. Live for your family. Fight for your family. And survive for them.”
* * *
I was under no illusions that death was guaranteed to leave me be. No one was safe from it. The chess pieces were set up on the board, and I faced an opponent more ruthless and unpredictable than any I’d ever confronted. We’d made our first moves, and the game was underway.
After my conversation with Father Kolbe, I’d stayed up most of the night sewing a small pocket with a button flap onto the underside of my uniform skirt. The next evening, as I marched back to camp from the workday, his rosary was tucked inside.
When I passed through the gate, Fritzsch stood by Block 24, where he usually waited for me if he wanted to end his day with a chess game. After a nod from Fritzsch, the guards waved me away, so I went to him.
“The same old chess game is getting tiresome.”
At his abrupt greeting, I didn’t know what he expected me to say. He could have been testing me. If entertaining him with chess was all I was good for, maybe he wanted to know if I’d welcome the implication of my death or beg for my life. I wasn’t certain either would alter his decision when the time came. As long as Fritzsch was in control, my time in this place remained in his hands.
But only as long as Fritzsch was in control. If I survived this place, perhaps I would feel as if I had granted my family a small form of justice. And if I was going to survive this place, I had to survive Fritzsch.
“We could have a tournament.”
His expression didn’t change at my suggestion. Silence hovered between us for a moment, then he turned and walked away.
As I watched him go, something rose up inside me, a feeling I recognized from my days working for the resistance. My strategy had changed. Maybe I could win this game after all.
Chapter 10
Auschwitz, 26 July 1941
WHEN I HEARD the distant hum of voices outside, I collected the twigs and pebbles from the floor in Block 14, where Father Kolbe and I, among others, had recently moved. “We’ll play again tonight,” I whispered while he swept his hand over the filthy floor to erase our chessboard. “Next time, you can play with white and I’ll play with black. You need the first-move advantage.”
While I stifled a giggle, Father Kolbe raised a teasing eyebrow. “You do recall I won the game we just played, don’t you?”
“And I won the game before that. You’re a worthy opponent, Father Kolbe, but I hope you won’t be too disappointed when I reclaim my title as victor.”
“Is that a challenge?”
“A direct one.”
“Accepted,” he said, flashing a competitive grin as he helped me to my feet. “But if you win, I demand a rematch.”
I clambered to my bunk, a welcome upgrade from the pallets of my last block. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
Father Kolbe chuckled as he returned to his bunk, and I settled beneath my thin blanket. The moment I closed my eyes to feign slumber, the door swung open, followed by a guard’s voice calling my number.
Rubbing my eyes as if I’d just woken up, I climbed down and hurried to the two guards waiting at the door. They didn’t say anything, but I knew why they’d come. I followed them out into the dark morning and to the roll-call square, where the crowd had already gathered.
“Today marks the final day of our chess tournament,” Fritzsch said when we arrived. “You know the rules, Prisoner 16671. After roll call, instead of joining your work detail, you will meet me here by the shelter booth. The first round will consist of five games between the guards. Those five winners will play against you.”
While Fritzsch droned on about who would be competing today and other such trivial matters, I suppressed a sigh. Although this tournament had been my idea, I preferred my games against Father Kolbe to these incessant rounds against the guards, spending all day in the roll-call square with no one but Fritzsch and the SS men. I’d lost count of how many games I’d played each day, but the guards had relished it so much that Fritzsch had already promised to have another tournament soon. At least my plan was keeping me from manual labor—and above all, keeping me alive.
My two guards remained beside me. While Fritzsch continued speaking, one turned to the other and spoke in a low voice. “Who are you betting on?”
“I’m not watching the tournament today,” his companion muttered as he lit a cigarette. “Not now that Kommandant Höss is back from Berlin. If he catches me slacking after what happened yesterday, he’ll have my head.”
“That’s right, you told me about that,” the first one said as he twirled his club. “Why the hell did the kommandant get so angry over a simple question?”
The other guard shrugged. “I welcomed him back and asked how his trip was, then he forbade me from prying into secret Reich matters and threatened to have me transferred. My family would never forgive me if that happened, so from now on, I’m following orders and keeping my mouth shut.” He pulled out a pocket watch and checked the time. “I imagine Kommandant Höss will be here soon. Last night, he said something about spending today in the main camp.”
“After roll call, we should advise Fritzsch to reschedule the tournament. God forbid anyone disobey the kommandant’s orders,” the other man said with a snigger.
As I listened to the conversation, my hand strayed toward the small pocket inside my uniform. I pressed my fingers against the fabric to feel the pale blue rosary beads and silver crucifix tucked inside.
Live. Fight. Survive.
I wanted to live. Every part of me wanted to live. Auschwitz had taken so much from me, but I wouldn’t le
t it have me, too. Not if I could help it. This was a game I’d vowed to win. And the conversation between the guards had inspired the next phase of my strategy.
Once the rest of the prisoners joined us for roll call, I took my place next to Father Kolbe. Though I’d bought myself time with chess tournaments, those wouldn’t be enough to wrest control away from Fritzsch—but with this next phase I’d just conceived, perhaps I’d found the solution. All I had to do was make it work before he decided I was no longer useful.
To my left, Father Kolbe hummed a piece by Schubert, one that accompanied a familiar Marian prayer. The Ave Maria.
The melody transported me home, and I closed my eyes. Mama was there, seated at her dressing table, armed with hairpins. While her fingers twisted and shaped her blond tresses, she watched her reflection and softly sang, as she often did when focused. Her tone was graceful, reverent, and her lips enunciated each Latin word while her meticulous fingers inserted hairpins into the elegant creation atop her head. Tata paused outside the doorway, listening, loath to disturb her. She smiled when she caught his eye in the mirror, but she didn’t stop.
Father Kolbe’s tune ended, carrying Mama’s voice away and bringing me back to the roll-call square. I waited until Fritzsch’s heavy footfalls reached my ears as he strolled through our ranks. Time to test my plan.
I took a breath to gather my courage and dropped my voice to a whisper. “My mother used to sing that hymn all the time.”
Fritzsch came closer. I suspected he’d heard me. Though I didn’t look at him, I felt him scrutinizing me. This had to happen if my plan was going to work, but that didn’t make it any easier to draw a steady breath while the threat of his wrath loomed over me.
Fritzsch watched me, taking his time. “Prisoner 16671, were you speaking?”
“Yes, Herr Lagerführer.” Answer as simply as possible. Never offer details unless asked.
“Which of these sorry bastards were you addressing?”
The Last Checkmate Page 11