The Last Checkmate

by Gabriella Saab

  I tried to speak, swallowed hard, and tried again. “None of them, I . . . I was talking to myself.”

  It was the most pathetic lie I’d ever told, but that didn’t matter. My plan didn’t involve incriminating Father Kolbe. I’d just needed a reason to say something. From the corner of my eye, I saw Father Kolbe opening his mouth, but he didn’t have a chance to intervene before Fritzsch’s club met my stomach and sent me to the ground. I gritted my teeth against the familiar, pulsating pain, trying not to give him the satisfaction of my agonized cry, but of course I failed.

  “For your disobedience,” Fritzsch said. “And for your lie.”

  The blow to the ribs was sharp and excruciating, and all I could do was whimper. Drawing a breath made my eyes water, but Fritzsch bellowed at me to get up, and I had to obey. Once I was on my feet, he grabbed my face with his leather-gloved hand and forced me to meet his malicious gaze.

  “Listen carefully, 16671. You’re going to tell me which of these vermin you were talking to, or I will beat it out of you.”

  “Forgive me, Herr Lagerführer, it was my fault entirely,” Father Kolbe spoke up. “No need to punish the girl.”

  How Father Kolbe always managed to sound so calm, I never knew, but I wished he would take his words back. This wasn’t part of my plan. Fritzsch was supposed to catch me disobeying—only me. I’d forgotten to assume that, whether I’d spoken to Father Kolbe or not, of course he’d try to help. I couldn’t have picked a worse opportunity to test this strategy.

  After pushing me away, Fritzsch approached his new target. Father Kolbe didn’t make a sound when Fritzsch struck him across the face, but it took everything in me to contain a protest.

  “Both of you will stay after roll call,” Fritzsch said. He marched away, striking prisoners as he went.

  I didn’t dare turn my head to look at Father Kolbe, but I apologized to him in the silence of my mind. Still, a flicker of hope rose into my chest. I wasn’t certain if keeping prisoners after roll call went against the kommandant’s wishes, but I imagined it did.

  When roll call ended, we stayed in place while the prisoners swarmed around us and departed with their work details. Once everyone was gone, we were alone with Fritzsch. And Kommandant Höss was nowhere in sight.

  It was far too late to take back my actions, but I regretted them. Maybe the guards had been wrong about the kommandant coming to the camp. I’d provoked Fritzsch into punishing me for no reason, and I’d brought my fate upon Father Kolbe, too.

  Fritzsch looked between us. “You two are friends?”

  I shook my head in immediate refusal, though I couldn’t fathom why. Lying wasn’t going to do me any good. Fritzsch nodded, then he hefted his club and approached Father Kolbe.

  “Wait, no—I mean, yes. Yes, Herr Lagerführer.” I let out a breath when Fritzsch paused moments before he struck. “We’re friends.”

  “In that case, you’ve made my job easy.” Fritzsch lowered the club and turned to me. “Choose his punishment. And he’ll choose yours.”

  Beads of sweat trickled down my neck and brow, and not simply because the day was getting hotter with every passing moment. Before I could find words, Father Kolbe stepped forward.

  “Herr Lagerführer, I take full responsibility and will accept the consequences for both of us.”

  “Keep your fucking mouth shut or I’ll send you both to the gallows.” Fritzsch shoved Father Kolbe back, so he fell into place and remained silent.

  Fritzsch waited for me to speak, but I couldn’t. What a stupid, reckless plan this was. I glanced at Father Kolbe, who gave me a small nod, as though assuring me he wouldn’t hold my choice against me.

  “The longer you take, the harsher I’m going to require the punishment to be.” Fritzsch moved closer, eyes aglow as if we were in the middle of a chess game and he’d just placed me in check.

  How was I supposed to choose? Two weeks of half rations? Our rations were pathetic enough as it was. A week in a standing cell in Block 11? My feet throbbed at the end of every workday, so to lose the chance for relief would have been absolute misery. Twenty-five lashes? I had no idea how painful a flogging would be, but I never wanted to find out. And even if I’d been able to determine which was the most merciful option, I couldn’t force any of them upon Father Kolbe.

  “Why aren’t the prisoners with their labor assignments?”

  For a moment I thought the dizzying heat and my parched throat had made me imagine the new voice, but I hadn’t. He’d come.

  “The prisoners spoke during roll call, Herr Kommandant,” Fritzsch said. “We’re determining punishment.”

  “Keeping them from their labor assignments isn’t going to improve their behavior,” Kommandant Höss said, frowning as he joined us. “Your job is to punish them at an appropriate time, not to prevent them from working. All you’ve done is affect the efficiency of my operation.” Höss turned to me and Father Kolbe. “Consider this your warning. You won’t be granted leniency if you disobey again.”

  “Yes, Herr Kommandant,” we replied in unison.

  After telling Fritzsch to come to his office so they could discuss his trip to Berlin, Kommandant Höss glanced at us one last time. The furrow in his brow deepened when he settled on me. He pressed his lips together and marched away, shouting at a few guards to report to Fritzsch. When the guards obliged, Fritzsch looked to Father Kolbe.

  “Prisoner 16670, what’s your assignment?”

  “Construction, Herr Lagerführer.”

  Fritzsch seemed pleased by this news. He ordered the guards to escort us both to the construction site, even though that wasn’t my kommando, and we followed them from the camp. Construction should have terrified me, but I wasn’t focused on the difficulty of the labor. My strategy had proved successful. I had to persevere to the main goal: I had to prompt Fritzsch into violating protocol when the kommandant was around to catch him. To survive for my family, I had to get Fritzsch transferred.

  Chapter 11

  Auschwitz, 20 April 1945

  THE ALLIES ARE hunting people like you.”

  I don’t know why I blurt out the words. Maybe I hope to catch Fritzsch off guard, unnerve him. The alliance of nations on the cusp of defeating Germany and its Axis partners will surely inflict consequences on them. They must intend to hold men like Fritzsch accountable. Perhaps he fears the fate awaiting him, so my threat should pique his interest. He looks up, turning one of the captured black knights over in his hand.

  “Is that so?”

  His tone is level, unconcerned, untouched by the fears I hoped to provoke—or perhaps simply refusing to reveal them to me. Still I nod, though I’m not certain there’s any truth to my claim. But Fritzsch doesn’t need to know that.

  “Yes, and I doubt I’m the only former prisoner looking for you, either. Someone else will find you, just like I did.”

  I manage to sound far more confident than I feel. Even if he believes me, I’m certain Fritzsch won’t admit it, but for a moment I could swear something changes in his face. It doesn’t linger long enough for me to decipher it, but it gives me a small boost of encouragement.

  Fritzsch scoffs. “The Allies are hunting men who served their country? Men who sought to rid the world of its vermin and make it a better place? And those same vermin think they have any power over those of us loyal to the Reich?”

  This time I’m the one who scoffs while I move a bishop. “If those so-called vermin have no power over you, why did you bother meeting one here?”

  Although Fritzsch doesn’t respond, his fingers curl around the knight. Success is cool and calming, cleansing me of the turmoil rumbling inside me like the thunder rumbling in the distance. I’m in control. Not Fritzsch.

  As he prepares to take his turn, he sighs and wipes rainwater from his face. “I’d hoped the rain would stop, but it hasn’t, so we should move indoors. What do you think? Block 11, perhaps?”

  A distant peal of thunder shakes the sky while the memories fla
re up again, attempting to wrest control from my clutches. I knew better than to provoke him, but I did it. I did it because I’m stupid and reckless.

  “You can remember where your pieces were, can’t you?” he asks, gesturing to the board. “Go on, take yours, and I’ll take mine. We’ll be more comfortable inside.”

  I rub my hand along the back of my neck and across my back, feeling the thick, raised skin that betrays the web of scars. Suddenly they throb as if they were fresh. “I’m not moving.”

  “Don’t be difficult. I’d much prefer Block 11, wouldn’t you?” Fritzsch gathers a few pieces; then he smiles. “We can set up in Cell 18.”

  Of course he’d suggest that. I knew he would, but when I hear the words something inside me feels like it’s on the verge of collapse. I dig my fingernails into my palm, desperate to keep it contained. “You’re not going anywhere near Cell 18.”

  “Aren’t you going to get your pieces?”

  “No, I’m not moving. I said I’m not moving—”

  “No need to get excited,” Fritzsch says, silencing the hysteria rising in my voice. “I thought you’d welcome the idea of taking shelter from the rain, but it was only a suggestion. A simple ‘No, thank you, Herr Lagerführer’ would suffice.” He puts the pieces back, moves a pawn, and nods at me. “Your move.”

  My move. The scars across my back throb so much, I’m not sure I’ll be able to make it.

  Chapter 12

  Auschwitz, 29 July 1941

  THE EARLY MORNING sun peeked over the blocks on what was proving to be a sweltering day. But the suffocating heat wasn’t what made it difficult for me to breathe—it was the guards’ panicked shouts and recounts.

  An inmate had escaped. An inmate from my block. Those who failed in their escape attempts were penalized, often killed; those who somehow managed to succeed left the rest of us behind to accept the consequences for them.

  I did my best to remain inconspicuous, disregarding the sound of Fritzsch’s curses. Once the guards finished roll call, he announced the punishment.

  “The following ten prisoners from Block 14 are sentenced to immurement.”

  Confinement and starvation. What a horrible way to die. Fritzsch strolled up and down our ranks, assessing each petrified prisoner, selecting his victims one by one. As he called out numbers, guards pulled the poor, innocent inmates out of line and gathered them together to be escorted to their fate. I pitied them, but my mind was too clouded by a single plea to focus on pity.

  Please don’t call my number or Father Kolbe’s.

  The phrase banished all thought, and I repeated it over and over in my mind, as if my desperation could somehow control Fritzsch’s decision. Surely he wouldn’t select me. He had plans for future chess tournaments—unless he’d changed his mind and decided he was tired of me after all. No strategy had prepared me for this. I was bound by his camp, his rules, his timing; no matter how determined I was to have him transferred, to honor my family with my survival, his next move could destroy everything.

  When Fritzsch reached my row, he had one person left to choose. With each step he took toward me, my silent plea grew in volume until it reached a full-fledged scream. Please don’t call my number or Father Kolbe’s please don’t—

  Fritzsch stopped when he reached me, and the screaming in my mind fell silent.

  To meet his gaze would have been defiant, and defiance would have been the worst move to make. All I could do was stare at his jackboots, praying, willing him away, cursing my plea for doing no good even though I’d known it wouldn’t. Fritzsch stood before me, motionless, and I felt his eyes scraping across my number while he took a breath.

  With a chuckle, he moved past Father Kolbe beside me. I’d barely wrapped my head around our fortune before he announced the tenth and final prisoner sentenced to immurement.

  “Prisoner 5659.”

  The last victim was a man near me, and when he heard his number his face turned white. He collapsed with a piercing wail. “My wife, my children . . . I’ll never see them again.”

  When the cry left the devastated man’s lips, Father Kolbe stepped forward without hesitation. He said something no one heard over the inmate’s pleas for mercy, but Fritzsch noticed that Father Kolbe had moved out of line. He held up a hand, and the guard paused before collecting Prisoner 5659. Fritzsch told the weeping man to shut up, then regarded Father Kolbe with a sneer.

  “What the hell do you want?” he asked, so Father Kolbe repeated himself in his calm, gentle manner.

  “I’m a Catholic priest. I’d like to take this man’s place, because he has a wife and children.”

  At this, everyone fell into stunned silence—the prisoners, the guards, and especially the young man. Even Fritzsch was rendered speechless. He took a moment to recover; once he had, he looked at Father Kolbe with renewed interest. “You’re a Catholic priest?”

  “I am, Herr Lagerführer.”

  Fritzsch exchanged a pleased glance with the other guards, kicked the dumbfounded young man, and ordered him back into line. “Replace 5659 with 16670. Take the prisoners to Block 11.”

  The trade happened so fast, I hadn’t processed it before the guards led Father Kolbe away. He looked back at me. My dear, selfless friend. I could almost hear his soothing voice bidding me farewell, imploring me to understand. And I did. But, as he disappeared from view, the loud voice in my head screamed at him to take his choice back, kept screaming until the quiet voice pierced the devastation.

  I would fight for every moment I had left with him.

  My plan would work, I was sure of it. I knew Fritzsch, and I knew exactly how he would react to what I was about to do.

  With a shriek, I fell on my knees before him. “Please, Herr Lagerführer, don’t kill Father Kolbe, please!”

  As I screamed and begged, Fritzsch kicked me away with a disgusted grunt, but nothing would deter me. More hysterical than ever, I crawled back, pleading in German and Polish, and clung to his ankles before he pulled out of my grasp.

  “Shut up, you filthy Polack.” Fritzsch picked me up by the shoulders and shook me, eyes alight with malicious pleasure. “You’re reassigned to Block 11. You can watch 16670 die.” He threw me to the ground, where I curled into a sobbing heap.

  I knew it would work, you stupid, evil bastard.

  Fritzsch ordered the prisoners to clear space around me and watch while he rewarded me further for my outburst. I had a feeling he’d be too impatient to wait for the public display of punishment that always accompanied evening roll call. I lifted my head to scan my audience of indifferent prisoners and amused SS officers. One officer stood out, an older man who appeared uncomfortable; he looked familiar, but I didn’t have time to determine why.

  I knew what was coming, the punishment I’d gambled on whether my plan worked or not. This was the only way to get what I wanted. Despite the terror of anticipation hanging over me, I would fight through it.

  I was huddled on the ground, waiting to be medically cleared to withstand punishment, when Fritzsch’s booted footsteps drew near. He grabbed the back of my collar and gathered the thin fabric in both hands. I cowered, expecting him to hoist me up; instead he pulled. The rip sounded like a death scream. Why had he torn my uniform?

  His whip whistled through the air.

  Pure, piercing agony tore across my back and wrenched a sound from my throat, a shriek unlike any I’d made before. Fritzsch wasn’t following protocol at all. He was just eager to watch me bleed.

  My Gestapo interrogation had been child’s play compared to this. The pain was even worse than I’d feared. But I knew what was expected of me.

  “Eins. Zwei. Drei.” With words that sounded more like sobs, I counted the lashes aloud, but upon my fourth blow my mind went blank. Four in German, what’s four in German? Hurry, I’ve known this language my whole life—

  A piercing whistle, the bite against my back. The fifth lash. I was too late. I’d lost count. And I knew what happened when the prison
er lost count.

  “Start again!” Fritzsch shouted. The satisfaction in his voice was unmistakable.

  Tears sprang to my eyes as the leather clawed my flesh, and the word fought to emerge through my gritted teeth. “Eins.”

  We kept going, blow after torturous blow, while my gasping sobs and cries marked each new stripe. The pain was overwhelming, harsher than any I’d ever known, and I couldn’t make another mistake, couldn’t take much more of this.

  As I counted the lashes, my mind traveled to when Sturmbannführer Ebner found the baptismal certificates in my basket, and when he threatened to torture my family to make me confess. He’d known he had bested me; now, as he inflicted my punishment with total disregard for protocol, Fritzsch thought he had, too. Once again, I was facing a man who believed he’d won. The difference was that Ebner had outwitted me, but Fritzsch had played right into my hands.

  Fritzsch paused after my fifteenth lash. “Would you like to speak out of turn again, 16671?”

  When I’d antagonized Sturmbannführer Ebner after he called me a stupid girl, it had been a small but satisfying act of rebellion. Once again, I was in no position to provoke my captor. It hadn’t been a wise choice then, and it wasn’t a wise choice now. But my plans were always reckless.

  It took considerable effort to lift my head and look at Fritzsch. With each step he took away from me, blood dripped from the whip clutched in his fist. My blood. As I stirred, one of the SS guards alerted Fritzsch, who paused and faced me. When I spoke, my voice was gruff, but it didn’t waver.

  “My name is Maria Florkowska.”

  I was ready for what would come next. Defiance was invigorating.

  He descended upon me, delivering lashes so quickly I couldn’t have counted them aloud even if I’d wanted to. As I screamed beneath the agonizing blows, newfound energy surged through me. I was living, and I was fighting.

  “Fritzsch, what the hell are you doing?”

  By the time the cry reached my ears, Fritzsch had fallen back. I thought the voice belonged to Kommandant Höss, but I wasn’t certain. The pain made it impossible to focus.