The Last Checkmate

by Gabriella Saab

  Survival was a selfish instinct. Desperation didn’t allow time for gratitude. Still, when good fortune found me, I did my best to recognize it, as if my acknowledgment of the favor would encourage fate to shower more blessings upon me. Even when survival depended on it, taking advantage of another’s sacrifice never felt like a fair play.

  I whispered a thanks to the dead man before returning to Irena’s side. Once I managed to tear the bread in half, I offered a piece to her. She shook her head as her mouth warped in disgust.

  “All yours. I’d rather not eat something that came from a corpse.”

  A valid claim, but when I met her gaze she averted her eyes, proving it wasn’t the entire reason behind her refusal. “I’ve seen the way you look at me, Irena. You can’t treat me like I’m fragile.”

  “Good Lord, Maria, you are fragile. After what you’ve been through, you should know that better than anyone.”

  “Hunger doesn’t pick and choose. You’re no better equipped to fight it than I am, and unlike you, I don’t have a child who needs her mother.”

  At this, she drew an unsteady breath and broke an icicle from a birch limb. “I have a far better chance of getting back to her than you do. You know that. And I’ll be damned if I let you die after surviving that hell.”

  I was silent for a moment, letting my irritation go. “You said we’d both get out of Auschwitz alive, remember? I have no intention of losing now.”

  This time when I offered her the bread she accepted it. After swallowing, she looked at the corpse, and the color drained from her face. I pulled her along, cursing my own stupidity. Why hadn’t I made her walk away first?

  Keep the bread down, Irena, please keep it down.

  She did with great difficulty.

  We pressed on. Our search for food was futile, so we ate snow and various roots. The frigid air ached as it touched my lungs and enveloped me in its frozen embrace, tighter and more painful with every step, sucking what little energy I had left from my body. We wouldn’t survive the night in this forest.

  Daylight was almost gone when the trees started to thin. I prayed it meant we were nearing the edge of the woods, so we kept walking until a welcome sight confirmed my hopes. Before us, a quaint farmhouse sat on an open stretch of land. Wisps of smoke rose from its chimney, and an elderly man—the farmer—emerged from the barn, wielding an ax. He spent a few minutes chopping the pile of logs gathered beside the barn until an elderly woman called to him from the house.

  Their voices carried across the field and reached my ears. German. I noticed the flag billowing on a pole near the house, and I didn’t need daylight to recognize the white circle, black swastika, and red background.

  “Dammit, they’re Volksdeutsche. Why couldn’t we have found a nice Polish couple?” Irena muttered, then she laughed. “Well, I suppose we can knock on the door and ask for a bed instead of sneaking into their barn.”

  “I’m glad you’re thinking what I’m thinking.”

  Irena looked from my sly smile to the farm and back, eyes wide. “I wasn’t serious.”

  “You’re a camp guard, remember? A guard would demand a place to stay, and since they’re Volksdeutsche, they’ll be happy to oblige. We’ll be warm and have a proper meal.”

  “Doesn’t dining with the enemy sound wonderful?”

  I ignored her sarcasm and continued with our story. “You and your colleagues were relocating inmates to Loslau, and I attempted escape, but you caught me. Since we got separated from the rest, we need somewhere to stay for the evening. And remember, you don’t speak Polish.”

  When I offered an amused grin, she glared in mock reproach. “If you tried to escape, why didn’t I shoot you?”

  “You couldn’t get a good shot, you didn’t want to waste a bullet, I don’t know,” I replied with an impatient wave. “They won’t question why you made the decision you made. Draw your gun and let’s go.”

  Irena held the pistol loosely and led the way. When I didn’t follow, she looked back. “What?”

  “Is that the best you can do, Frieda?”

  She clenched her jaw. “They can’t see us.”

  “Not now, but if they happen to look outside and see us walking to their door like two friends on an evening stroll, do you think they’ll believe our story?”

  “Good Lord.” She sighed, brushed a loose strand of hair aside, and closed a hand around my upper arm. When I looked at her again, she tightened her grip begrudgingly and pushed the gun barrel between my shoulder blades.

  “Much better.” I nodded in approval as Irena forced me to walk in front of her. “Don’t forget to be convincing.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Forgive me, Frau Aufseherin.”

  “Dammit, Maria.”

  When we reached the farmhouse, Irena pounded on the door until the woman answered. Irena said nothing, waiting for her to speak, but the woman looked so surprised that I had to remind myself not to laugh. The farmer joined his wife by the door and immediately raised his right arm in salute. The woman blinked, as if coming out of a stupor, then imitated him.

  “Heil Hitler,” they said in unison.

  “Heil Hitler,” Irena said with the faintest hint of force, though her hold on me gave her a reason to avoid raising her right arm. “Frieda Lichtenberg, Aufseherin of Auschwitz-Birkenau.”

  “Hermann Meinhart, and my wife, Margrit,” he replied. “What can we do for you, Frau Aufseherin?”

  After Irena relayed our tale, Frau Meinhart stepped aside and shooed her husband out of the doorway. Inside, I took in my surroundings. This was the first time I’d been inside a home in almost four years. We crossed the wooden floor in the living room, where there was a sofa, rug, and two armchairs. A cheerful fire danced in the fireplace while a small mantel displayed a framed wedding photograph and a few baby portraits. An enticing aroma of meat and vegetables wafted from the stove as we reached four chairs and a square table set with a floral tablecloth, a small loaf of bread on a platter, two white cloth napkins, two spoons, and two bowls.

  I didn’t know why the simple home overwhelmed me and brought tears to my eyes. Thankfully, crying was appropriate for my part in our charade. As Frau Meinhart indicated two empty chairs, I swallowed my tears and prepared to sit, but Irena held me back. She kept me at arm’s length, as though too repulsed to come nearer.

  “Where do you think you’re going, you filthy creature? You’re not doing anything until you’ve scrubbed every bit of grime from your body.”

  I could have kissed her on both cheeks.

  Herr Meinhart placed two wooden tubs before the fireplace—one for me, a smaller one with a washboard for my uniform—then fetched water from the well, which Frau Meinhart heated over the stove. Once finished, they disappeared into the back of the house, allowing me privacy while Irena made as if to stand guard; instead she sat at the table with her back to me. Even in the camp, she had always managed to avoid seeing me without my uniform on. Perhaps she didn’t want me to feel as if I were being inspected; perhaps she doubted her ability to bear what lay underneath.

  I disinfected my uniform first, killing every insect and using the washboard to lift away layers of filth. By the time I finished, the garment remained dingy and stained, but it looked a bit better. I hung it over the edge of the tub to dry, close to the fire’s warmth.

  The wooden floor was cold beneath my bare feet as I moved to the larger tub, then stepped into the hot water. With a bar of soap—an entire bar of real soap—I cleaned myself and scrubbed my shorn head, inhaling the soap’s faint yet sweet scent of apple blossoms. It was a sensation I hadn’t felt in so many years: clean.

  Once finished, I dried off with a soft white towel and donned my uniform—still damp, but the house was warm enough. When Irena joined me and saw the sudden tears in my eyes, a soft smile played on her lips.

  Then, sighing, she lifted her gun to my back before summoning the couple. Herr Meinhart carried the tubs outside while Frau Meinhart reheated
dinner. Irena led me to my chair. I sat straight, breaths shaky, tensing when she pressed the gun more firmly between my shoulder blades.

  “Behave yourself.”

  “Yes, Frau Aufseherin,” I whispered, then heaved a small sigh when she released me and removed the gun.

  Frau Meinhart placed steaming bowls of stew before us. No one spoke throughout the meal, but the painful silence didn’t bother me. My one serving of stew held more pork, carrots, onions, and cabbage than ten servings in Auschwitz. The broth warmed me from the inside out while the tender vegetables, thick, juicy cuts of meat, and sliced bread dispelled the ever-present ache of hunger. It was the most wonderful meal I’d ever had.

  But mine was a small portion, only a thin slice of bread and a few spoonfuls of stew. As I finished and rose in search of more, a hand grabbed my bowl. At once, I snatched it back, and though the other inmate’s grip remained firm, so did mine. Such audacity, stealing from one of the oldest numbers in the women’s camp. She wouldn’t get away with it. Experience had taught me how to win this game, so I would resist until she gave up, searched for an easier target, and gave my seniority the proper respect—

  Her free hand closed around my wrist, so tight it forced my grasp to loosen, and I looked up to see if I recognized this häftling who had overpowered me.

  Irena stood above me, one hand on my wrist, the other on my bowl. She wrenched it away. “Enough.”

  This wasn’t my block; this was the farmhouse. Herr and Frau Meinhart kept their eyes on their own meals while Irena removed my bowl from the table. Irena wasn’t a Nazi or another inmate. She was supposed to be my friend, so why was she starving me?

  When she left my bowl by the sink, Irena placed both hands on the counter before looking over her shoulder. Given the way she’d suddenly turned on me, I expected her to regard me with hatred and disgust; instead her eyes glistened before she blinked and swallowed hard.

  We’d seen what overeating did to prisoners in my condition. My body couldn’t take it. Even if I’d been thinking properly, the temptation to consume my serving and countless more was too great. Frau Meinhart had given me a safe, manageable portion; now Irena was saving my life.

  Once she’d composed herself, Irena returned to her seat. Tears sprang to my eyes, but I suppressed them. I wasn’t sure why I’d been crying so much.

  While the couple cleaned up after the meal, Irena and I stayed where we were. In keeping with my act, I’d kept my eyes down, but it was difficult. Because I couldn’t watch their faces, it was almost impossible to determine whether the Meinharts believed our charade. Since their backs were turned as they bent over the sink, washing and drying dishes, I chanced a quick look at Irena. She toyed with her pistol, as if to ensure my obedience, but she was tense, likely thinking what I was thinking. If our ruse was discovered, they’d turn us in.

  The couple led us to a small room with two beds on either side of a window, and after bidding us goodnight they closed the door. I waited with bated breath, listening. Their footsteps grew fainter as they retired to a bedroom down the hall, and I relaxed when the door closed.

  In her haste to get rid of it, Irena almost threw her gun on the nightstand, then she sighed and sat on the edge of her bed. Meanwhile, I stayed where I was, staring at the second bed. A strange feeling came over me, much like I’d felt upon walking into the home. I still couldn’t pinpoint what it was, but again I struggled to draw a proper breath.

  “What’s wrong?” Irena whispered.

  “Nothing.” I kept my head down to hide the tears, which had returned. Again. “Stop talking, they’ll hear us.”

  “If they can hear us whispering from down the hall and through two closed doors, they must have damn good hearing.”

  “We can’t take any chances.”

  To my relief, Irena didn’t dispute me. She didn’t even bother removing her boots before collapsing on the bed and pulling a blanket across her midsection while I moved to the window. Snowflakes, illuminated by the silvery gleam of moonlight, floated down and settled over the open fields. I wondered how many times I’d crossed snow-covered fields on my way to and from Birkenau. Thousands, probably. Maybe more.

  If I’d been at home, I would have leaned over the iron railing on our small balcony or joined my siblings by the window, watching the snowflakes collect on the cobblestones and buildings along Bałuckiego Street while Mama and Tata drank tea and told stories. But I wasn’t at home, and, when I thought of trudging through fresh snow again, dread joined the strange feelings that had overtaken me since we’d arrived. As I sat on the hardwood floor near the foot of the second bed, I prayed the snow would stop.

  Irena propped herself up on her forearm. “What the hell are you doing?” she whispered.

  “Going to sleep.”

  “On the floor?”

  “Where else would Frieda have me?”

  “Frieda has retired for the evening,” she said, getting up and pulling me to my feet. “And Irena says sleep on the damn bed.”

  I shrugged her off and returned to the floor, ignoring her muttered curses. The day had taken its toll, and I was too tired and overwhelmed to argue. Besides, I couldn’t explain feelings I didn’t understand myself. I certainly didn’t understand why the wooden floor quelled a bit of the chaos swirling inside me. As I sank into the familiar depths of slumber, I was faintly aware of Irena tossing a blanket over me.

  Chapter 32

  Pszczyna, 20 January 1945

  MY EYES FLUTTERED open when something touched my shoulder. At once, I sat up and looked around to see if my bunkmates were still breathing. But they weren’t there. Neither was Hania, and someone hovered over me, a guard preparing to force me from the block—

  I blinked to clear the drowsy, confused fog surrounding me. The evacuation. Our escape. The farm.

  Frau Meinhart put a finger to her lips and guided me to my feet. She led me into the living room, where faint light streamed through the window. It was almost sunrise. I supposed she’d awakened me for breakfast. I looked back to see if Irena was following us; instead I saw Herr Meinhart disappearing into the bedroom, wielding a rifle.

  Gasping, I stopped short while Irena’s surprised, furious voice reached my ears.

  “What the hell? Get your hands off me!”

  She continued spluttering curses while Herr Meinhart’s angry voice joined hers, and she stumbled into the hall, half-asleep. Herr Meinhart had secured one arm behind her back, and he prodded her along with his rifle. Her pistol was at his belt. As he shoved Irena into the living room, both still yelling, I swallowed hard against my dry throat.

  It was over. They knew the truth, and now we were at their mercy; they’d kill us or turn us over to the closest SS man they could find.

  No, we’d sacrificed too much to let it come to this. Ignoring the possibility of being shot, I struggled against Frau Meinhart’s firm hold. I would break free, I would get to Irena, and we would run. For so long, death had been in constant pursuit, nipping at our heels while we eluded its grasp. This was not the day we would succumb.

  While I thrashed, Frau Meinhart’s grasp tightened. “Shhh, it’s all right, dear,” she said in soothing Polish.

  At this, I stopped fighting. The firm grip must have been meant to protect me, not restrain me, and she was murmuring reassurance. And now, as I assessed the situation, I realized Herr Meinhart’s gun was pointed at Irena, only Irena.

  “Filthy Nazi,” he spat as he forced her to the nearest chair. “Shut up and sit down.”

  We hadn’t been found out—on the contrary, we’d been convincing. But we were wrong about this couple. They may have been Volksdeutsche, but despite appearances they weren’t Nazi sympathizers.

  “Don’t worry, you’re safe now,” Frau Meinhart said to me, still speaking Polish. Maybe she believed my native tongue would calm me. She consulted her husband and directed a murderous look toward Irena. “What are we going to do with her?”

  “Exactly what needs to be done.”
Herr Meinhart poked Irena with the rifle barrel. “Outside.”

  “Listen, you stupid bastard, if you touch me with that gun again—”

  I opened my mouth to protest, but before I could, Frau Meinhart shushed me and gave my back a comforting pat. “You poor girl. I can’t imagine what you’ve been through, but you’re not in danger, do you understand? We won’t hurt you, and she’ll never hurt you again.”

  “Hurt her?” Irena asked with a scoff. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, so take your hands off her before I take them off myself.”

  I made another attempt to reason with them, but it was no use. My words were lost in the uproar of arguing voices. Amid the shouts, the front door swung open, ushering in a burst of cold air. Everyone fell silent, and a young man stepped across the threshold. He didn’t bother to take in the scene before him as he shook snow off his belongings, hung his hat and overcoat on the hat stand, and voiced an absentminded query.

  “Why the hell is everyone yelling?”

  At the sound of his voice, Irena leaned forward to get a better look. “Franz?”

  The young man lifted his head, and he scrutinized her as he crossed the room. “Irena? Is that you?”

  Herr Meinhart placed a hand on Franz’s chest, stopping him before he got too close. “You know this Nazi bitch?”

  “Tell these morons I’m not a Nazi.”

  “Right. Irena, meet these morons, Hermann and Margrit Meinhart,” Franz said, as his amused smile blossomed in full. “My parents.”

  Her cheeks turned bright red, and she ran a flustered hand through her hair. “Good Lord,” she muttered.

  “Papa, Mutti, allow me to introduce this Nazi bitch, Irena, who isn’t a Nazi bitch at all. She went undercover to help a friend escape from Auschwitz. She contacted the German resistance for help to infiltrate the SS-Helferin, and I was her primary connection while I was spending more time in Berlin helping Elsa—my sister, heavily involved in the German resistance alongside her husband,” he supplied for me. “We prepared Irena, then she entered the SS-Helferin training base north of Berlin near a village called Ravensbrück, home to a women’s concentration camp of the same name. And this—” Franz paused as he looked at me again. “I assume she’s the friend.”