Irena nodded. “This is Maria.”
The five of us stood in silence, though Franz seemed thoroughly entertained. At last Herr Meinhart lowered his rifle while Frau Meinhart released me. Still, none of us moved.
“Well, this isn’t what I expected upon coming home from my night shift at the hospital. And finding my father holding you at gunpoint isn’t how I envisioned introducing you to my parents, Irena,” Franz said, his wide grin bringing dimples to his cheeks.
“You’re certain this is the same girl you met, Franz?” Herr Meinhart asked. “And you’re certain she’s not a Nazi?”
“Completely.”
“You didn’t see what we saw last night,” Frau Meinhart said. “I don’t trust her.”
Franz sighed. “For God’s sake, Mutti, if she’d behaved in a way that made you trust her, she wouldn’t have been a very convincing Nazi, would she?”
Frau Meinhart seemed unsettled by this logic. She didn’t protest, but she didn’t look convinced, either, and neither did her husband. Even though his gun was lowered, he hadn’t relaxed his arm, and he hadn’t returned Irena’s pistol.
I stepped forward. “I understand how this looks, but it’s true. No one has sacrificed more for me than Irena has.”
Silence followed. Herr and Frau Meinhart exchanged glances. At last he allowed Irena to stand, though he stayed between her and Franz. He handed her the pistol, and she reluctantly accepted it.
With a satisfied nod, Franz addressed Irena. “How did you get here?”
When she acknowledged him, an unspoken accusation resided within her steely gaze—but, if I knew Irena, it wouldn’t remain unspoken for long. “You’re a damn Volksdeutsch? All three of you are registered, aren’t you?”
He clenched his jaw while a flicker of guilt and disgust crossed his face. “Our choices were to acknowledge our German ethnicity or be branded traitors and persecuted.”
“And you’d rather be branded traitors by the Polish untermenschen instead of the Nazis.”
“If that’s how I felt, would I have spent most of the war helping the German and Polish resistance organizations? Neither I nor my parents wanted to sign the Deutsche Volksliste, but church and resistance leaders said to do it for our safety.”
“Well, thank God you could hide behind your heritage,” Irena said with a scathing laugh. “Others weren’t so damn fortunate.”
A thick silence followed her words. I sensed all eyes on me. None lingered, but I felt like I was in the middle of a selection. Their scrutiny was suffocating, and I could hear the SS doctors ordering me to turn, lift my arms, open my mouth—
“Maria, we’re leaving.”
The gruff voices faded, the clothes returned to my body, a bit of anxiety vanished. I’d been spared. This time.
Irena marched past Franz without looking at him, but she didn’t wait for me to follow before slamming the door behind her.
* * *
When ten minutes had passed and Irena hadn’t returned, I persuaded Franz to let me talk to her before he did. Outside, the early morning sun lent its soft golden hue to the fresh snow that covered the house, barn, fields, and trees. The pastoral scene should have filled me with tranquility, but, as I crossed toward the wood pile where Irena was sitting, I was seized by a sudden unease. No one was ordering me to walk faster or shoving me toward my labor assignment, and I wasn’t sure what to make of the sensation.
I sat next to Irena, who didn’t acknowledge me. “Are we going to sit here until we freeze to death, or are we going to talk about your lovers’ quarrel?”
“There’s nothing to talk about, and it was not a lovers’ quarrel,” she said, glaring. “I knew you’d be obnoxious, which is exactly why I didn’t tell you about him.”
“A wise decision, lovesick idiot.”
Muttering a stream of expletives, Irena got up to walk away, but I grabbed her arm to prevent her departure. Falling quiet, though visibly annoyed, she sat while I cast jokes aside.
“I’m finished, I promise. Didn’t you know Franz was German?”
“Of course, but aside from that, I only knew his first name, because it wasn’t safe to share personal information. I assumed he was a German who didn’t support the Nazis. Instead, he’s an ethnic German who grew up in Poland and used his ethnicity to save his own ass.” She dug a hole in the snow with her booted foot, sighing. “I didn’t think he was a coward, that’s all. Or a traitor.”
“So are you, Frau Aufseherin.”
Irena stopped digging and stiffened. She waited, probably expecting me to retract my statement; instead I gestured to her uniform.
“You did this to help me, but you swore loyalty to the Third Reich and pretended to be a guard, didn’t you? If Franz is a traitor for being a Volksdeutsch who doesn’t actually support the Nazis, what does that make you?”
She opened her mouth, but no sound came out, so I made my final play.
“You even hit me.”
At that, Irena sprang to her feet. “If I hadn’t, we would’ve been killed, you know that—”
“Checkmate.”
She fell silent while her fury dissipated. “Dammit, Maria, you’re such an idiot,” she whispered, sinking back onto the log pile.
“Would you have listened to me otherwise?” I asked with a small smile, but I gave her hand an apologetic squeeze. “Now, are you going to make Franz get frostbite, too, or can we go back inside?”
We trudged to the farmhouse, where Frau Meinhart was scrambling eggs for breakfast while Herr Meinhart stoked the fire. Franz sat in the living room, then stood and waited for Irena. When she reached him, they didn’t speak.
“I guess I understand why you’re a damn Volksdeutsch,” Irena muttered at last.
He smirked. “That was the worst apology I’ve ever heard, but I’ll accept it.”
“Good Lord, don’t make me take it back,” she replied with a huff, but as she stepped away I saw the smile she was attempting to hide.
I drew closer to the fire, enjoying the heat prickling my skin. I’d forgotten what a real fire felt like, as opposed to the pathetic heaters that warmed our blocks. As I studied the dancing flames, I inhaled the smoky air, smelling of wood chips, but when I closed my eyes I choked on the familiar stench of singed hair and burning flesh—
“Maria, are you listening?”
Startled, I opened my eyes, and the reek went away. It took me a moment to comprehend where I was, though I couldn’t fathom why. Maybe because the memory hadn’t felt like a memory at all. The realization was as chilling and brutal as a winter night in Birkenau.
When I turned to face Irena and Franz, they looked as if they were wondering what had been on my mind. Thank goodness they didn’t ask.
“I’m going back to the hospital to get a few things,” Franz continued. “You’re not the first resistance member or escaped inmate my contacts have directed here, though you are the first to stumble upon us by chance.” He flashed a little smile. “Some of my colleagues at the hospital can be trusted, but it’s best we keep you hidden.”
I nodded, combatting an unsteady breath. First I was an inmate, now a fugitive.
After putting his hat and overcoat back on, Franz crossed toward Irena, caught her waist, and pulled her into a kiss—one she returned with the same enthusiasm. “Well done,” he murmured, glancing at me before releasing her.
As the door closed behind him, she met my small smile. This time she returned it.
Frau Meinhart joined us. “Elsa’s old clothes are in the room where you stayed last night, so you can change while you wait for Franz. You’ll find a suitable selection.”
Not selection, anything but selection.
Irena was already unbuttoning her jacket, seeming eager to shed her uniform and never touch it again. I followed her to the bedroom. From a crude little wooden dresser, she picked a skirt and blouse for herself and tossed a few options onto the bed for me. I surveyed the dresses, blouses, skirts, and trousers, knowing none would fi
t me, feeling as if I were sifting through organized goods. Before making my choice, I pulled Irena’s crucifix from under my uniform and unfastened the chain, then I touched her shoulder to get her attention. When she faced me, I placed the necklace in her palm. Her breath caught in her throat. She stared at it in disbelief and traced a gentle finger over the crucifix before fastening it around her neck.
We continued changing, and I removed my striped uniform.
Behind me, Irena gasped.
There was a full-length mirror in this room, something I’d been too exhausted to notice last night. Now I studied the reflection I found. A slight form, every bone exposed, covered in various bruises, scars, cuts, and insect bites. Blue-gray skin; small, deflated circles where breasts should have been. A shaved head that made the ears stand out. A sharp jaw, small nose, concave cheeks, jutting cheekbones, and thin lips within a gaunt, sallow face absorbed by sunken eyes. Eyes that were haunted and vacant, but also bright, almost wild and desperate, clinging to the shreds of life that remained. And on the left arm, an arm that looked as fragile as a bird’s wing, were five round scars and a tattooed number, 16671.
I hadn’t seen my reflection since I was fourteen, but the number proved that this figure looking back at me was me. Maybe I should have felt something, but I felt nothing. This figure was no different from every other figure I’d seen during the past few years.
But it wasn’t my emaciated form that had made Irena gasp. Her horror was concentrated upon my back, so I turned and craned my neck, getting a first look at them myself.
My flogging scars. Some were pinker than others, some long, some short, some thick and raised, others thin and less protruding. The gruesome web covered me from shoulders to lower back. The scars were hideous, but, at the sight, I smiled. Father Kolbe.
My body told the story of my life during the past few years. I was feeble and broken, a shell of a human, but when I looked at these scars I saw life. My life. The life I’d almost given up.
I folded my striped uniform and placed it on the bed. Then I donned a simple dress, which hung on my body like a sheet.
Irena stepped closer, so I allowed her to take my wrist. She rotated my forearm upward and brushed her thumb over my prisoner number. When she spoke, her voice was hardly audible.
“We did it, Maria. You’re alive, you’re safe, and you’re free.”
Alive. Safe. Free. Simple words, words that had once seemed nothing but a distant memory. Now that they’d become my reality again, I expected to feel joy or relief, but I didn’t feel any different. Just tired and hungry, as usual.
Maybe when I was truly free, those words would evoke some sort of feeling, but I wasn’t truly free yet. I was away from Auschwitz, but I’d made vows while I was there. To live, fight, and survive; to reunite Hania with her children, find Karl Fritzsch, and get justice for my family. Until I’d done those things, my business was unfinished. The game wasn’t over.
Someday I’d be free, and someday that word would bring me the proper peace and comfort it was supposed to bring. But not today.
* * *
While we waited for Franz, I settled in bed at Irena’s insistence. She stayed in the room with me—perhaps afraid I would return to the floor if she left—and I nestled into the pillows. I hadn’t had a pillow in almost four years.
When Franz returned, he announced that he had brought a fellow resistance member and hospital employee who often helped his family care for those taking refuge with them. And when his companion entered the room, my heart thudded in a way I had almost forgotten possible. The new arrival came to a sudden stop, as he had on that day before dropping his bicycle alongside the road and falling into step with me. A stupid boy drawn to an imprisoned girl, he was now a young man and resistance member; I in many ways was that same girl, shackled to guilt and grief yet finding in him an unexpected refuge.
I was acutely aware of the stark contrasts in our appearance. Me, starved, bruised, and barely alive, and him, a tall, broad young man whose deep blue eyes sparkled with vivacity. But, if he was as distracted by our differences as I was, he didn’t show it. He looked at me as he always had—as if I was more than a number.
I gave him a small smile. “It’s good to see you, Maciek.”
After exchanging introductions and pleasantries, Irena left to fetch me a glass of water and Franz went to wash his hands before tending to me. The door had hardly closed behind them before Mateusz sat on the edge of my bed, regarding me with such rapt attention it was almost daunting.
“I was sworn to secrecy, otherwise I would have told you my additional reasons for moving to Pszczyna,” he began. “Franz asked me to work with him in caring for resistance members and escaped inmates sheltering with his parents. I couldn’t pass up the opportunity, and I thought he might help me get you out. When I gave him your name and prisoner number, he informed me that he was already working with a young woman from Warsaw who planned to smuggle the same prisoner out of the camp.”
My next breath was suddenly shaky, almost smelling of sweat and straw from our days in the weaving shop. He had left me only to try to liberate me.
“You helped me survive,” I said at last, my voice soft. “And I don’t mean by providing information or bread.”
His eyes met mine, two azure pools beneath dark lashes, ones I had spent many nights fearing I would never see again.
After a moment he passed a hand across the stubble on his chin. “Speaking of information, since I last wrote, I discovered more news about Fritzsch’s arrest. During the investigation, a former Auschwitz guard testified to various instances of corruption he’d witnessed. I don’t know details, but his testimony and a murder charge were the reasons Fritzsch was transferred to the front lines.”
A former guard who had witnessed Fritzsch’s wickedness and viewed it as such. I knew exactly who that was. Oskar, the middle-aged officer who told me about my family. He’d seen Fritzsch whipping me almost to death without following protocol. He’d seen Fritzsch forcing me to witness a private execution in Block 11 when prisoners were to witness only public hangings. He’d seen what Fritzsch did to my family. Though he had delivered his report to Höss after Fritzsch’s transfer, that report must have led to Oskar being called to testify at the trial, then to a verdict sentencing Fritzsch to the front.
Mateusz shifted, and the bed creaked. Even though I’d told him I was hunting Fritzsch because I was concerned he’d return to Auschwitz, I detected an uncertainty that was dangerously close to suspicion. Why had I ever thought he was a stupid boy? I couldn’t let him start asking questions, so I had to assuage his fears. He needed to believe I wasn’t connected to the corruption case. I was just a girl concerned about a cruel man. I took his hand.
“When you told me Fritzsch was under a corruption investigation, it didn’t surprise me. I’d seen him treat inmates poorly, even by SS standards. That’s why he scared me.”
Mateusz placed his free hand over mine. “You don’t have to worry about him anymore.”
“It’s not that simple,” I murmured. “The war isn’t over yet.”
“Fritzsch is still on the front lines far from here. He can’t get to you.”
There it was, the information I’d been hoping for. Fritzsch was still alive somewhere on the front lines. And now that I was free, I could move forward with my plans.
“If I write a letter, could your connections take it to Fritzsch?” I asked, before releasing Mateusz and hugging a pillow to my chest. “I need to hear directly from him that he’s on the front lines. I know it’s foolish, and I don’t expect a response, but I’d feel better if I tried.”
The more I lied to Mateusz about my intentions with Fritzsch, the more surprised I was when the lies didn’t concern me. I didn’t have any other choice. If I told the truth, I’d put Mateusz in jeopardy and risk losing his help; I’d lose my chance at justice for my family, Father Kolbe, and myself. And until I got justice, I wouldn’t go home. I couldn’t.
He gave me a small, reassuring smile. “It’s not foolish, Maria. One of the men in Fritzsch’s battalion has been working both sides and supplying a friend of mine with information. I’ll bring you paper, a pen, and an envelope for the letter, and once you’ve written it, they can help us get it to Fritzsch. Whatever it takes to help you find peace.”
Mateusz believed me. He always believed me.
Chapter 33
Pszczyna, 19 April 1945
A FEW SCATTERED WHITE clouds chased one another across the pale blue sky as the sun warmed my skin and a cool breeze tugged at my skirt. Grass stretched across the field, emerging after winter like the deep blond hair emerging on my head. I stretched out on the soft blanket and closed my eyes with a contented sigh.
Three months. I’d spent three months without forced labor, beatings, disease, and the constant threat of death, and it still didn’t feel real. Every morning I expected to wake up in Auschwitz. Every night sleep took me there.
When laughter reached my ears, I opened my eyes and rolled over toward the sound. Farther into the field, Irena held a line while Franz ran with a kite, its tail streaming in the wind. As the wind picked up, he released it, and the kite plummeted to the ground. Cursing, Franz tried again—they’d been at this for at least twenty minutes—but Irena was laughing too much to be of help, so he wrapped the line around her instead. Her laughter transformed into protests; even amid her complaints, she pulled him close and welcomed his lips against hers. They’d kissed in front of me many times, but this time I saw Protz’s arms around her, Irena’s reluctant lips against his, she squirming to escape his touch—
I blinked and dismissed the image. Disgusting.
Reminders of Auschwitz came when I least expected them. The thud of Herr Meinhart’s boots against the wooden floor, the smell of burning skin when Frau Meinhart suffered a minor cooking injury last week. Franz’s strong, heavy hand on my shoulder this morning, trying to get my attention, feeling too similar to the men whose hands found my shoulder before their fists found my face. A little while ago, Irena serving our picnic lunch, reminding me of measuring portions of organized food.
The Last Checkmate Page 29