Mama. Tata. Zofia. Karol. Father Kolbe.

We pause a few meters away from the wall, and I close my eyes. How I miss them.

“Oh, excuse me.” The apology comes from an American girl who had obscured my view in her efforts to photograph the wall. She steps back, seeming unaware that my eyes were closed anyway.

“It’s all right,” I reply in English, and her eyes widen. My English is decent, but despite the many years I’ve spent in America I can’t shake the heavy Polish accent that accompanies my words. Hania takes great pleasure in pretending that my English is as poor as my Yiddish.

The girl looks to my forearm, where I’ve unwittingly pushed up my sleeve to brush my fingers over my cigarette-burn scars. When she notices my tattoo, her eyes widen even more. I study her while she studies me. She’s so young.

“How old are you?”

Startled, she looks down, perhaps embarrassed to have been caught staring, but the gentleness in my tone must assure her I’m not angry. She tucks a loose strand of blond hair behind her ear and answers in a shy voice. “Fourteen.”

I run my thumb over my prisoner number, 16671. “So was I.”

The girl hovers near my family and watches as I approach the wall. Once there, I reach into my handbag and push aside the folded striped uniform. I usually keep it in a box at home, but I wanted it with me today. Beneath the familiar garment, I find what I’m looking for—a copy of the family portrait Irena saved so many years ago. On the back, I’ve written our names, birthdays, and the date of my family’s execution. I have their rosaries with me, too.

Some say the life I led for almost four years wasn’t a life at all, but I don’t believe that. It wasn’t a life I’d wish upon anyone, but it was still a life. My life. And my life was worth fighting for.

Even after all this time, it hasn’t felt over. Not really. But now, standing in this place, this place that was the most vicious opponent I’ve ever faced, the game I played here is drawing to an end. It’s time to make my final play.

I kneel and place my family portrait in front of the wall, and I weight it down with the remaining four rosaries and a pebble from my chess set. A pawn. I offer a prayer for my family, Father Kolbe, the Jews, and all who suffered and lost their lives during that terrible, terrible war. Irena and Hania join me on either side. As I take their hands and stand up, I wait for the headache, the trembles, the memories, but, for now, they don’t come.

Checkmate.

Author’s Note