The snap comes out before I can stop it, but I can’t fathom why I’ve done it, why I’ve demonstrated such blatant insolence toward Fritzsch, of all guards.

“Forgive me, Herr Lagerführer.”

I swallow the words back, but it’s too late. My tongue has betrayed me. He’s not my superior, I know he’s not, but my mind debates me and claims Fritzsch holds the power. It’s not true, not anymore . . .

Closing my eyes to sort through the chaos does little good. The lines between memory and reality are blurred and indistinguishable.

When I hear Fritzsch shifting in his seat, I open my eyes to find him studying me. He gestures to the board, indicating that I should proceed, so I select my pawn and capture one of his in the center of the board. This time, when I hear his chuckles, I make sure the fury stays contained before I look up. Control is essential if I’m going to play my best.

“You play with such intensity,” he says. “You treat chess as if every move were a matter of life or death.”

There’s no point in pretending I missed the jab, but I won’t yield to it. Instead I sit back and pick up the two pawns I’ve captured so far, occupying my hands, hoping it will keep the quivers away.

Chapter 8

Auschwitz, 17 June 1941

HARSH SEARCHLIGHTS ATOP the guard towers pierced the dark, ominous sky to illuminate the roll-call square surrounded by Blocks 16, 17, and the camp kitchen. It wasn’t time for roll call yet, but Fritzsch had summoned me anyway. When I arrived, he’d already set up the chessboard a few meters away from the wooden shelter booth near the kitchen, and various guards were gathered to watch.

“Check. Your move, 16671.”

The sound of Fritzsch’s voice broke my concentration, and I combatted a twinge of frustration. I knew it was my move, but I forced the response he was waiting to hear. “Yes, Herr Lagerführer.”

A thin haze of cigarette smoke hovered in the air, acrid and oppressive. The guards formed a circle around us, some watching in tense silence, others conversing and predicting our next moves. I their circus act; they my ringmasters.

On my side of the board, my white king was surrounded by a strong defense, but I needed to get out of check. As I moved my king one space to the left, the searchlights fell across a faded bruise on my wrist. My bruises from Gestapo interrogation had almost disappeared, and I’d watched them transition through various shades of yellow, purple, blue, and black. A sad, twisted part of me wished they’d never heal. They were a physical reminder of my last days with my family. Now even that was being taken from me.