adolescent.
“A member of the SS caught him yesterday evening near the barbed wire: Either he wanted to sneak out to get to the Aryan side or he was sneaking back in. Naturally, the soldier gave him a thrashing and the authorities sentenced him to death. The public execution was scheduled for this morning. But when I saw the adolescent’s wounds, I don’t know why, I suddenly felt a kind of pity for him, something I usually don’t feel. I lied to the SS commander. ‘This young Jew,’ I said to him, ‘surely belongs to a resistance movement. So I must question him. It’s part of my responsibilities. Once I’ve pried his secrets from him, I’ll hand him over to you.’ It was an argument that even an SS commander can’t refute. Therefore, thanks to me, your chess opponent, a young Jew, is still alive.”
“Alive for how long?”
“For a few hours, a few days.”
“And then?”
“Then he won’t suffer anymore.”
“Did you question him yet?”
“Not yet. I told the SS that he was too badly beaten and not in good enough condition to undergo our questioning.”
“And when he’s in a proper condition, then what?”
“Right now, he’s alive, whereas he could have died this morning,” replied the count, looking annoyed. “Be happy with that.”
My father, who was near me, intervened. “If the questioning lasts long enough, can’t we hope for a miracle?”
Friedrich von Waldensohn didn’t bother to answer.
The boy was hanged two days later. The count announced this to us while thinking about how to avoid a trap set by my bishop. He won the game.
One evening, my opponent arrived in a friendly mood, sat down on a stool and asked me to put the chessboard away.
“Not tonight. My head is elsewhere. I have bad news. The last Jews are going to be evacuated. The ghetto will be liquidated.”
“Do they know?” asked my father, downcast.
“No, they don’t.”
“Why not warn some of them? They might be able to escape and save their lives. There are so few left.”
“Perfectly useless,” said the count. “First of all, the ghetto is surrounded by SS and by the local fascists. It’s sealed. Secondly, because of my duties, I belong to a restricted circle of people who know the details of this kind of operation. If a single Jew is captured and says he knew of the upcoming liquidation, I would be in danger of being compromised. The investigation could lead to me. And then, what about your fate? Has that occurred to you? For my fellow officers, this is not a chessgame; for them, the Jewish problem is not a game. It excites their passions. They won’t know the joy of victory, even temporarily, as long as there is a single Jew alive somewhere.”
Nonetheless, shortly after the count left, Arele and my father went to the ghetto, first to warn the few friends who were still living there about the looming danger, and then, foolishly, in order to recite the Kaddish. Even young as I was, I tried in vain to dissuade them. In vain. My father was convinced that, knowing the area better than the enemy, he and Arele could make a quick round-trip successfully.
It was reckless and absurd on their part. At four in the morning they still had not returned. I felt like screaming with despair. How could I contact the count? He alone could save my father and my cousin.
He obviously knew about their initiative, for he came to see me very early in the morning and was furious, ready to punch me with his two lumberjack’s fists.
“What got into them? How could they ignore my warnings? Why did your father put his life in danger? Was it a fit of insanity?”
I didn’t bother explaining to him that my father couldn’t help wanting to come to the aid of the ghetto. And that he wanted to recite the Kaddish there.
A crazy thought went through my mind: Why didn’t I offer to play a game of chess with the count, stipulating that if I won, he would bring back my father and cousin. It
was
crazy, but I summoned the
“A member of the SS caught him yesterday evening near the barbed wire: Either he wanted to sneak out to get to the Aryan side or he was sneaking back in. Naturally, the soldier gave him a thrashing and the authorities sentenced him to death. The public execution was scheduled for this morning. But when I saw the adolescent’s wounds, I don’t know why, I suddenly felt a kind of pity for him, something I usually don’t feel. I lied to the SS commander. ‘This young Jew,’ I said to him, ‘surely belongs to a resistance movement. So I must question him. It’s part of my responsibilities. Once I’ve pried his secrets from him, I’ll hand him over to you.’ It was an argument that even an SS commander can’t refute. Therefore, thanks to me, your chess opponent, a young Jew, is still alive.”
“Alive for how long?”
“For a few hours, a few days.”
“And then?”
“Then he won’t suffer anymore.”
“Did you question him yet?”
“Not yet. I told the SS that he was too badly beaten and not in good enough condition to undergo our questioning.”
“And when he’s in a proper condition, then what?”
“Right now, he’s alive, whereas he could have died this morning,” replied the count, looking annoyed. “Be happy with that.”
My father, who was near me, intervened. “If the questioning lasts long enough, can’t we hope for a miracle?”
Friedrich von Waldensohn didn’t bother to answer.
The boy was hanged two days later. The count announced this to us while thinking about how to avoid a trap set by my bishop. He won the game.
One evening, my opponent arrived in a friendly mood, sat down on a stool and asked me to put the chessboard away.
“Not tonight. My head is elsewhere. I have bad news. The last Jews are going to be evacuated. The ghetto will be liquidated.”
“Do they know?” asked my father, downcast.
“No, they don’t.”
“Why not warn some of them? They might be able to escape and save their lives. There are so few left.”
“Perfectly useless,” said the count. “First of all, the ghetto is surrounded by SS and by the local fascists. It’s sealed. Secondly, because of my duties, I belong to a restricted circle of people who know the details of this kind of operation. If a single Jew is captured and says he knew of the upcoming liquidation, I would be in danger of being compromised. The investigation could lead to me. And then, what about your fate? Has that occurred to you? For my fellow officers, this is not a chessgame; for them, the Jewish problem is not a game. It excites their passions. They won’t know the joy of victory, even temporarily, as long as there is a single Jew alive somewhere.”
Nonetheless, shortly after the count left, Arele and my father went to the ghetto, first to warn the few friends who were still living there about the looming danger, and then, foolishly, in order to recite the Kaddish. Even young as I was, I tried in vain to dissuade them. In vain. My father was convinced that, knowing the area better than the enemy, he and Arele could make a quick round-trip successfully.
It was reckless and absurd on their part. At four in the morning they still had not returned. I felt like screaming with despair. How could I contact the count? He alone could save my father and my cousin.
He obviously knew about their initiative, for he came to see me very early in the morning and was furious, ready to punch me with his two lumberjack’s fists.
“What got into them? How could they ignore my warnings? Why did your father put his life in danger? Was it a fit of insanity?”
I didn’t bother explaining to him that my father couldn’t help wanting to come to the aid of the ghetto. And that he wanted to recite the Kaddish there.
A crazy thought went through my mind: Why didn’t I offer to play a game of chess with the count, stipulating that if I won, he would bring back my father and cousin. It
was
crazy, but I summoned the
Similar Books
