“BUT WHY CAN’T IT GO three and then one?” I ask.
“Because, Misha, those are the rules,” Father says. “The knight is only allowed to move two spaces and then one more. Or one and then two.”
“Chess has too many rules. I’m sick of rules. Why can’t we just play Chinese checkers?”
Father looks over at Mother, who’s sitting on the armchair, sewing up holes in our socks. We used to just buy new ones. We used to just do a lot of things. Like walk along the river, but even that’s not allowed anymore. The best place in Prague, and they took that away too.
Somehow she senses Father looking at her, and her eyes lift up from the blue sock she’s working on. She shrugs her shoulders.
“Misha.” Father turns back to me at the kitchen table where we’re sitting. “I tell you what, ten more minutes of chess and then we’ll play whatever game you’d like. How does that sound?”
“It’s too complicated,” I say, picking up one of my pawns and trying to stack it on top of another. Of course it falls, taking out a few more pieces in the process.
“You’re right,” he answers, putting my pieces back in order. “It’s a very, very difficult game. But it is a beautiful game as well. And it will teach you to think, and that is—”
I try to listen to what he’s saying, I really do, but for some reason I can’t. And I was so happy this morning, when I got him to agree to be home by four o’clock to play with me. That’s been the only good thing about all the changes around here. More time with Father. I was sure we’d play cards, or something I’m good at. But lately he always wants to play chess. Only it’s so hard.
“And why,” I interrupt him, “why if the king is the most important piece, why can it only move one space? I mean, what kind of king can barely move better than a pawn?”
Father picks up his queen. “How about this?” He places it off to the side. “I play without my queen.” If Marietta were home, maybe together we could convince him to play marriage, the best card game ever.
I turn to Mother for help, but all she says is, “Misha, do you know what kind of soccer player Andrej Puc—”
“Antonin,” I correct her, shaking my head and rolling my eyes.
Father gets up and walks to the sink, probably to see if he can get any more tea to come out of the bag he’s been using for two days now.
“Do you know what kind of soccer player Antonin Puc was when he started playing?”
“Huh?”
“A truly rotten one.”
Father laughs.
“Very funny. So?” I ask.
They’ve been ganging up on me like this a lot lately. “Misha,” Father says, returning to the table. “When I began studying law, I was completely overwhelmed. I couldn’t keep anything straight. And I was about to give up when—”
Two quick knocks at the door. Father stops talking. Mother stops sewing. I look back and forth between them, but neither of their faces will tell me anything.
“Should I get it?” I ask.
Two more knocks, louder this time.
Father places his mug on the table, walks to the door, and opens it. Two German officers fill up the doorway. Without asking, they step inside.
“Karl Gruenbaum?” the older of the two asks.
They’re enormous. Father barely comes up to the chin of either one. They wear identical, dark gray uniforms and shiny black boots that almost reach their knees. Each has a black iron cross on his chest, and the tips of their collars are decorated with two different patches. Each has a patch with two straight-lined S’s on it, or maybe they’re two lighting bolts.
SS officers. What are they doing here? And how can we get them to leave? For a moment my throat closes up, and I can’t breathe. I try to swallow, but carefully, so they won’t notice.
“Yes, sir. That’s me,” Father says, nodding his head slightly. I feel myself trying to do the same thing, but my head won’t move. And my effort to swallow only half worked, so I need to cough, but I don’t, deciding to hold my breath instead.
The one who spoke has another patch on his collar, with three small squares in a diagonal line on it, almost like you see on dice. The other one, younger and even bigger, has a patch with only one square in the middle. Their hats have some kind of eagle or something near the top, and below that what I’m pretty sure is a skull.
Without moving his head, the younger one steadily passes his eyes over our whole apartment. When they get to me, they don’t stop at all. Like I’m just a piece of furniture or something.
I decide to straighten out my pieces, even though they’re already in order. I try exhaling through my nose, and it actually works. Thankfully, I don’t need to cough anymore either.
“Come with us,” the first officer says.
I wait for Father to say something, to ask a question, to talk his way out of this. He’s the smartest person in the world, and these Nazis, well, they’re big, but they don’t look too bright. Why doesn’t he invite them to sit down? Mother and I could take a walk and leave them alone so they can talk here.
But Father doesn’t say anything, just walks to the closet and gets his jacket. After he puts it on, he fixes his plain white collar and tightens his tie. He looks at Mother the entire time, but neither says a word. After he finishes with his tie, he does nothing for a few seconds. Nothing at all. Just stands there, almost smiling. Meanwhile, the SS officers seem like they’re growing by the second. And those are definitely skulls on their hats.
I turn my head to Mother. She’s holding the needle and thread in midair, her hands not moving at all.
I’m about to say I’ll play chess with Father for as long as he wants, but he speaks first.
The three of them turn around and walk out. Father closes the door behind them. I listen to their footsteps going down the stairs. Why didn’t I hear them on the way up?
Then it’s quiet.
“Well,” Mother says after a few long seconds, “I can finish this later. How about . . . how about some Chinese checkers?”
“Where’s Father going?” I ask.
“I’m not sure,” she answers. “But I’m sure . . .” Mother walks over to the sink and gets herself some water. After she finishes drinking, she still stands there for a little while longer, her back to me the whole time. “I’m sure,” she says, and walks over to me, “he’ll tell us all about it once he gets back.”
“Is he in trouble?”
Mother combs her fingers through my hair, even though she knows I don’t like it.
“Is he?”
“Now why would Father be in trouble?” she asks, and walks to the closet, which is still open. She disappears inside it for a while, which is weird because I know she knows exactly where we keep the Chinese checkers. Plus there’s not all that much stuff in there to begin with. Eventually she comes out with the box in her hands. “So?” She smiles. “What color would you like to be?”
I’m about to say blue when I notice the queen, stranded at the edge of the table. It might be the strongest piece, but suddenly it seems so helpless over there, with nothing but a mug of weak tea to keep it company.