“Irena, is that you?” her mother called urgently from the bedroom.
“Just a minute.” Irena opened their meager pantry and removed a half loaf of stale bread. She unwrapped it from a brown paper container and turned the food over and over, picking off mold and throwing the discarded crumbs into a nearby pail. Inspecting the bread a final time, she bit deeply into the end, ripping off a chunk and chewing greedily. Her arms trembled, and she drew a deep breath, relishing the taste. She gulped down a little musty water from a cup, washing down the food.
“Irena?” Her mother called out again. “What are you doing in there? I need you.”
She shook her head, setting the food down and turning to refill the cup. She reached back into the cupboard and removed several pills from a bottle. Tearing a third of the remaining loaf off, she hurried into the bedroom where her mother lay, waiting intently for her. Irena lowered the cup so she could drink.
“Ach!” her mother sputtered. “Warm again. I brought you into this world. Can’t you do me the courtesy of running the water for half a minute before you fill the mug?”
“The water’s fine,” said Irena, dropping the pills into her mouth. Helping her mother drink again, she tore bits of the bread and fed them to her. Her mother consumed the scarce meal in a matter of moments.
“Is that all?” she asked.
“All for now. I’ll try to bring you more tonight.”
Her mother’s eyes widened. “Surely you’re not leaving me again?”
“The Germans are here. I have to go.”
“The Germans! Then you must stay. What will happen to me?”
“Honestly, Mother,” Irena said with a laugh. “Do you think the Nazis are interested in us? They’ve plenty to keep them busy.”
Her mother shook her head in disapproval. “Your place is here with me. Your father would never have left me like this.”
“I’ll only be gone an hour or two.”
Her mother’s hands rose slightly from the sheets as if in surrender. “If you insist on leaving me, at least help me take a bath before you go.”
“I’ll bathe you when I get back.”
“Always later!” Her mother shouted now. Her cheeks were mottled scarlet and her feet moved back and forth rapidly under the sheets. “I’ve been lying here in my own dirt for a week. You barely feed me, hardly take me to the toilet. I’ve nothing to do and nobody to help me.”
Irena paused. What difference was a couple of hours? She wanted to change her clothes and leave. Her frustration consumed her. “Fine,” she snapped. “A quick bath and then I’m going back out.”
She helped her mother out of bed and pulled her to the bathroom. She started the water and then assisted her in removing her clothes and stepping gingerly into the bath. She counted seconds in her head while her mother slowly cleaned herself. When she reached ten minutes, she reached down and pulled the plug.
“Why did you do that?” her mother demanded.
“You’ve had your bath. I told you, I need to go.”
Her mother turned her head away, refusing to look at Irena. “I don’t even know what to say to you.”
Irena pulled her up and wiped her down with a towel. “There’s nothing that needs to be said. I’ll see you when I get back.”
She left the flat as quickly as she was able, checking her watch as she went. Two hours! She’d meant to stay for a few minutes, and now much of the day was gone. Would she even be allowed outside? If the Germans set a curfew, would she be stuck somewhere? It would serve her mother right if she was unable to return until the morning.
She reached the downstairs and stepped outside. The sun was already low in the sky. The streets were near deserted again, distant figures scurrying this way and that. At the corner of the nearest intersection she saw a lone German soldier, marching slowly back and forth, his rifle shouldered. An elderly gentleman passed him. Irena wondered if he would be stopped, but the German kept walking past, ignoring the man.
Irena started toward Ewa’s and then stopped herself. If there was a curfew, she’d never make it. She felt her anger rising again. Shaking off her emotions, she turned and headed instead toward her office. She could make it there with time to spare, and if she was stuck by a curfew, there was a kitchen and a few cots on the upper floor. She could remain there in relative comfort until the morning, and work through the night as long as she was able to stay awake. As she walked she thought of the Germans and her anger increased.
She would get her supplies back! She was going to confront the Nazis and demand her provisions. This thought filled her with energy and fire. She increased her pace, plans ripping through her mind as she raced to keep up with her scheme. She thought of contacts, government officials and professors she knew with enough influence to get her an audience with the authorities, the new authorities, that is. Somebody would be able to help her. Once she found the right German, she would tell them her story and ask that the food be returned to her.
What difference could it make? a voice in her mind asked. It’s only one meal, perhaps two. Then they’ll all be back to starving. She shook her head. It didn’t matter. She would focus on this meal. The next one was tomorrow’s problem.
She neared her office, rushing up the concrete stairs and toward the door. She didn’t even see the guard until she’d nearly run him over.
“Halt!” the soldier demanded, raising a rifle in her direction. She froze, her heart in her throat, petrified, her life at risk for the second time in a day.
“I’m sorry,” she responded, searching for the words. “I work here. I just need to go into the office.” She took a step forward.
“Nein!” the soldier shouted, raising the rifle to his shoulder. “Es ist verboten!”
“I don’t understand,” she responded, raising her arms and speaking as softly as possible, hoping to calm the German down. “I work here. This is a welfare office. What could you be guarding?”
“Orders are orders, Fräulein. Now turn and go!”
“But the curfew. Is there a curfew?”
“Go!” he screamed, and his hand drew the bolt back, cocking a bullet into place.
She turned and fled down the stairs, tears streaming from her eyes, her breath coming in short spurts. She hurried away into the growing darkness, fear and rage stalking her.
* * *
Irena stumbled to a stop a few blocks away from her office. She fought to catch her breath, the fear coursing through her. She looked down the street in both directions, searching for Germans. The streetlights were out. The darkness enveloped her. She strained her eyes, trying to see. She glimpsed shadows moving, black shapes in the blackness. They were everywhere around her. They must be Germans, perhaps searching for her. She lurched across the street, trying to see, moving away from the specters. She didn’t know where to go. Ewa’s flat was too far away. She’d never make it. She had to try to somehow navigate back home. Her mother’s words echoed through her mind. She’d been right, she had no business going back out here. Then again, if her mother hadn’t forced a delay she could have gone and returned in the daylight. Perhaps the office wouldn’t even have been guarded earlier. No, she hadn’t been wrong to leave, but she’d departed too late.
She crossed another street and another. The darkness was her friend now. If the streetlamps were illuminated, she would surely be caught. A figure passed her the other way, bumping into her violently. She gave out a shriek of surprise and pain, but the shape moved rapidly on. Another Pole, she realized.
She continued, feeling her way along the buildings from street to street. She couldn’t see the signs posted on the side of the corner buildings, but she’d walked this route thousands of times and knew the distance by heart. She was halfway back now. She felt the panic departing, replaced by a growing calm and a determination to make it back to her building. She was already mapping out a new plan—one without access to her office. She knew where her supervisor lived, along with many of her coworkers. She wou
ld visit them tomorrow during the day, find out what the new situation was, and determine the next steps to getting her food back. She couldn’t wait to tell Ewa what had happened today. They should invite Ala Golab-Grynberg to hear as well. Ala didn’t work directly with them, but she would be furious.
She passed another street and another. Just a few more to go now. She reached the corner of Ludwicki Street and started to cross when she saw him. A German soldier standing right in the middle of the street. He was staring at her, although he had not raised his rifle. Her heart thundered in her chest. She was so close to home and she wasn’t going to make it. She stood there for long moments, waiting for the inevitable.
He nodded his head slightly, waving for her to pass. She couldn’t believe her fortune, but she wasn’t about to stop and ask him why he was letting her go. She hurried past and scurried down the sidewalk, rushing along past the last couple of blocks. She was moving too fast, reckless in the darkness, but she didn’t want to run into another guard, one who wouldn’t show mercy. She reached the front door, pushing through into the dim corridor. The bare bulb seemed as bright as the sun after the terrifying journey through the blackness. She took a deep breath, calming herself down. She made her way upstairs to her flat, collecting her emotions. She felt a surge of joy, of triumph. She’d stayed out past curfew. She’d walked the streets where they now ruled the world, but they had not stopped her. She was alive.
She reached her door. She thought of her mother. Her anger rose again. Perhaps it wasn’t fair, but the truth was her mother’s delay had put her in the darkness, had risked her life. The bath could easily have waited, but her mother had made her feel guilty. This was not going to happen again. She squared herself, ready for a confrontation.
Irena opened the door, pushing through and marching into the flat with purpose. “Mother!” she shouted. “We need to talk right now!”
She stopped. Her mother sat on the sofa in a nightgown, a blanket draped over her shoulders. It was unusual for her to be out of bed, but that wasn’t what caught her attention. Standing near her were three German soldiers, pistols in hands.
“Frau Sendler,” one of them said. “We need you to come with us immediately.”
She was under arrest.
Chapter 3
Captured
September 27, 1939
Warsaw, Poland
The Germans rushed Irena into a waiting car. She was shoved violently into the back seat. Soldiers wedged in on both sides of her. She couldn’t move. She could see the eyes of the driver through the rearview mirror. He was watching her, smiling with a sardonic lilt of his eyebrows. Another soldier, a lieutenant, jumped into the front passenger seat, turned toward Irena, and fastened a blindfold around her eyes, jerking the knot severely. She could not see, and the cloth was secured so tightly her head felt like it would explode.
The car tore off into the night, jerking this way and that, speeding through the streets of Warsaw. She couldn’t measure time like this. She felt the sway of the car, heard the rattle of the engine, a cough. She smelled stale breath, leather. She couldn’t move. She was frozen by fear. Her mouth was dry and a bitter taste coated her tongue. She wanted to ask where they were going, why they had taken her, but she couldn’t summon the courage to do so.
The car shuddered to a stop. Doors opened, and she heard rapid barked commands. Hands clutched her arms and tore her out of the back seat. She was led, stumbling, pushed and pulled. The guards dragged her down a flight of stairs. The floor was hard, like concrete or tile. She heard a door open and she was shoved forward. Hands forced her down. She cried out, her mind spinning, expecting to crash to the ground, but she stopped midway. A chair, she realized. Her arms were drawn back, and ropes tied around her wrists. The blindfold was torn off. She blinked as harsh light stabbed her eyes. She couldn’t see for long moments.
When she focused she took in her surroundings. She sat in a bare room. A concrete floor met bare wooden walls. A single lightbulb hung from the ceiling, dangling in the air a few feet above her. There were no pictures, no table—no furniture of any kind, in fact. She was alone in the room. She tried to move her hands, but it was useless. They were secured so tightly that she could not even shift them a fraction of a centimeter. Her arms pricked with stinging needles of pain.
She sat there for what felt like hours. Her mind was a cocktail of fear and exhaustion. She heard a piercing shriek. The sound was muffled, but she knew it must be coming from a nearby room. Deep voices shouted, and the scream repeated over and over. She felt the blood pulse through her wrists, up her arms, the throb coursing to her temples with each ragged beat. The hollering continued, agonizing, minute by minute.
The door tore open. She shook and gasped, surprised by the abrupt movement. A soldier entered, carrying a wooden chair. He brought it over and placed the seat directly in front of Irena, a scarce meter away. He stood watching her for a moment, a grin on his face. He lunged at her and Irena heard herself scream. The soldier threw his head back in laughter and he left the room. She could see into the hallway now, but there was nothing to observe. Another bare wooden wall, more concrete. The space felt like a basement of some kind.
Two Germans stepped through the doorway. The first was enormous. He was two meters tall at least. His uniform fit tightly across his chest. He had a boyish, cherub-like face. His legs seemed too small to support his upper body, as if he would topple over at any moment. He could be scarcely twenty. The boy, for that’s what he seemed, moved quickly to the side, making way for an officer who marched abruptly into the room.
The leader was the opposite of the young man in every way. He was middle-aged, handsome, with chiseled cheeks and peppered brown hair. He was medium height with a muscular, trim build beneath a tailored uniform. He stepped with a measured grace, his steel-gray eyes never leaving Irena as he removed his cap, handed it to the giant, and stepped to the chair directly in front of her. He sat down and began thumbing through a thin folder, his eyes moving rapidly over the contents of the file.
“Irena Sendler,” he read. “Social worker. Father a socialist and well-known supporter of the Jews. Married to a Mietek Sendler but estranged. A socialist herself, she may even have communist leanings.” He stared at her for a moment. “Is that true, Frau Sendler? Are you a Bolshevik?”
Irena was stunned. She took long moments to answer. “I’m sorry, sir, but how do you know any of that? How do you know anything about me? You’ve been here a day.”
He shrugged. “We started compiling information about the Polish government months ago. We are German. We don’t leave things to the last minute and we don’t leave things to chance.” He leaned forward. “You didn’t answer my question. Are you a communist?”
She turned her head, emotions ripping through her. The Russians had betrayed them, joined the Germans. She owed them nothing. “No,” she responded.
“Are you sure?”
“I’m very sure,” she said, her voice finding strength.
“I have a report you were attempting to smuggle food into the city. Explain yourself.”
How did he know that? How did he know so much about her? She was a lowly functionary, a pawn so many levels down in the organization of the Polish government that she was scarce worth taking notice of, yet this German not only knew who she was, but details about her family, and even what she was doing this morning!
“I. . .” She decided she would tell the truth. “I was organizing food from the countryside for distribution to the poor. Our welfare system was disrupted by the war, by your bombing. I was working to renew it. The wagons that were confiscated yesterday were the first shipment in weeks. Everything was going forward until your men took my food away. People will starve because of that.”
His eyes pierced through her. “You? Why you? Shouldn’t that decision have been made by someone higher up?”
“I obtained approval from my supervisor.”
“But it was your plan. You insisted?”
/> “Yes.”
He removed a pen from a pocket and jotted down some notes. He worked away for ten minutes, reading and rereading what he’d written. Finally, he turned the document around and showed Irena. “If this is correct, you will sign at the bottom.”
She read the statement, which accurately reported what she had told him. “I can’t sign,” she said.
“You refuse?”
“My hands,” she said, shifting her arms a fraction.
He looked down as if noticing for the first time that her arms were tied. “What’s this nonsense? Peter Schwarzmann.”
The giant drew a dagger from his belt and moved behind Irena. She felt a sharp tug and her hands were released. She drew her arms up, rubbing the wrists as the assistant fumbled with his oversized fingers, removing the ropes. She felt the blood return painfully to her hands; she moved them back and forth until the stinging subsided.
“You will sign,” he repeated.
She looked at the document again, taking it and the pen into her hands. She noticed that in large letters at the bottom she was asserting she was not a communist. Why did he want her to sign this? She decided to ask him.
“That is not for you to worry about, Frau Sendler. I ask the questions here. Now I must respectfully request that you either sign the document or inform me that you refuse.”
She hesitated a moment longer and then, seeing no reason to decline, she signed and dated the paper.
He seemed relieved that she had done so. “Good, good,” he said, pulling the document back and tucking the pen into his pocket. “Frau Sendler, I am authorized to offer you a position with us.”
With us? Was he mad? She could never work for the fascists. “I’m sorry sir, I don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t worry, Frau Sendler. I’m not asking anything nefarious. We must keep order, you see. All the social systems and infrastructure must be maintained. We want you to keep doing what you were doing before. Get the food distribution systems up and running again. You will have a free hand, all the food you need, and our full support.”
Irena's War Page 3
