Books by James D. Shipman
TASK FORCE BAUM
IRENA’S WAR
Published by Kensington Publishing Corp.
IRENA’S WAR
JAMES D. SHIPMAN
KENSINGTON BOOKS
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1 - War
Chapter 2 - Endings and Beginnings
Chapter 3 - Captured
Chapter 4 - A New Poland
Chapter 5 - Irena Rising
Chapter 6 - A Confrontation
Chapter 7 - Closing In
Chapter 8 - He’s Here
Chapter 9 - A World Away
Chapter 10 - A Problem of Calories
Chapter 11 - Crossing the Rubicon
Chapter 12 - New Ventures
Chapter 13 - Kaji
Chapter 14 - Eyes from the Mountaintop
Chapter 15 - Betrayed
Chapter 16 - Escape
Chapter 17 - The Dance of the Umschlagplatz
Chapter 18 - A New Plan
Chapter 19 - New Friends
Chapter 20 - A Desperate Chance
Chapter 21 - Tea in Hell
Chapter 22 - The End
Chapter 23 - Empty Jaws
Chapter 24 - Rise Up
Chapter 25 - The Bright Light
Chapter 26 - A Desperate Plan
Chapter 27 - A Flight in Darkness
Chapter 28 - Peter
Chapter 29 - Anguish
Chapter 30 - Revenge
Chapter 31 - The Dark Dance
Chapter 32 - A Woman’s Strength
Chapter 33 - New Horizons
Chapter 34 - Checkmate
Chapter 35 - Bitter Endings
Author’s Note - Information About Characters
Further Reading
Acknowledgments
IRENA’S WAR
DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, or events, is entirely coincidental.
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2020 by James D. Shipman
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-2389-5 (ebook)
ISBN-10: 1-4967-2389-9 (ebook)
ISBN: 978-1-4967-2388-8
This book is dedicated to the more than three million Jews who perished in Poland during World War II.
BASED ON A TRUE STORY
Prologue
Szucha Street No. 25
Warsaw, January 1944
The bone jutted sharply out of her thigh, a jagged peak with a bloody summit. She turned her head, afraid she would pass out if she stared at the gruesome gash any longer. She moaned, the pain coursing up her leg through her heart, stabbing her mind. She screamed, a shrill shriek of agony. The cry cut off as she gasped for air. Coughing, fluid filled her mouth. She tasted metal and salt. She spat the foul liquid, gulping for air.
“I will ask you again, Frau Sendler, where is egota? Who is egota?”
That name again. Her mind wandered through the dark alleys of consciousness. She knew that name. There was something about it, something important. She couldn’t remember what. She traveled the tunnels of her mind, seeking answers, but she was exhausted and alone, pain her constant companion. She labored to move her hands, to touch the fiery laceration on her thigh, but her wrists were restrained at her waist, secured to this damnable chair.
“I don’t know why you won’t help me, Irena. Why you won’t help yourself.”
She felt pressure on the broken bone. She tried to wrench her eyes open to see what was happening, but the blinding agony barred her. Her mind exploded with fire, her head spun, and she felt the world tilting. She cried out again, louder this time. She heard words, begging, pleading. Her words.
“Just tell me the truth, Irena, and this will all end. You can have morphine. Later, we’ll bring you food. Everything your heart desires. Do you think I want to do this to you? You’ve left me with no choice. Now I ask again, where is egota?”
She wanted to tell him. If she could only remember! Why wouldn’t her mind work? If she could just find a pathway through the burning torment, she would tell him everything, anything. “Morphine,” she whispered. That was the answer. “Give me morphine.”
“Not just yet. Tell me first.”
“egota,” she said, trying to remember.
“Yes, egota,” the voice repeated eagerly. “Give me everything.”
His words were close now, right next to her ear. If only she could remember. The pain subsided a fraction. The brilliant brightness was gone, leaving the darkness again. Her mind wandered through an abyss. In the distance she saw something familiar, a name, a face. egota. She whispered the name out loud again.
“Yes. Tell me now. Quickly.”
She tried to move her lips, but it was too late. She was falling, tumbling through the darkness.
“Irena!” She heard his screaming voice, but soon even that was fading away.
Chapter 1
War
September 24, 1939
Warsaw, Poland
Irena stared at the door. Why didn’t they come? The Germans had attacked weeks ago. Surely, she’d be needed more than ever now. She took a deep breath from the cigarette she clutched, letting the smoke burn her throat. The pain calmed her. She walked to the window, scanning out of her second story window along Ludwicki Street. The road was deserted, the sidewalks, normally bustling with the noisy clamor of working class families, contained a single pedestrian hurrying under a stifling sun. She turned to the door again. She couldn’t wait any longer. She would go to them. She took half a step.
“Irena, what are you doing?” called her mother from the bedroom. The voice was thin and sputtered between breaths. “Please, bring me some water.”
She sighed, taking another drag on the cigarette before she crushed the burning end in an ashtray overflowing with butts. The blue smoke hung stagnant in the heat of the apartment. Cheap shelving lined the walls, a jumble of books crammed every surface. A table stood in the middle of the room, worn and stained, covered by paperwork and plates of half-eaten food. A single framed photo rested against a lamp. She glanced at the image. Her father as a doctor near Warsaw, caring for the poor and the Jews.
“Irena? Where are you?” Her mother called out again.
She closed her eyes, drawing a deep breath. She drew back a hand that was already reaching for the door. She staggered to the kitchen, glancing in a mirror that hung over the sink. A gaunt and weary face peered back. She’d set her long auburn hair in a severe bun. Her cheeks were pale. A hint of a wrinkle crossed her temple. She possessed plain features bred from hardworking peasant stock. There was nothing extraordinary about her, she well knew, except her eyes. Her pupils burned with an icy, piercing passion. Everyone remembered her eyes.
She scanned a stack of dishes and retrieved a cup that wasn’t too di
rty, scraping a little food off the inside with her thumb. Irena filled it with water and hurried into the bedroom where her mother lay under a mound of blankets, her ashen hair limply splayed over the covers. Irena pressed the cup against her mother’s lips and with her other hand drew her head forward so she could drink.
“Irena, the water is warm!” her mother protested, sputtering. The liquid spilled from her lips and dribbled down her chin.
“I’ll get you more in a minute,” she said, her eyes drawn back to the door.
“Have you had any news?”
“About what?”
“This war, of course. What else is there?”
“Radio Warsaw says we’re winning on every front.”
“Do you believe it?”
Irena looked out the window. “The fools in charge would say the same thing, whether we were victors or losers.” She cocked her head, listening to a dull thudding in the distance. “Do you hear that? It doesn’t sound like victory.”
Her mother listened for a moment. “Artillery. Is it theirs or ours?”
“Does it matter? Either way, it draws closer every day.” Irena looked back down at her mother. Her skin was pale and stretched. She looked not much more than a fragile sack of bones and flesh. In her mid-fifties, she could pass for seventy. “You have to eat more, Mother.”
“I don’t have an appetite. Besides,” she joked, “soon there won’t be enough for anyone and you’ll be glad to have my share.”
Irena didn’t answer. She was staring at the door again.
“What are you waiting for, child?” Her voice carried a hint of annoyance.
“I’m expecting a visit from the department.”
Her mother scoffed. “You’re not thinking of going to work?”
“My job won’t go away because of a silly war. If anything, there will be more to do now than ever.”
“Have you heard anything from Mietek?”
“No,” she answered curtly, not wanting to think about that right now.
“I hope he’s safe.”
“I’m sure your wish will come true, Momma. Nothing ever happens to him.”
“He’s your husband.”
“I’m well aware.”
“I’d hoped when you saw him things might be better.”
“There was never anything wrong. We are the best of friends.”
She rose and hurried to the kitchen. She didn’t want to talk about Mietek. She turned on the faucet, letting it run for a while this time, and filled the cup with cold water. An abrupt banging startled her. She dropped the cup and sprinted to the entryway. She unlatched the lock and twisted the knob, whipping the door open.
Ewa Rechtman was there, all smiles beneath a tumble of raven curls.
Irena rushed into her friend’s arms. “You’re safe. How have you been?”
“I’m doing well,” she said. Her voice lilted musically. “And how are you?”
“Smothered in this tomb. I need to work. People must be starving out there.”
Ewa laughed. “Always the busy one, aren’t you? But there’s nothing for you to do right now. Everything is shut down. The kitchens, the bakeries. The office is a desert.”
Irena gasped, her breath quickening. “You’ve been to work?”
“Just today,” said Ewa. “It’s almost abandoned. No power, no phones. I expected to find you already there. Imagine my surprise that I beat Irena Sendler.”
“I want to go,” she said, heading toward the door.
“There’s nothing to do there,” said Ewa.
“There’s always something.” Irena wasn’t sure that was true, but after weeks cooped up here, she was desperate to get out. Even for a few hours. “Let’s go down together and at least see if we can learn anything.”
Ewa nodded, grinning. “I knew you would say that.”
Irena stepped into the hallway and paused. The water! She rushed back in and shoved a mug under the spout, the liquid sloshing violently into the cup. She rushed into the bedroom and put the cup down next to her mother.
“Irena, where are you going?”
“Work needs me.”
Her mother’s face creased in surprise tinged with fear. “You can’t leave me. I’m too ill to rise.”
“Don’t exaggerate, Mother, I’ll only be gone a few hours.” She was already rushing to the door.
“Irena!”
She paused, avoiding Ewa’s glance. She squared her shoulders and moved on, rushing past her friend and out into the corridor. Ewa shuffled along behind her, trying to keep up. In a few moments they stepped out into the sunshine. Despite the heat, Irena reveled in the freedom; her apartment seemed a tomb. On the sidewalk they could walk side by side and Irena took Ewa’s arm, helping her as she limped along beside her.
“How are your parents?” Irena asked.
“They’re scared.”
“Of the artillery?”
“Of the Nazis.”
Irena gave her a squeeze. “Surely the rumors are propaganda. They can’t be much worse than these nationalistic fascists that run Poland already.”
“I hope you’re right. But if the stories are true, the Germans will do worse to us than our own government ever dreamt of.”
“Our government.” Irena spat the words. “They fabricate stories all the time. The rumors about the Germans are probably nothing more than propaganda.”
Ewa stopped and turned to her friend. “And if they aren’t?”
Irena shrugged. “Then we will fight them as we did at university.”
Ewa laughed. “Always picking a battle, Irena, aren’t you?”
“Only until the people finally have their freedom, no matter what religion, race, or class.”
Ewa’s face darkened. “You still believe in socialism? After the Russians attacked us?”
Irena flinched. She thought back to the news, just a week old, that the Soviet Union, the workers’ paradise, had joined Germany in attacking her homeland. “I don’t want to talk about Russia,” she said, turning and hurrying along. She fought down the anger and distress. She wouldn’t think about that right now. She reached a corner and looked back. Ewa was far behind her now, limping along with a frantic gate. She was out of breath and she took long moments to catch up.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”
Irena composed herself, fighting to drive the fire down. She allowed Ewa a moment to recover her breath while she checked the cross street. They were halfway to her office.
She never could remember later when she first heard the planes.
The distant thudding danced with a rising buzz that consumed the quiet afternoon. They stood at the corner, mesmerized. Irena searched the heavens, scanning the sky for the source. She spotted them. Distant dots against an azure canopy. The specks grew in size and shape, assuming the form of hulking birds of prey. She hoped they might be Polish, but she knew better. She hadn’t seen a friendly plane over the city since the war began. No, these were from the enemy. The planes grew closer. She knew she should drag her friend to safety, but she was so tired of hiding. She didn’t want to go back to the indoors, the stifling heat and the boredom. She wanted to see, to hear, to be part of the maelstrom of events swirling around her.
The metallic birds drew overhead, dozens of them, lumbering toward the zenith of the heavens with black crosses on their wings. A whistling shriek pierced the rumble, tearing at her ears so that she feared they would burst from the pain.
A flash. The light reached her before the noise. The sound hit next, a thunderous roar. A building less than a hundred meters away disintegrated into fire and belching smoke. The street was chaos now, the scramble of humans escaping an iron death.
A building collapsed. The explosions progressed in rapid crescendos now, mixed with the screams of scrambling pedestrians fleeing the fire.
Ewa was there, pulling at her arm, her mouth moving without making any sound. She reached up with her hand and touched her ear. Pulling away, she s
aw the scarlet liquid soaking her fingertips. The crashing explosions continued. She felt unable to move. She wanted to stay here, to feel the fire around her.
Ewa tugged at her again. She shook her head, struggling to clear the cobwebs in her mind. Of course, her friend was right. It was death to stay in the street. She allowed herself to be led toward a nearby building. They entered and discovered stairs leading into a cellar. They scrambled down into the space below, finding it already packed, with fifty or more people crammed in the darkness and the heat. The stale reek of sweat and fear overwhelmed the space. They wormed their way into the crush of bodies and held on to each other. Irena wondered if there was any real protection here. She clung to Ewa, tighter with each explosion, waiting for the detonation that would kill them all.
Standing there, pressed against the cracked wood, Irena thought of her mother, who might never know what happened to her. She remembered her parting from Mietek. She had left things unsaid . . . She thought of her friends, her job, the future she dreamed of—everything would be gone in an instant.
Ewa’s normally jubilant face was drawn and pale. “I’m frightened,” she whispered. Irena read the words on her lips.
Irena held her close, stroking her hair. “We will be all right. You’ll see.”
“I pray to God you’re right.”
Irena thought of her childhood, her Catholic training. She tried to pray, but God was a distant companion abandoned long ago. “Trust me, we will survive this,” she said finally.
A thunderous boom jolted the cellar, they were plunged into darkness, and the room swayed and rocked as if they would be ripped apart. The air was gone, she tasted smoke and dust, she choked, her eyes burning, her head swimming. She felt a hand on her wrist, tugging her toward the stairs.
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