Irena's War

by James D. Shipman

Genres: War & Military; Jewish Fiction

Synopsis

September 1939: The conquering Nazis swarm through Warsaw as social worker Irena Sendler watches in dread from her apartment window. Already, the city's poor go hungry. Irena wonders how she will continue to deliver food and supplies to those who need it most, including the forbidden Jews. The answer comes unexpectedly.



Dragged from her home in the night, Irena is brought before a Gestapo agent, Klaus Rein, who offers her a position running the city's soup kitchens, all to maintain the illusion of order. Though loath to be working under the Germans, Irena learns there are ways to defy her new employer—including forging documents so that Jewish families receive food intended for Aryans. As Irena grows bolder, her interactions with Klaus become more fraught and perilous.



Klaus is unable to prove his suspicions against Irena—yet. But once Warsaw's half-million Jews are confined to the ghetto, awaiting slow starvation or the death camps, Irena realizes that providing food is no longer enough. Recruited by the underground Polish resistance organization Zegota, she carries out an audacious scheme to rescue Jewish children. One by one, they are smuggled out in baskets and garbage carts, or led through dank sewers to safety—every success raising Klaus's ire.

Release date: November 24, 2020

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

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.

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 dirty, 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 saw 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.

The sun stabbed her eyes. She blinked, and her body jerked. Her mind spun, and she rolled onto her stomach, vomiting. She tasted bile and blood. The pavement beneath her gradually materialized. She pulled herself to her knees. She saw men, women, and children, covered in thick brown dust, lying in jumbled positions nearby. Some were starting to stir. A woman lay on her back, staring at the sky, covered in blood. Irena scanned the group, searching for Ewa. She was sitting nearby on the curb, head between her knees, rocking back and forth. Irena turned and found the building where they had sought shelter. The structure had collapsed in on itself. Fire raged, and a black cloud billowed out of the rubble. It was a miracle they had escaped in time.

Irena checked her arms and legs. She had some minor burns and cuts, but she was not seriously injured. She crawled over to Ewa and placed her hands on her friend, checking her for injuries as well. They sat there together for a long time, amidst the burning buildings, the screams, the dead and the dying—too stunned to speak or to move.

“Irena.” Ewa’s voice, thick with emotion, reached her through the ringing in her ears.

“Yes?”

“We should go home. Your mother might need you. My family . . .”

“Of course, you’re right,” she responded. She pulled herself up. Her entire body ached. Her skin felt like the top few layers had been scraped off. She reached her hand down and drew Ewa up.

“Run along now,” Irena said. “Make sure everyone is safe.”

“I’ll come for you tomorrow,” Ewa said.

“Come when you’re ready.”

Ewa turned and limped away as quickly as she could, a gray ghost amidst the dust and the flames. Irena watched her until she turned the corner several blocks away. She dusted herself off as best she could, turned to the right, and continued toward her office. She passed more scenes of violence and death. Whole blocks had crumbled under the German attack.

She noticed a mother with two children in her arms, sitting on the sidewalk, her eyes glazed, tears running in rivers down her cheeks. She had a hand on the head of each of them. They looked like twins, boys, no more than three. Neither was moving. Their little bodies were covered in blood. They were gone. She tried to speak to the woman, but she didn’t hear, couldn’t see.

Irena scurried on through the shattered streets of Warsaw. The smell of acrid smoke filled her nostrils. Her mouth was parched, tongue dry and heavy. The bombers were gone. She scanned the sky as she navigated the broken pavement but saw nothing. She knew the Germans might return in an instant. Out here exposed in the open, even a near miss would surely kill her. Her panic rose. She wanted to run home, but she steeled herself and marched on. In another kilometer she reached her office in the social welfare building on Złota Street, not far from the banks of the Vistula River.

The three-story structure appeared intact. The whole block was unscathed. The bombers apparently hadn’t reached this far. She scrambled up the stairs and into the interior. As Ewa had told her, there was no power. The corridors were dark and difficult to maneuver. The building was deserted.

Inside, Irena felt a measure of safety. She searched an office and found what she was looking for: a half-empty pitcher of water. Ignoring the layer of dust floating at the top, not even bothering to skim it aside, she tipped the vessel back and gulped greedily from the contents. The water was almost as hot as the air outside, but she had never tasted better.

Refreshed, Irena stumbled back out into the dim hallway and felt her way to the stairs. If the interior of the building was dark, the stairway was blackest night. She groped around until she found the rail and pulled herself up, step by step, to the second floor. Making her way along the upstairs corridor she came to her office. The space was little more than a closet. Two desks shoved face-to-face in the space, with just enough room to pull out a chair and sit down. The walls were bare, but the desks were covered with papers. Irena stared at the familiar scene and only now her emotions overwhelmed her. She stood for long minutes, tears running down her face.

“Irena.”

She was startled out of her grief by the voice of her supervisor, Jan Dobraczyski. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

She was embarrassed. She thought she was alone. There was no way to hide her tears. She wiped her cheeks with the back of her sleeve and looked up to see Jan standing over her, like a professor proctoring an exam. Spectacles crowded close-cropped iron-gray hair. Wrinkles etched like riverbanks outward from piercing eyes. Everything about him reminded her of university.

“What are you doing here?” he repeated, a hint of irritation and command in his voice.

“I came to the office.”

“That’s obvious. However, there is no work here right now.”

“There’s always something to do,” she said. Taking a step toward her desk, she fumbled with the mound of documents.

“Look around, Irena,” he said, motioning down the hallway. “There isn’t a soul here. There is no power. The phones aren’t working. People are dying outside by the hundreds. Go home to your family.”

He scrutinized her more closely, his eyes widening. “My God!” he said. “Look at you. You’re cut all over.” He took a step forward.

“I’m fine,” she said dismissively. “It’s nothing.” She turned toward her desk again. “I want to get the soup kitchens reopened. It’s been weeks. People are starving.”

She felt a hand on her forearm, holding her back. “Are you listening to me? There is no one here and nothing we can do.”

She pulled away from him. “I’ll get started right away.”

“Irena. There is no one to man the kitchens. There’s no way to communicate with them. Even if there was, where would you get the food?” His voice softened. “Look, I’m proud of you that you came in. That must’ve been terrifying for you. You’re a brave woman, Irena, but your place is at home right now with your family. That’s where all of us should be.”

She turned back to him, regarding him with an arched eyebrow. “You’re here.”

“Not for long. I just came to grab a little paperwork and make sure the office was closed. I didn’t expect to find anyone here.”

“I’ve already talked to Ewa. I will find her. If the phones are down, we can go door to door. I only need four or five people and from there we can reach out directly to our volunteers that run the kitchens.”

He looked at her, exasperated. “There’s no point,” he said. “There’s no food.”

“I have a contact with families in the countryside. I have a friend who has some wagons. He doesn’t live far away from me. Once I get everything together, I’ll reach out to him and get him started right away.” She turned to him. “But I’ll need some money.”

He shook his head again. “Irena, it’s not going to work.”

“It will if you help me. All I’m asking for are a few zlotys. That’s it. You don’t have to do anything else. I just need the resources and I will take care of everything. All the risks, all the duties.”

He hesitated, scratching his chin. “I don’t know, Irena. If people are killed trying to assist us right now . . .”

“Then it’s on me. Besides, people are dying in their homes. What difference does it make if they are bombed in a soup kitchen instead? At least it’s a good cause.”

He was quiet for a moment and Irena watched him closely. She could see the objections ticking through his mind. His lips opened several times, but he did not speak. Finally, he nodded his head slightly. “Fine,” he said. “But it’s on your head. I’ll return with the zlotys. I can’t spare many.”

“Whatever you have will serve.”

He left her, and Irena went to work. Over the next several days she labored furiously. With Ewa’s help they established a network of workers willing to assist them in getting the soup kitchens back in operation. Irena reached her contact on the edge of Warsaw and paid him all the zlotys she could spare, adding most of her savings to the pot. He contacted his friends in the countryside and purchased food. She now had provisions along with wagons to bring the precious stores back to Warsaw. She’d lined up the personnel to man the stations throughout the city. After three days everything was ready to go.

The situation in Warsaw deteriorated. The booming sound of artillery echoed ever closer. The radio blared promises of victory but the battle sites discussed by the broadcasters crept nearer to Warsaw with each passing day. The government promised the Germans would never set foot in Warsaw. They told of counterattacks and the spirited fighting of the French and British on Germany’s Western Front.

Irena saw the hollow lies of these words. Large formations of men streamed into the city: wounded, without weapons, exhausted and starving. The bombers came each day now, unopposed by the Polish air force. There was violence in the streets. Looting increased as the residents of the city struggled to survive. There were few police. Civil order was breaking down.

Irena’s mother begged her to stop. Several of the social workers helping voiced the same concerns, but she persisted, braving the streets of Warsaw each day, making contact with different locations, assuring the staff that supplies would be present at each point when the food arrived. Everything was set for tomorrow, September 27. She would meet the wagons coming in from the west. Ewa would direct the food distribution to the numerous kitchens while Irena ensured all the purchased goods were accounted for before the provisions were split into smaller parcels. She had hired men to stand with her, protecting the food from looters while she counted the supplies. The men would then ride, one with each wagon, to make sure the rations made it safely to the sites.

Irena slept fitfully that night. She dreamt that Mietek appeared at her door, a bloody corpse with a blank stare, a mouth open to scream but emitting no sound. She looked past him, searching. Were they all dead? The scene shifted. Gray steel monsters chased her through the smoldering streets of Warsaw. No matter where she hid, they eventually found her. She woke at dawn, exhausted and afraid. She dressed quickly in the semidarkness, trying to be as quiet as possible, not wanting to wake her mother, to add to her burdens on this critical day.

She left her flat minutes later, rushing down the stairs and out into the street. The city was dark, deserted, a black blanket beneath a sky growing brighter as the minutes passed. She made her way down the street, heading west toward the outskirts of Warsaw. She had to hurry. Her friend would be waiting with his wagons, twelve loads brimming with sustenance for the starving children of the capital. If she was late, he might be overwhelmed, the structures picked clean by starving looters.

She reached the outskirts of Warsaw twenty minutes later. She saw the wagons ahead of her parked in the street. Her driver had placed them on the side of the road facing toward the interior of the city. A group of men stood protectively around them. A small crowd perched across the street, greedily eyeing the food. She smiled to herself, glad she had hired these bodyguards protecting her precious cargo. She searched for her friend. He should be there as well. She spotted him standing near some soldiers. He was gesturing, arms pointing toward the city. One of the soldiers, an officer, shook his head.

Irena hurried. Something was wrong. The army must have stopped him. She felt fear rising. What if they confiscated her goods? She was a patriotic Pole, toward her nation rather than its government, but she had worked too hard to secure these supplies, only to have them taken away. She crossed the last few meters, approaching the soldiers.

“I’m in charge here,” she said. “What seems to be the problem?” Her friend looked up in surprise, his eyes full of fear. What was he worried about? She could handle a few arrogant men.

“What have we here, Fräulein?” the officer asked.

Too late, Irena realized her terrible mistake. In the early dawn light, she had failed to recognize the color of the uniforms. These men were not Poles, they were Germans. The enemy was here. Her supplies were lost, along with Warsaw. The Polish war was over.

Irena rushed up to the cluster of German soldiers. She searched for the words in German, reaching back to her university training.

“Excuse me, Hauptmann,” she said, recognizing the officer as a captain.

The soldier stopped mid-sentence, looking her way. He sized her up with his eyes and then turned back to his men, beginning to issue orders.

“Herr Hauptmann, I need to speak with you.”

The captain turned to her, eyes flaring with impatience. “What is it?”

“These wagons are the property of the Polish government. I am a social worker assigned to bring this food into the city.”

“I’m sorry . . . what is your name?”

She hesitated, then answered. “Irena Sendler.”

“I’m sorry, Frau Sendler, but I cannot let you take this food. My soldiers are hungry.”

“They may be hungry, but my people are starving!” she responded, iron in her voice.

“That may be, but the food is here, we are here. I am taking the wagons.”

“You must not,” insisted Irena, taking a step forward.

“Just shoot her already,” said one of the other soldiers, laughing and raising a rifle. He pointed the barrel at Irena.

The captain shoved the weapon aside, sharply rebuking the soldier. He turned back to Irena. “I’m sorry, Frau Sendler, but as I said, I cannot release the supplies to you. As you can also see, it’s dangerous for you to be here. Not everyone will be as understanding as me. Go home and wait a day or two. Order will be restored, and it will be safe to go out.”

“My people don’t have a day or two.”

“Your people will get nothing from you if you’re dead,” he responded icily. “Now shoo.” He lifted his hand and dismissed her as if she were an insect.

Irena turned, fighting back tears of frustration. The Germans were already unloading the supplies, helping themselves to the bread, fruits, and vegetables while the bodyguards looked helplessly on, arms in the air. She wanted to go to them, to demand their freedom, but she was afraid. That soldier back there moments ago wanted to kill her. If it weren’t for the captain, she might be dead right this moment. She turned and rushed away, heading back into the city. The streets were already lining up with Poles, faces drawn with stunned expressions. The news was out. The Germans were here. Their beloved city had fallen.

She weaved through the crowd, heading toward her flat. She needed time to recover, to think. She was angry, the rage filled her. She had worked tirelessly for days to bring this food to the people who needed it. She’d orchestrated everything and at the moment of success the Germans had ruined everything. How dare they? Surely there was someone higher up that would decry what they had done. The Germans weren’t monsters, were they? Oh, there were the stories put out by her government. Whispers of Nazi at. . .