It was strange, walking around Warsaw when the city was so quiet. Bright, colorful squares were empty, lush parks inhabited only by nighttime creatures, storefronts dark and unwelcoming. I was used to bustling crowds, rumbling traffic, the clatter of horse-drawn carriages, cries of street vendors—and soldiers’ barks and the thuds of their shiny boots. When the Poles who loved this city were confined to their homes, even the rustle of clothing sounded as loud as the roar of bombers flying low over the ground.

While my thoughts wandered, my pace slowed, but Irena’s hadn’t. As I scanned the dark street, a shadowy figure rounded the corner ahead. I pulled my coarse wool coat around myself to ward off a chilly breeze, then started jogging, treading lightly to silence the thud of my footfalls. Once I turned the corner where Irena had disappeared, I froze.

Down the block, an SS man detained her while another tossed items from her handbag.

At once, I pressed against the rough stucco building beside me and melted into the shadows, but a combination of curiosity and concern took over. I peered around the corner and listened as the empty street carried their voices to me.

“I told you, I’m going home from work. Get the hell off me and give me that.” Irena attempted to wrestle one arm free, but the man holding her twisted it further behind her back. She stifled a cry, spitting a curse through gritted teeth.

The seconds crawled by while the soldier rifled through her belongings. I waited for him to produce her falsified employment papers to reinforce her lie. To let her go.

But when he turned the handbag over and dumped out its remaining contents, he made one single, horrible announcement. “No work permit.”

Irena stiffened. “You’re wrong, it’s . . . I . . .” she stammered, voice weaker than before. She started again, this time faster and with more force. “I must have left it there. For the last time, let go of me!”

This was bad, really bad. Irena was giving them hell, as she put it, but it wasn’t working like it had in the story she’d told my parents. I had a terrible feeling no amount of struggling or swearing would work on these soldiers. Over the course of our time together, she had never made a mistake, but, if she had forgotten to carry her work permit, she didn’t have permission to be out this late.

The SS man dropped her handbag on the ground. “Last chance.”

Although Irena scowled, disdain failed to mask the fear lacing her words. “I’m going home.”

“Well, you can’t work without your lost permit. We’ll escort you to your place of employment so you can retrieve it, and your employer can verify your story. But if you’d rather tell the truth and admit you’ve broken the law, I might tell the Gestapo to go easier on you.”