Prologue
Warsaw - January 1970
Irene leaned stiffly beside an entrance to the massive auditorium of the Teatr Wielki, trying to tame her erratic breathing as she waited for the doors to open. Enclosed in her left hand was a thin slip of paper, wrinkled slightly by her own impulsive manipulation. Mindlessly, she had folded, unfolded, and refolded the little note during her train ride to Warsaw, and she now found that she could trace the path of the creases with her finger as they crossed through the ink-covered indentations.
She continued to stare intently at the door, willing it to liberate the audience within. Out of the corner of her eye, she could still glimpse the theatre employee lurking by the “Oratorium Oświęcimskie” sign, the one whose gaze seemed fixed on her with suspicion. Loitering, it seemed, was generally discouraged within the walls of Europe’s largest theatre. The woman had already interrogated her upon entry, and had been fully prepared to escort her right back outside, but had seemed mysteriously subdued by the urgency in Irene’s voice as she explained her objective. She continued to watch her, but attempted no further intervention, allowing her to occupy her post by the door without protest.
Irene glanced at her watch. Any moment now. As the second hand completed another lap around the clock face, a mix of panic and anticipation coursed through her veins. She could not pinpoint the source of her anxiety—was it terror or excitement that gripped her? The thought had crossed her mind a hundred times that perhaps delving into her past was unwise. Isn’t ignorance bliss? Would uncovering her identity bring her more pain than satisfaction? She did not know, but she was determined to proceed nonetheless. She had come this far…
At last, the doors swung open. Without so much of a glance at the employee guarding her, Irene bounded into the hall, a sea of spectators shuffling away from their vacated seats engulfing her. She hardly processed the vast expanse of the space she had entered. The grandeur of the newly restored building was of no concern to her; she focused only on the task ahead, the figure on the stage whose appearance matched the newspaper clipping Dr. Strassberg had given her. Her heartbeat seemed to accelerate with each step as she clung tighter still to the little slip of paper in her hand.
Four more rows. Three more rows. Though small groups of people halted in conversation blocked her path through the aisle in several places, she pushed past them without regard for rudeness, her eyes never wavering from the woman now descending the steps of the stage. She was a short and relatively unassuming woman with a kind, lightly-wrinkled face, her silver hair pulled back in a tight bun. Her expression spoke of a life spent caring for others, the satisfaction of benevolence mingled with the fatigue of self-denial.
As the woman reached the edge of the orchestra pit, her close-set eyes locked with Irene’s, seemingly sensing her intention to approach. Taking a deep breath, Irene completed the final few steps, the nervous adrenaline that had propelled her through the theatre receding and leaving her only with the strength of her remaining sense of purpose. “Are you Stanisława Leszczyńska?” she asked tentatively, though she really had no need of inquiring, having studied the photo in the newspaper intently. She spoke in her native German, hoping desperately that she would be understood.
“Yes, I am,” the woman replied curtly, though not unkindly, a hint of a Polish accent detectable in even this one phrase. She was studying her intently, likely waiting for her to introduce herself and her purpose.
Irene found herself searching for a reply, her mind jumbled by the pressure of the situation. Her mouth went dry, and she felt suddenly that she could not form words. In desperation, she offered forth the slip of paper, the drawing that served as the purpose of her visit, a part of her.
With her eyebrows furrowed, Stanisława unfolded the wrinkled note and studied it. From where she stood, Irene could just make out the corner of the drawing, the enigmatic symbol traced carefully in black ink. The sight steadied her, reordering her clouded thoughts.
The woman’s eyes snapped back to meet hers, her expression now one of astonishment. Before she could speak, Irene interjected.
“Stanisława Leszczyńska….I have come to believe that you are the only person on Earth that can explain why this symbol has been etched into my skin.”
