Good Night, Irene

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. Copyright © 2023 by Luis Alberto Urrea Cover design by Lucy Kim Cover images: woman © Patricia Turner / Arcangel, dust © Shutterstock Cover copyright © 2023 by Hachette Book Group, Inc. Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights. 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ISBN 9780316266055 E3-20230315-NF-DA-ORI Contents Cover Title Copyright Dedication Epigraph Photo Part One: This Is How We Remember 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 Part Two: Personality on Legs 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 Part Three: The Autumn Road 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 Part Four: This Is How We Forget 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 Part Five: Last of the Line 47 48 49 50 51 Author’s Note and Acknowledgments Discover More Also by Luis Alberto Urrea About the Author Navigation Table of Contents Explore book giveaways, sneak peeks, deals, and more. Tap here to learn more. I dedicate this book to my mother, Phyllis de Urrea (1916–1990). She was known in the Second World War as Phyllis McLaughlin. She served with Jill Pitts Knappenberger and Helen Anderson, crew of the ARC Clubmobile Cheyenne, traveling the roads and locations visited in this novel. RIP, heroes. * * * And this one is especially for Cinderella, who traveled thousands of miles and visited many museums and warehouses and ruins and archives and countries and crematoria with me. And who helped me interview survivors and experts. And who read a hundred drafts. Everything, always. Some think we’re so brave, but we really don’t know enough to be scared. Some people think we’re brats…some of us are. Some think we’d be better off at home, where a woman’s place used to be…about 200 years ago. Some stare, shake their heads in disbelief. Some cheer, some scream and wave—everybody greets us. Some wolf, some worship, some think you’re human and some don’t.…You’re a Red Cross girl. You’re on the chow-and-charm circuit. You’re a griping, kidding GI. You’re personality on legs. —Anonymous World War II letter quoted in Marjorie Lee Morgan’s The Clubmobile—The ARC in the Storm I don’t understand how you can pass by and not see her —“Irene,” Joan Manuel Serrat Part One This Is How We Remember 1 THEN IRENE WOODWARD escaped New York and went to war. It was the beginning of October 1943. Irene was twenty-five. She tucked her official letter of acceptance in her pocketbook. She had never volunteered for anything in her life. Along with her letter, her bag held directions on reporting for duty once she got to Washington, her hotel reservation, and her appointment for a physical examination and inoculations at the Pentagon. The War Department had not paid for her train ticket. Nor had the Red Cross. Some of her papers were stamped SECRET. They were hidden at the bottom of her shoulder bag, which rode atop her suitcase, secured by buckled straps. She felt dangerous and at large. No one knew she had signed up, and she had left when nobody was looking. The empress of getaways. Such intrigue: there had been many interviews. She had snuck to the Atlantic Region offices to be inspected. Her recommendation letters were gathered surreptitiously so nobody in her family would know what she was doing. She had signed on as a recreation worker with the American Red Cross, volunteering for overseas duty. For the duration of the war plus six months, however long that might be—barring injury or review. She was accepted and ordered to attend two weeks of training at American University in Washington, DC. The air was crisp enough the morning she left New York for her to wear a long-sleeved white blouse under a pale red sweater. That was good, since she didn’t want anyone staring at her arms. She was glad she didn’t need a scarf. She had made up her eyes with great care—she was quite adept with concealers. She was sure nobody would notice. It might just look like she had been a little weepy over leaving. Still, for good measure, tucked into her hair, she wore sunglasses, which her friends called cheaters. Very dark. Very Bette Davis. Ready if needed. Her engagement ring was down the storm drain on East Twenty-Eighth Street, halfway between Lexington and Park. The cab had collected her there in the dark. Her ring was probably rolling along the sewer pipe on its way to the river. Before Irene was a fiancée, she had set out from Staten Island for Washington, DC, the story went, “to find herself.” In a family whose eldest aunt was famous for being the first white woman up the Amazon, there