The baby is crying. Arena Sendler freezes. Her hand grips the wooden toolbox tighter. The guard is 30 feet away, turning toward the sound. His eyes narrow. He starts walking toward her, toward the toolbox, toward the six-month-old Jewish baby hidden inside that toolbox who just woke up too early and is now screaming.

 Arena has maybe 10 seconds before the guard demands to open the box. 10 seconds before he sees the baby. 10 seconds before he shoots the baby, shoots Arena and arrests everyone in her network. 10 seconds to think of something, anything. The guard is 20 ft away now, hand moving to his rifle. The baby’s crying gets louder.

 Arena can see other guards looking, noticing, starting to move in her direction. This is it. This is how it ends. October 1942. A checkpoint on the edge of the Warsaw Ghetto. A stupid mistake. a baby who woke up too early. Arena reaches into her purse. The guard tenses weapon, explosives, papers to destroy. His finger moves to the trigger, ready to shoot this Polish woman who’s clearly hiding something.

 Arena pulls out lipstick, red lipstick. She opens it calmly, looks at the guard, smiles, applies it carefully to her lips while the baby screams somewhere nearby. The guard stops walking, confused. This woman is putting on makeup right now in the middle of a security checkpoint while a baby cries. This doesn’t make sense.

 Arena finishes applying the lipstick, looks at the guard, holds up the tube. Her voice is light, casual, like she’s chatting with a friend at a cafe. Do you think this color suits me? I can never decide. The guard stares at her. His brain is trying to process what’s happening. Woman with lipstick. That’s normal.

 Woman smuggling baby. That’s not normal. The two don’t connect. The cognitive dissonance is too strong. This woman can’t be smuggling anything. She’s worried about lipstick. Criminals don’t worry about lipstick. The guard’s hand drops from his rifle. He shrugs. Uncomfortable, confused, doesn’t know what to do with a woman asking about makeup.

 So, he does what men usually do in these situations. He walks away. The whole interaction makes him uncomfortable, easier to ignore it, easier to assume the crying is coming from somewhere else. Arena puts the lipstick back in her purse, picks up the toolbox, walks through the checkpoint, heart pounding so hard she can hear it.

The baby stops crying. Perfect timing. Always perfect timing. Luck or divine intervention or just the universe deciding that today, right now, this baby lives. She delivers the toolbox to a safe house three blocks away. Opens it. The baby is sleeping again, sedative wearing off. Arena picks up the child, hands her to the Catholic woman who will raise her as her own daughter, who will teach her prayers, and take her to church and hide her in plain sight for the next 3 years until the war ends.

 The woman looks at Arena. You’re insane. You know that, right? Arena smiles. The same smile she gave the guard. Calm, steady. Someone has to be. That baby’s name is Elbetta Fikowska. She will live to be 65 years old. Have children, grandchildren, an entire family tree that exists because Arena Sendler decided that lipstick was more important than fear.

That’s rescue number 127. Arena has 2,373 more to go. And the Gestapo is hunting her. They don’t know her name yet. Don’t know what she looks like. They just know someone is smuggling Jewish children out of the Warsaw ghetto. Someone is making them look like fools. Someone they call the woman. And they want her dead.

 3 months from now, they’ll catch her, torture her for 9 days, break her bones, pull her fingernails, try everything to make her talk. She won’t. won’t give them a single name, a single location, a single hint about the 342 children she’s already saved or the 2,158 she’ll save before the war ends. But we’re getting ahead of ourselves.

Let’s start at the beginning because this story doesn’t begin with heroism. It begins with a 7-year-old girl watching her father die. And that death will create one of the most effective resistance fighters in World War II. Arena KR Zizenoska is born February 15th, 1910 in Warsaw, Poland. Her father Stannislaw is a doctor, general practitioner, treats everyone who comes to him.

 Rich patients, poor patients, Catholic patients, Jewish patients, doesn’t discriminate, doesn’t care. A patient is a patient. Sickness has no religion. Typhus outbreak. Typhus tears through Warsaw’s Jewish quarter like fire through dry grass. Most doctors won’t go there. Too dangerous, too contagious, too Jewish, too poor, not worth the risk.

 Stannislaw goes anyway every day treating patients who can’t pay him. Patients other doctors abandon. He knows the risk. Goes anyway because that’s what doctors do. You see someone sick, you help them. That’s the oath. That’s the job. He catches typhus. Dies two weeks later, 37 years old. Leaves behind a wife and a seven-year-old daughter.

 The Jewish community buries him with full honors. They remember. They never forget. They pay for his widow’s expenses. Make sure young Arena can stay in school. Make sure she gets educated. Arena grows up poor but educated. Her mother is a school teacher. Make sure Arena gets everything. University. Polish literature degree.

 She joins the Polish Socialist Party in 1926. Starts working as a social worker in 1931. She’s good at it. Really good. Has her father’s compassion without his naivity. Sees poverty. Sees inequality. Sees systems that trap people. And she starts learning how to break those systems. September 1, 1939. Germany invades Poland.

 The Vermach crosses the border with one 5 million men, tanks, artillery, Luftwafa bombers, turning cities into ash. The Polish army fights desperately, brave, outgunned, outnumbered, lasts 35 days. Then Poland is gone, erased, split between Germany and the Soviet Union like a carcass divided between wolves. Warsaw becomes occupied territory.

 The Nazis move in. New rules, new regulations, new horrors that unfold slowly. Jews must wear white armbands with blue stars. Must register with authorities. must move into designated areas. October 1940, the Warsaw Ghetto is established. 450,000 Jews forced into three square miles. Walls go up. Barbed wire guards, nobody in or out without permission.

 The conditions inside are medieval. 450,000 people crammed into space designed for 50,000. Seven people per room on average. No food except what the Nazis allow. Starvation rations. 200 calories per day. People start dying. Adults first then children. Disease spreads. Typhus. The same disease that killed Arena’s father. Tuberculosis.

Dysentery. Bodies pile up in the streets faster than workers can collect them. Arena is 30 years old. Social worker with the Warsaw Social Welfare Department. Her job is helping Polish citizens. The regulations are very clear. Jews are not Polish citizens anymore. Jews don’t qualify for social welfare. Jews get nothing.

 That’s the regulation. That’s the law. Arena looks at the regulation. Looks at the children starving in the ghetto. Thinks about her father treating Typhus patients for free. Thinks about the Jewish community that paid for her education after he died. Makes her decision. The regulations can go to hell. She gets a permit.

 Social workers can enter the ghetto to check for typhus. prevent epidemics from spreading to the Aryan side. That’s the official reason. Really, it’s to make sure Jews stay contained. Arena takes the permit, starts entering the ghetto, officially checking for disease. Actually doing something completely different.

 She’s identifying children, young ones under 12, ones who might pass as Catholic if you change their names, teach them prayers, give them new identities, ones who might survive if you can get them out before the Nazis kill them all. Because by 1942, Arena knows what’s coming. The deportations have started. Trains leaving Warsaw headed east.

 The Nazis say resettlement, work camps, better conditions. Everyone knows it’s lies. The trains go one direction. Nobody comes back. Words start spreading. Trebinka, Ashvitz, death camps, industrial murder, extermination facilities. If the children stay in the ghetto, they die. Simple mathematics. Simple reality.

 Arena decides to get them out. First attempt. July 1942. One child, boy 8 years old, parents already deported. Grandmother too sick to leave. She begs Arena, “Take him. Save him, please.” Arena puts him in an ambulance. says he has typhus. Guards don’t check carefully. Nobody wants to catch typhus. The boy is taken to a hospital on the Aryan side.

Given false papers, placed with a Catholic family. New name, new identity, new life. It works. She does it again and again. Within weeks, she’s running a full network. She calls it Zoda. The Polish Council to aid Jews. 25 core members, social workers, nurses, city employees, people with access, people with permits, people willing to risk everything.

 The operation becomes sophisticated. Arena doesn’t just smuggle children. She creates entire new identities, birth certificates, baptismal records, school enrollment documents, everything forged, everything perfect. Because if the papers aren’t perfect, the child dies. So the papers are perfect. She recruits Catholic families, convinces them to take Jewish children, hide them, raise them as Catholics.

 It’s an impossible ask. If Germans find a Jewish child in your home, they shoot the child. Then you then your entire family. Collective punishment. Terror is policy. But Arena asks anyway, and people say yes. Because she leads by example, takes the biggest risks herself. She’s the one entering the ghetto.

 She’s the one who will be tortured first if caught. The smuggling methods get creative. Children in ambulances claiming typhus. Children sedated and hidden in coffins during fake funerals. Children carried through sewers. Children in sacks, toolboxes, anything that works. There’s a courthouse on the ghetto border. Entrances on both sides.

 Aryan and ghetto arena coordinates with a clerk inside. Children enter from the ghetto side. Walk through the building. Exit on the Aryan side. Guards don’t question it. People go to court. Children just walk through. Invisible in plain sight. The youngest are hardest. Babies. Toddlers. Can’t be told to stay quiet.

 Can’t understand danger. Arena sedates them just enough to keep them sleeping. Hides them in tool boxes like the one with Elbieta. Carries them through checkpoints. Guards see a social worker with a toolbox. Nothing suspicious. The baby sleeps through everything except that one time, the time with the lipstick.

 The time the baby woke up early and Arena had 10 seconds to think of something or watch everyone die. She thought of lipstick. It worked. The baby lived, became number 127, would eventually become Elsie Fikowska. would live 65 years, have her own children, grandchildren, an entire family tree growing from that moment of improvisation.

 But Arena makes another decision, one that will save the children’s identities, even if it kills her. She keeps a list. Every child’s real name and false name, where they’re hidden, who their parents were, she writes it on tissue paper in tiny handwriting, rolls it up, puts it in a glass jar, buries it under an apple tree in her friend Jaga’s garden.

 If Arena dies, the list survives. The children can reclaim their real identities after the war if there is an after. By October 1943, the list has 342 names. 342 children who would be dead without her. 342 futures created from nothing. 342 reasons the Gustapo wants her dead. The knock comes at 11:47 p.m. October 20, 1943.

Arena is at her kitchen table. Empty coffee cup. No real coffee in Warsaw for 3 years. Nazis took it all. She’s 32 years old. Looks tired. Everyone in occupied Poland looks tired. But calm, that’s what matters. Calm means survival. Six men. Gustapo. Black leather coats. The lead officer shows a badge. Arena Sindler.

 Yes, you will come with us. Not a question, never a question. With the Gestapo, she gets her coat, her purse, lipstick, compact papers inside, nothing suspicious, nothing that screams resistance operative. The list is safe, buried, they can torture her forever. She’ll never tell them where it is because if she tells them 342 children die, so she won’t tell them.

 That’s simple, that impossible. They take her to Pyak prison. Every pole knows Pyiaak where people go and don’t come back. Stone walls three feet thick. Cells holding five times capacity. Screaming that starts at night and doesn’t stop. They put her in a cell 8 by 10 ft. No window. Four other women already there. Nobody speaks. Nobody makes eye contact.

 Lesson learned. Don’t make friends. Friends disappear. 3 hours later. They come for her. Two guards down a corridor of screaming into an interrogation room. Table. Two chairs. drain in the floor for blood. Everyone knows what the drain is for. A man waits. SS maybe 30. Blonde hair, blue eyes, perfect Aryan.

 Civilian clothes, but military posture. He has a file, opens it, reads aloud. Arena Sendler, born February 15, 1910. Father Stannislaw, physician, died 1917 treating Jewish typhus patients. Mother Janina, a school teacher, studied Polish literature. Social worker since 1931. Catholic, unmarried, no children. He looks up. Is this correct? Yes.

 He closes the file, leans back. Here’s where it gets interesting. Froline sender. We know you’ve been entering the ghetto. We know you’ve been removing children. We know you have a network. We know you have a list. Watching her face. Looking for the crack. The tell. The moment terror shows through.

 Arena looks back steadily. I’m a social worker. I help children. That’s my job. The man smiles. Not nicely. Your job is serving the general government, following regulations. Helping Jewish children is treason. Treason is death. Silence. Someone screams elsewhere in the building. Neither reacts. Both professionals both know how this works.

Tell me about the list. What list? The list of children, names, locations. You’re too organized not to have a list. Where is it? I don’t know what you’re talking about. His hand moves, slaps her face. Warning shot. Not hard yet. Just preview. Where is the list? There is no list. Hard or slap.

 Her head snaps sideways. Blood from split lip. She doesn’t touch it won’t give satisfaction. Where are the children? I don’t know. Where is the network? There is no network. He stands. Walks behind her. She can’t see him now. Worse. Not seeing is always worse. Metallic sound. Then white hot pain explodes across her shoulders.

 Cain wood reinforced with metal across her back. Pain steals her breath. She doesn’t scream. Won’t scream. Screaming is what he wants. She gives nothing. Where is the list? Silence again. Same spot. Worse. Building on first blow. Compounding. Vision blurs. She grips the chair. Breathes. Just breathe. One breath in another. Breathing means living.

 Living means children stay safe. The interrogation runs three hours. He hits her. Questions her. Threatens her. Promises quick death if she cooperates. Slow death if she doesn’t. Describes slow death in medical detail. He’s done this before many times. Arena gives nothing. Not a name, not a location, not a hint the list exists.

Better to pretend there’s nothing to know. Better to be crazy social worker who acted alone. Better to be nobody with no intelligence value. Hour four. He changes tactics. Brings another officer. This one has pliers for pulling fingernails. Not construction nails. Fingernails. Arena sees the pliers.

 sees the officer, looks back at the first interrogator. Face shows nothing inside. Calculating how much pain can she endure? How long before breaking is there a breaking point? Everyone has won. Question is whether she reaches it before they give up. The second officer grabs her right hand, forces it flat on the table. First officer leans close, almost gentle.

Last chanceler, tell me about the list. About the children? About your network? Make this easy. Arena looks right in his eyes, voice clear. Calm, same voice she uses with children. There is no list. The officer positions pliers, grabs her index fingernail, begins pulling. Pain beyond description, beyond anything possible. The nail doesn’t come cleanly.

Tears piece by piece. Nerve ending scream. Vision goes white. Body convulses, but she doesn’t scream. Bites through her own lip to prevent screaming. Blood down her chin. Three fingernails that night. Three nails. And she tells them nothing. Doesn’t even confirm the list exists. Just keeps saying, “I don’t know.

” And I work alone and I’m just a social worker. Broken record. Useless source. Waste of time. 400 a.m. They throw her back in the cell. Can barely walk. Other women help her to the floor. Don’t speak. Don’t ask, just help because they understand they’ve been there or will be soon. Arena sits in the corner. Right hand cradled against chest.

 Fingers ruined, swollen, bleeding, pain constant, overwhelming, but alive, didn’t talk. 342 children still safe. That’s day one. Day two, they come at 6:00 a.m. No sleep, no food, no water. Straight to interrogation. Different interrogators. Three this time they rotate, keep her off balance. One questions, one threatens, one watches, looking for weaknesses.

 They ask about children she says she doesn’t know. They break her left arm. Fracture in two places. Pain immediate. Total. She passes out. Water thrown on her. Wake up. Ask again. Where is the list? There is no list. They break two ribs. She feels them crack. Grinding when she breathes. Each breath agony. She keeps breathing.

 Breathing means living. Living means children stay safe. Day three. They break her legs. Both tibas bones splinter. Can’t walk. Can’t stand. Carried back to self. Other women look at her, look away. She’s dead. Just question of when. Day four, more interrogations, more questions, more pain. They’re frustrated. She should have broken.

 Everyone breaks, but Arena won’t won’t give anything. Just I don’t know through broken teeth and swollen lips. Head interrogator brings a specialist from Berlin. Expert in extracting information. Doesn’t use crude methods like breaking bones. More sophisticated, more scientific. knows exactly how much pain human body can endure before death.

 Knows how to keep someone alive and conscious while destroying them piece by piece. Works on arena 6 hours. At the end, barely conscious, barely human, but hasn’t talked, hasn’t given one name, one location, one hint. Specialist tells head interrogator she’s useless. Either genuinely doesn’t know anything or train to resist at level he’s never seen in civilians.

 Either way won’t break. Recommendation. Execute and move on. They schedule Arena’s execution. October 29th, 1943. Nine days after arrest. Taken to Piaak courtyard. Shot against wall. Body in mass grave. Another dead pole. Another failed resistor. Nazis have killed thousands. One more changes nothing. Arena knows she’s dying.

 Guards tell her, taking pleasure in it. describing exactly how it works, where they’ll put her, how many bullets, how long it takes. She listens with dead eyes, doesn’t react, won’t give them fear. She thinks about children, wonders if network knows she’s arrested, wonders if they’ve moved children to new locations, changed safe houses. Assumed list compromised.

She hopes so. Hopes they’re smart enough to assume worst. She thinks about the jar under the apple tree. The 342 names, if she dies, list survives. Someday someone digs it up. Someday children know who they really are. That’s enough. Has to be enough. October 28th. One day before execution, guard comes to sell.

Different guard. She doesn’t recognize him. He looks at her at other women. Speaks quietly. You’re on execution list for tomorrow. But there’s been a mistake. Your name was removed. You’re being transferred to labor camp instead. Arena doesn’t understand. doesn’t believe. Gustapo doesn’t make mistakes. Doesn’t show mercy. This is a trick.

Psychological torture. Give hope then take it away. But guard pulls her defeat. Half carries her out through corridors outside door into truck. She’s barely conscious. Delirious from pain and no sleep and no food for 9 days. Truck drives 30 minutes, stops in alley. Guard opens back, helps her out, sets her on ground, leans close, whispers, “Zigod paid your ransom.

 20,000 load to Gustapo. Officer, you’re officially dead. Executed this morning. Don’t make me regret this. Then gone. Truck drives away. Arena sitting in alley in Warsaw. Broken legs, broken arm, broken ribs, missing fingernails. Barely able to move, but alive, impossibly alive. Zigod found her. Bribed corrupt Gustapo officer, faked execution papers, smuggled her out same way they smuggled children.

 Because Arena isn’t just network member. She’s the spine, the center, the one holding it together. They need her. So they bought her back. Two resistance members find her in alley. Carry her to safe house. Doctor comes. Real doctor sets bones. Bandages wounds. Morphine for pain. Tells her she’ll never walk properly. Leg breaks too severe.

 Too much damage. Limp for rest of life. Arena doesn’t care about limping. She’s alive. List is safe. Children are safe. That’s all that matters. 3 weeks recovery, then back to work. Can’t walk without crutches, but doesn’t need to walk. Just needs to think, organize, keep network running. Nazis think she’s dead. That gives freedom.

 New false identity. New papers, new name, same work. Smuggling continues. More children, more false identities, more names on the list. By wars end, Arena will have saved 2500 children. Not 342. 2500 Jewish children who would have died in ghetto or camps. Jewish children who survived because one Polish social worker decided their lives mattered more than her safety. January 1945.

Soviet army liberates Warsaw. Nazis retreat. Poland is free. Sort of. Soviets are different occupation, but at least not actively exterminating Jews. Arena digs up the jar. List intact. 2500 names, real identities, and false identities. She starts reuniting children with surviving family. Most parents dead, murdered in camps, but some survived, some made it. And Arena finds them.

Brings them back together with their children. Some children don’t want to go back. 8 n 10 years old now. Living as Catholics for years. Don’t remember being Jewish. Don’t remember real parents. Don’t want to leave. Only family they know. Heartbreaking. Arena helps anyway. Doesn’t force reunions.

 Just provides information. Families decide. After the war, Arena doesn’t seek recognition. Doesn’t write memoirs. Doesn’t give interviews. Poland under Soviet control now. Soviets don’t like talk about helping Jews. Too many questions about where Soviets were during Holocaust. Arena stays quiet. Back to social work. Raises family. Lives quietly.

40 years almost nobody knows what she did. The children know, their families know, but wider world doesn’t. Arena is just another Polish social worker, just another survivor, just another person who lived through war. Israel establishes Yad Vasham. World Holocaust Remembrance Center, documenting rescuers, people who saved Jews.

Someone mentions Arena Sendler. They investigate, find names, find children, find families, realize what she did. 1965, arena named righteous among the nations. Highest honor Israel gives non-Jews. Invited to plant tree at Yad Vasham. She’s 55, still limping from broken legs, still missing fingernails, still carrying scars.

 She goes to Israel, meets some children she saved, not children anymore, adults 25, 30 years old with children of their own. family’s existing because Arena risked everything. They thank her, try expressing gratitude, try explaining what it means. She listens politely, then says same thing she always says. I could have done more.

 I should have done more. They tell her she saved 25,500 people. She says she failed to save the other 400,000 in the ghetto. They tell her she’s hero. She says she was just doing her job. They don’t understand. Can’t understand. How can someone who saved 2,500 lives think they failed, but Arena remembers children she couldn’t save? Ones too sick to move? Ones whose parents refused to let go.

 Ones deported before she could reach them. She remembers their faces, their names, every single one. They haunt her. Four Kansas high school students doing history project. Find brief mention of Arena Sindler says she saved 2,500 children during Holocaust. Students don’t believe it. Number two big. Nobody could save 2,500 people. Must be typo.

Probably 250. They research. Number is real. Arena still alive. Living Warsaw. 89 years old. They write to her. Start correspondence. Write play about her story. Call it life in a jar because that’s where list was hidden in jar under apple tree. 2500 names on tissue paper. Play premieres Kansas. Small production, high school auditorium, maybe 200 people, but spreads.

 Other schools perform it. Story gets media attention. Suddenly, people want knowing about Arena Sindler. Who is this woman? How did she save 2,500 children? Why haven’t we heard about her? Arena nominated for Nobel Peace Prize. Doesn’t win. Al Gore wins for climate change work. Some outraged. How does politician talking whether beat woman who saved 2500 children from genocide? Nobel committee doesn’t explain.

 Arena doesn’t care. Never cared about awards. Cared about children. Awards came 60 years too late. Children needed her. 1942, not 2003. May 12, 2008. Arena Sindler dies in Warsaw. 98 years old. Lived long enough to see children she saved grow old. long enough to meet their children and grandchildren. Long enough to know her actions mattered.

That 2500 lives became 6,000 descendants. That entire family trees exist because she decided to act. Funeral attended by thousands. Government officials, survivors, families, people who never met her but knew what she did. Israeli ambassador gives eulogy. says Arena Sindler, one of most important people of 20th century, that she proved one person can make difference.

 That courage isn’t about size or strength, about deciding what’s right and doing it anyway. One survivor speaks. Elbieta Fikowska, 65 years old. Arena smuggled her out when she was 6 months old. Hid her in toolbox. The baby who cried, the lipstick incident, gave her to Catholic family, gave her life. Elbetta holds up photo baby in toolbox. That’s her.

 That’s moment her life was saved. I don’t remember Arena. I was too young. But I remember my Catholic parents telling me brave woman saved me. That woman risked everything so I could live. I owe her my life. My children owe her their lives. My grandchildren owe her their lives. Everyone here today owes Arena Sendler debt we can never repay. Crowd silent.

Then someone claps. Then everyone standing ovation for 98-year-old woman in coffin. Applause lasting 5 minutes for woman who spent life saying she didn’t deserve applause. That she just did what anyone should do. But everyone didn’t do it. Most people didn’t. Most followed regulations. Kept heads down. Stayed safe.

 Didn’t risk families for strangers. That’s human nature. Self-preservation. Survival. Not cowardice. Normal. Arena. Sendler wasn’t normal. She was exceptional, not because she was strong or trained or special, because she decided other people’s children mattered as much as her own safety. Because she looked at 25,500 children and said, “I’m responsible for them.

” Because when Gustapo tortured her, she chose pain over betrayal every single time. Here’s the lesson Arena left us. Simple, brutal, undeniable. If you see someone drowning, you must jump in to save them. Even if you cannot swim, most people won’t jump. That’s human nature, self-preservation, rational thinking. But heroes jump, not because they’re confident they’ll survive.

Because they can’t live with themselves if they don’t try. Arena jumped over and over 25,500 times. She jumped when she couldn’t swim. Jumped when water was freezing. Jumped when drowning was likely. Jumped anyway because that’s what you do when people are dying and you might stop it. She almost drowned. Gustapo almost killed her, but she didn’t stop jumping.

 Went right back after surviving. Kept jumping until war ended. Until nobody left to save, until drowning stopped. That’s heroism, not absence of fear, not superhuman ability, just refusal to let fear prevent action, willingness to risk drowning to save others. Decision that other people’s lives matter more than your own safety.

Arena Sendler was 5′ 3 in tall, 110 lb, social worker with no combat training, no resistance experience, no special skills except compassion and stubbornness. And she saved 2,500 children from genocide personally, individually, one child at a time. If she could do that, what’s your excuse? What drowning person are you walking past? What tragedy are you ignoring? What problem exists that you could address if you decided to jump? You’re not qualified. Neither was Arena.

 You might fail. Arena almost died. You’re afraid. Arena was terrified every single day. None of that stopped her. None of that should stop you. Find your drowning people, your cause, your impossible problem, and jump even if you can’t swim. Especially if you can’t swim. Because world doesn’t change because of people who can swim.

 It changes because of people who jump. Anyway, Arena Sendler jumped 2500 times and 6,000 people exist because she did. Now it’s your turn. Find the drowning people and