Red Runs the Vistula
by

Ron Jeffery
New Zealand, 1985

THE DIE IS CAST

      Some seven hundred zlotys, the Resistance allowance for Ena was left at the Lorenz factory by the engineer via the girls in Saska Kepa. Tania's medical duties precluded accompanying me with the cash and extra comforts for the two elderly dependents at Klembow, and arriving alone well burdened at the main railway station on the second mission of mercy, I purchased a return ticket to experience an unwarranted twinge on noting that two German policemen were checking tickets and documents at the platform barrier. The leave pass from the factory, kept strictly current, plus the labour card, did not warrant a second glance after the inspection followed by an uneventful journey. Ena and Daddy were relieved to feel that a regular lifeline had been established to keep body and soul together, and deep in a forest another safe little home away from home was added to my list of sanctuaries. Before leaving to return to Warsaw, with a promise to reappear within four weeks, my plans to team up with the Polish Underground and take some active part against the Germans were discussed with Ena, and of all the people who learnt of a conscience stricken ambition to get on with the fight, she was one of the few who understood and sympathised. The tough old lady, herself a fugitive from sure death commented with some sadness that my presence with her and Daddy in the Polish woods, was a consequence of the overall inability of people like us to keep out of trouble.

      With some reluctance, Ena gave a name, address and a couple of introductory passwords, for me to make a call concerning a job in the Resistance.

      Back in Warsaw, I went to a second floor apartment in a street just out of the main city centre, and met a handsome middle-aged woman who answered the knock. Ena had directed me to quite an imposing lady. Hair in a majestic, slightly graying bun which made her seem even taller, she pierced me with keen eyes which betokened a ruthlessness so extreme that the introductory passwords were almost stuttered. An imperious finger beckoned and in a small, comfortably furnished sitting room sat a well-dressed lean, pale young man who did not rise, or proffer any form of greeting as the door shut behind us. His suit was too immaculately cut to cater for the gun which bulged in a side pocket and gaining an impression that, were my bona fides not in order, the only problem facing the two people would be the disposal of my body, I was not at ease.

      Bolstered with the conviction that Ena was completely reliable, outwardly calm and collected, I faced the large female iceberg across a table, while the poker-faced male with the gun menaced from the rear. Questioning was cold and precise, not difficult to answer but it took some time for the couples' deep seated suspicion to abate. As the man stood up, shook hands and introduced himself as Jurek, a remarkable change came over the woman. Giving her name as Zosia and saying that I had come to the right place, her formerly cold eyes now twinkled a welcome. Since Ena's flight they could not be too careful. I welcomed the turn of events with a grateful hand kiss.

      I moved over from Zoliborz the next day. Jurek, the well dressed man with the gun was leaving Warsaw for a few months, and his room which overlooked the walled playground of what, before the war, had been a school, was mine for the asking. The school buildings now served as barracks for SS troops and from the closest quarters through the curtains of my new window, watching their guard mountings and other comings and goings became a consuming interest.

      With Zosia, a widow, lived her long legged teenage daughter, Halina, a frisky young filly who worked as a waitress in a garden cafetaria in the city, a common wartime pursuit for attractive lasses from good families. Such places were reputed to be a focal point for much youthful Resistance activity and I dropped in a few times for a free cup of coffee, never feeling quite at ease among wild young people all bubbling over with hatred for the Germans. Most of these colourful young bubbles were to sadly burst before and especially during the 1944 Uprising.

      Neither my new landlady nor her daughter spoke any tongue except their own native Polish, the resultant sole use of that language proving a boon to my fluency. Landlady Zosia was nothing like the first impressions and though a comparative stripling, my presence and chatter in the evenings, according to Halina, had brightened her up no end.

      Everything indicated that Ena had put me in contact with professionals where it would be safer to learn a new trade under experts instead of just picking it up. It was good to be back in the middle of Warsaw, to roam the main streets, basking in the feeling of collective security generated by the crowds of people, among whom even the German uniforms seemed not out of place. After exposure to every eye for miles while out in the wide open spaces of the Zoliborz suburb, the density of city buildings, people and traffic was like a protective shield. A forest creature who had spent too much time out on the prairie, on return to a natural sheltered habitat, would endorse my pleasurable reactions.

      With Zosia having no objections, I called on Tania and volunteered to carry on monitoring the BBC, on the one condition that a smaller receiving set would be available. Without telling Tania of my new abode, work for 'Echo' was resumed and a daily transcript of Allied news delivered to a building no more than a few streets away. A foot was back on the bottom rung of the Underground ladder.

      Sitting at the table by the window of my upstairs room with pencil in hand, noting down the news, a further dimension was watching the SS at work and play in the school grounds below.

      Each morning at about seven, a fatigue party of a dozen Jews would appear at the buildings now used as barracks, having marched under escort from the ghetto. Features plainly disclosing their Semitic origins, they were the saddest of sights and pale to the point of whiteness, which accentuated the sunken dark ringed eyes. Unkempt and unshaven, the poor fellows presented a scene of abject human misery. Their clothes were an assortment of filthy rags under which any visible limb was part of a human skeleton. With broom and bucket they busily shuffled about the buildings and the yard, to be marched back each evening to the ghetto hell.

      On my first Saturday morning at Zosia's the Jews arrived as usual. Busy noting the news from London, at the same time observing the adjacent military scene, towards lunchtime a change in the normal routine was apparent. The Jewish group had been assembled at midday instead of the evening parade which was usual on weekdays, before marching back to the ghetto. Saturday, presumably was an SS halfday to be shared by the fatigue party. The Jews stood in a forlorn line at the back entrance to the school turned barracks and as I watched through the curtains of the open window, a couple of SS men appeared and stood in front of them. The two soldiers were off duty. They wore no hats and, although in the normal attire of breeches and high boots, their tunics were unbuttoned and flung open, both men smoking cheroots. An unsteady gait and a swaying stance as the Jews were inspected, betrayed a considerable indulgence in alcohol. They were well inebriated and each Jew was peered at in turn.

      "Verfluchte Jude"*, screamed one, jabbing the lighted end of the cheroot into the man's chest. The Jew recoiled in pain and beat a quick retreat away from his tormentor. The movement provoked a spate of foul mouthed frenzy in the German who chased his victim, letting fly viciously with a jackboot, the second SS man catching the fever surged into similar action. The yard was soon a scene of running, screaming, panic stricken Jews as they raced about the enclosure trying to avoid the blows being rained on them with the only door of possible escape securely closed. The commotion brought German heads from windows higher up the building and vociferous encouragement rained down as the two initiators were reinforced by three other drunken brutes who rushed into the hunt wielding short lengths of heavy rubber pipe. The carnage went on until all the Jews were prostrate and bleeding. A body that moved or even twitched was booted to the accompaniment of further blasphemy, pleas for mercy silenced with a heel plate. Frothing at the mouth and panting from exertion, the SS men surveyed the scene with the air of men who had done their duty. A horsedrawn cart appeared, the bodies were flung on, and pools of blood were sprinkled with sand. Concluded, the shocking affair gave the impression that it had happened before and would happen again.

      Zosia, who was busy somewhere in the city on Saturdays, returned home later that afternoon heard what had happened. A vodka and sympathy calmed me down, to wake up the next day a different person. The desire for revenge on any and every Nazi took the rest of the war to subside. The Marquis of Queensbury and his precious code could go to hell. Laughter, a habit with which I had been amply blessed, returned slowly as the resilience of youth dimmed the memories of the bestiality. Zosia needed little convincing that a pictorial record should be made whenever possible of every German atrocity. In Allied hands, photographic records of such scenes would be of tremendous propaganda value. An upshot of the suggestion was the appearance in my room on the following Saturday of a Pole perhaps a year or two senior to me.

      Janek — yet another Janek — was fully engaged in Resistance work, a specialist in the production of false documents with camera expertise for producing the pictorial evidence of Nazi behaviour we required. Strikingly handsome with the higher cheekbones of the eastern Slav, athletically built, he was the son of a Polish professor of mathematics. University studies in the footsteps of his now dead illustrious father had been abandoned to become a professional Underground fighter with technical talents of inestimable value. For Janek to claim that he knew me was surprising, until it was realised that my current false passport was the work of his technical department and the photograph affixed a good likeness.

      The window curtains were arranged to conceal a camera, permitting the lens to focus on most parts of the yard below which was to be the stage. For three consecutive Saturday mornings we waited to take some damning pictures, and although it could hardly be termed unfortunate as far as the Jews were concerned, the only evidence of brutality were a few shots of an SS man booting a Jew from behind and one in full flight chasing another with a length of hose. Zosia had also seen this kind of incident on occasions and the massacre witnessed, exploding as it did, was clearly sparked on that particular day under the vicious influence of alcohol. The pictures we did procure, and a report sent back to London, made no impression that was ever heard about. Out of the whole incident a most rewarding aspect was the lengthy time spent in Janek's company. We were in friendly and conspiratorial contact, up until the day I left Warsaw.

      Janek was made well aware of my eagerness to do anything against the Germans, and submissions for a job resulted in a visit to Zosia's flat by an elderly civilian of most professional appearance and manners who gave no name, and posed a multitude of questions. My ability with the German language in this instance proved almost a stumbling block. The visitor who conducted part of the interview in modest German was amazed and perceptibly perturbed at my fluency, insinuating that Anna, the little pre-war German teacher, had been sent to England to ensnare young Britons into future service for the Nazis. After recounting in further detail the fortuitous background which had produced an unusual linguistic end product, my bona fides seemed to have been accepted. A more cordial atmosphere prevailed, assisted by Zosia's appearance with a bottle of vodka, some glasses and snacks.

      As soon as our mysterious guest had taken leave, Zosia hugged me. "First class, my dear", she exclaimed. "With verification of your background and approval from London you will join the Polish Home Army, one of us."

      Cabled replies from London to requests from Warsaw could take quite a time, although the haste of 1939 to get into the fun was no longer necessary. There was a hard night ahead, long enough to give every would-be-merry maker a fair chance of participating in a very sticky finish. Consoled that there was going to be any amount of wartime left to get into all the mischief possible to handle, impatience to start work with the Resistance was curbed, and the busy Warsaw round of newspaperman and social worker resumed.

      German uniforms around the city seemed much more numerous than before, not perhaps because of increased numbers of the enemy, but possibly because their barracks, which they had been loath to leave during the bitter months of winter, now disgorged them for a taste of summer sun. Nazi police were patrolling in greater numbers and as their civilian colleagues were doubtless equally around and about, the strictest vigilance was necessary, with constant care to keep the dates on my leave pass from the Lorenze factory always current. With radio monitoring over each day, time was always found to visit the Lorenz's and Janina in Zoliborz, Tania and Genia in the city, and especially Tommie, the girls and the engineer at Saska Kepa. Janek, to whom I was indebted for the introduction to the inner circles of the Resistance, lived a short walk away and he, his mother and sister also made me feel very much at home.

      Payday came around again and another trip was made to Ena and Daddy with her remittance and as much other bounty as it was possible to carry. There were no unpleasant incidents coming or going and for a couple of days relaxing in the peace of the pine forests and chatting to Ena in English was a pleasant change.

      Though so busy with one thing and another, time was found to spend on the banks of the Vistula sunbathing and swimming. Occasionally Zosia's daughter, Halina, free from cafeteria duties, would arrive. I always reclined to have a good view of the beach both ways and her long legs not as elegant as usual while negotiating the soft sand, were a welcome sight as she wended a way amongst other reclining bodies, to relax at my vantage point. A Polish grammar book was usually hidden inside the local German rag 'Warschauer Zeitung~* and questions arising from the book could hardly have been Halina's favourite topic on such occasions, but she was always charmingly tolerant and patient as help was sought with the perplexities presented by her country's written word. My preference would also have been for conversation in a lighter vein as between young man and young woman, but well conscious that a mastery of Polish could save my neck, albeit unwillingly, a serious school marm to pupil relationship was preserved. To be alive today might be construed a just reward for dedication to the duties demanded for self preservation.

      On one occasion sunning by the Visula, a side glance revealed in the distance the approach of a German officer in full uniform. Face down to the sand I became uncomfortably conscious that the Hun had halted on the path just above, his eyes boring down. A light thud at my side and he landed on the sand. A question was mildly posed. "Pole?" I nodded. There was little else to say or do. "Sprechen Sie Deutsch?" drew a shy admission that some German had been learnt at school. The captain, his now discernible rank, squatted down beside me and removed his cap to uncover what was for a Hun soldier, a fairly curly mass of hair, dark but graying. Requesting me quietly not be alarmed, which by now was certainly the case, he began a friendly conversation. After two years in Warsaw the pleasure of making the acquaintance of any Polish people had been denied him. Did I mind him talking to me? My inward alarm receded. Time spent as a cadet at sea before the war enabled rapid recognition of the officer's motivation. The type was apparent by movement, glance, voice, dress, and style, although I knew little and still know little about people of such persuasion.

      An agreeable discussion commenced with a constant theme that all men were one in the sight of nature. Whether or no this was an oblique reference to me in the captain's plans for the future, was not sure. Reacting innocently enough with nothing but vacuous replies, glimmers of thought surfaced about how such a situtation might be exploited. This German officer with such tendencies might well have rued the day had our meeting been a year later, when many more Underground resources were at my disposal. In some way or another he would have served our cause or died. Pleading shift duty at a German factory I confirmed my frequent sunbathing at the beach and left, expressing the pleasure it would be to meet again. That particular bank of the Vistula was personally off limits for the rest of the summer. The reason for telling of an otherwise unimportant encounter with this particular German officer is to emphasise the weakness of homosexuals in situations where their own leanings or yearnings drive them to seek comfort, even with the enemy, powerless to consider the possible consequences of their actions. Whatever these people get up to in private is their own business as far as I am concerned provided treachery is not spawned. The number of high ranking deviates within the British services who were seducers or seduced, defies conjecture and the long concealed scandals surfacing about foreign infiltration indicate a subversive malignancy within the United Kingdom establishment of such an extent that it is by now so deep seated to be probably beyond normal democratic surgery. More about this anon.

      While sitting in my room one mid afternoon, not long after the German officer incident, peacefully listening to the BBC, the serenity was jarred by the hurried opening of the front door of Zosia's flat. Both she and daughter Halina burst in. One of Zosia's closest associates had disappeared, and a Gestapo visit could be imminent. Before they had finished talking, I was emergency packed to move out, including my thankfully much smaller and easily transportable radio. About to leave for the hideout at Janina's in Zoliborz, to learn that the suburb was swarming with police and troops prevented such a move. Although probably unrelated to our own crisis, many arrests were being made amongst the local inhabitants and I made a silent plea to whoever manages such affairs for Janina and the Lorenz family not to be involved. There was not time to contact other bolt holes, and Halina quickly arranged an emergency night or two with some safe friends. Within minutes Zosia had flown and Halina, who was also fleeing hurried me and all the incriminating news monitoring gear onto a tram bound for the city centre. I sat rather conspicuously in a coffee shop while Halina went to arrange my now urgent lodging requirements, to return looking concerned. The proposed hosts had similar troubles which precluded having a guest of my background.

      The comparative calm in Warsaw since Tommie and I had arrived could well be over and were the day's events to prove a forerunner of increased police and Gestapo activity, one could feel thankful that time had allowed an opportunity to settle in and become reasonably organised in a new environment. Halina made a telephone call from the coffee shop. The staff, all Polish, could sense that we had a problem and looks of sympathy abounded as they appreciated some sort of difficulty, presumably Hun based, in which the two customers found themselves. Without the predominant desire of all Poles to help at all times, fugitives would often have fallen by the way. Panic stations were over, Halina had found me a place to stay. Another tram trip took us to Narutowicza Square, a wide open space surrounded by high rise apartment buildings, many still badly damaged from the fighting in 1939, others under repair and some habitable. The square, which I had visited many times, was a centre for much black market wheeling and dealing. Peasants haggled their wares from a multitude of mobile stalls of all shapes and sizes but this day of all days, to our dismay, the area was full of German police and troops, accompanied by many lorries.

      Stalls were being upturned and raided, people were being chased, seized, bundled into the trucks, and all goods smashed or confiscated. A cordon of troops surrounded the whole square, fortunate indeed that the tram stop at which we got off was outside the military cordon and immediately adjacent to the entrance of an apartment block, our destination. Halina and I hastily entered the ground floor and ran up the stairs to the first floor to stop and cautiously survey the Hun in action. The scene, in addition to the other events of the day, suggested that a round of extreme German unpleasantness might be commencing. Screams and shouts rent the air and peasants, mostly shawled women of middle age to elderly, were still running everywhere pursued by rifle wielding soldiers with no way out through the surrounding wall )f helmeted uniforms. One old lady rushed the line of troops in an attempt to break out, to collapse after a vicious butt blow to the head. She lay still and the Nazi who had felled her, rolled the body over and stamped on the upturned face.
"He wants the gold from her dentures", said Halina without emotion.
The operation was nearing its end. Lorries drove off, full of troops, the few remaining Germans completed wrecking the peasants' stalls, heaved a few motionless bodies onto a truck and also departed.

      In a flat up a few flights of stairs, a middle-aged lady, her two sons and a daughter received us solemnly, and Halina introduced me, somewhat unwisely, as a Briton working with the Resistance. Welcomed to stay for a few nights, my debt to the Poles mounted.

      The two young men were as fine looking as only well built young Poles in their twenties can look, and the daugther, about nineteen, was the most beautiful girl I have ever seen, regardless of having become something of a connoisseur in this land of delectable females. Her figure was one of Mother Nature's masterpieces and the widest blue eyes complemented to perfection the dark eyebrows and lashes. Long blonde hair framed an oval face with a skin of rose petals, peaches and cream. When she smiled, even shyly as in the beginning, her teeth flashed like lightning. Here was a jewel of womanhood far beyond the justice of a meagre pen. Though doomed miserably never to gaze on her again except for this one evening, a vision of the pinnacle of femininity remains forever undiminished. Dumbstruck and overawed it took a time to commence my usual magpie like chattering, let alone even dare hope that some lessons in Polish might be possible.

      The flat was poorly furnished, the whole apartment block had been severely war damaged and repairs just sufficient to make the flats habitable had been carried out. Suppertime arrived and we all sat down to a large bowl of hot sour cabbage soup and dark bread. The economics of war were being severely felt in this family and generated an appreciation of the good food and shelter which had been my lot to date. Conversation began to flow and a smile with the occasional laugh from the brothers and the daughter soon melted any reserve. It was difficult to keep my eyes off the daughter whose downcast glances betrayed a feminine knowledge of her effect on the visitor. She was studying in a secret Underground university and the young men enrolled in a Resistance fighting unit were training most weekends in some woods not far from Warsaw. All things considered, a place fairly safe from a sudden visit by the Gestapo, although alas space and finance would preclude the long term boarding of a hungry escapee. The haunting fear in the mother's eyes had also to be taken into account. Her husband had been killed in 1939 and the children's fate if my presence led the Nazis to the apartment was unthinkable. Excellent social headway was made and halfway through the soup, friendship was established. Still engrossed with the daughter and with the conceit of effervescing youth, a wishful impression developed that the lovely young Slavic girl was not entirely unattracted to me.

      Since escaping, many helpings of Polish sour cabbage, a dish wider known in German as sauerkraut, had been reluctantly consumed or avoided if possible. Wishing to show an appreciation of the meal which had been so generously provided in addition to hiding me for the night, the obnoxious stuff was spooned down taking care not to impolitely grimace as it burned its way into my stomach. At the same time I chewed heartily on a hard slice of dark bread, again not a favourite food. Manifested by a slight pain within, a warning should have been heeded that further consumption would result in rebellion. During the night, woken by a searing stomach pain, a pressing need to visit the toilet brooked absolutely no postponement. Electricity in Polish dwellings was disconnected after curfew time and without torch or matches, a desperate way was groped in the pitch dark through the strange apartment. A couple of chairs were noisily knocked over, impossible for the clatter not have roused the household. Salvation was not attained. My cup of misery ran completely over. I had to leave. Gestapo or no Gestapo, to stay was unthinkable. Human beings are very peculiar and what would have been of little concern to the more enlightened primates, had shattered my world. Rising at the glimmer of dawn after scribbling a brief note of thanks I slunk off. No Briton worth his salt would have acted otherwise. Sauerkraut was never to be eaten again and impressions of a most beautiful girl linger sadly on.

      Genia, my violin-toting benefactress, commented on an unusual quietness later that morning, and a couple of nights without going out at all betraying that something was bothering me, her solicitude was maternity personified. The violin was still being tortured but somehow its squeals of agony were more bearable than during the previous visit. My presence at Genia's was, after all, precipitated by a disturbance of the peace after which performance the maestro had felt compelled to flee the audience. By the third morning I had cheered up sufficiently to contemplate the next move. Genia confirmed that a massive co-ordinated German roundup had taken place in most districts of Warsaw. Hundreds of Poles had been dragged from their homes and carted off to prison, only a few taken in the streets which pointed to the action being mainly directed at the Resistance Movement.

      The Americans have an expression 'to case' which they use to describe the viewing and consideration of a situation from every possible angle. Some time was spent casing the Lorenz factory. With comings and goings normal, and no sign of any enemy presence, I went in to see Janina whose greeting left no doubt as to her depth of concern for my safety. She and all the Lorenz family had been undisturbed during the recent crackdown although many Zoliborz residents were now in German hands. There were no reports of arrests affecting my own circle although the wide extent of the German roundups had triggered a spate of alerts which rippled disturbingly through Underground waters. Gratefully farewelling Genia once again, I moved back to the more lively atmosphere at Zosia's.

      The beautiful weather drew me to Ena's cottage in the forest on numerous occasions and arriving laden with necessities, mainly gathered by doctor Tania, my visits were doubly welcome. Economic matters for her and Daddy had stabilised themselves and for days at a time I mooned among the pines.

      My Polish had become, for a day-to-day general living basis, increasingly fluent. Vocabulary and grammar were no problem but constant practise was needed with certain petrifying aspects of Slavic prounciation. For ages I was obliged to studiously refrain from using certain words, such was the complexity of sounds demanded in their enunciation, if detection as a stranger was to be avoided.

      The August summer sun baked down on the pedestrians who thronged the Warsaw streets. The city was enduring its third year of occupation, yet there was no sense of defeat in the air. The overall war news from Russia, the Battle of the Atlantic, the Far East and North America, and who knew better than a radio monitor, was not good, but nothing shook the faith of the Poles in an ultimate Allied victory and the liberation of their country. Some of my optimistic BBC transcripts were aimed at maintaining this attitude.

      With a considerable wardrobe hidden in many places all over town, it was possible to make almost daily changes of clothes and appearances. From a range of suits, riding boots, breeches and jackets, caps and Tyrolean hats, one of my favourite garbs was a knickerbocker suit referred to at home by the golfing fraternity as plus fours. Walking had much influence on a personal image projection. In knickerbockers I walked jauntily, from head to toes, with the devil may care swing of youth. Few police gave a second glance to such an innocent looking lad and if they did, his papers showed him to be on leave after doing a good job for the Wehrmacht, a useful young Pole. In riding boots and breeches and a turned down Tyrolean hat, the purposeful tread of the master race was adopted and when in possession of documents showing me to be a German citizen of the Reich, any normal security check posed little problem. A small Nazi party members' badge embossed with a black swastika on red was procured. This emblem was concealed under a jacket lapel to be confidently revealed when accosted by the police. The sudden appearance of this special insignia seldom failed to evoke a pleasant word of encouragement and a disinterest in further investigation, although to have openly displayed such a badge in Warsaw would have been unwise with many Poles having declared an open shooting season on Germans when a favourable opportunity presented itself. Whenever possible it was preferable to keep to the busiest and shop-lined streets and especially when in possession of any incriminating material, a good practice was to cross the road casually and pretend an interest in a shop window display, the glass reflection affording a good look behind and across the road.

      One morning on one of my rounds, a couple of German policemen were spied way ahead, walking slowly in the same direction and on the same pavement. Slowing down to avoid overtaking them, I was about to cross the road to pass them on the opposite side when they halted a middle-aged man. Gaining the other pavement without any risk, I ambled nearer to give the scene full attention. The man's hands were in the air. It was plain that the Jerries had caught a Jew. The poor fellow's white skin and dark eyes, even from a distance, drew attention to a possible Semitic background and the Huns, finding something amiss with their victim's documents scented blood. Everybody on either side of the Street kept walking, if anything faster than before as I halted to look through an opposite shop window which provided a clear reflected view.

      The police unslung their rifles and roughly prodded the man, who still had his hands up, into an alleyway which ran down between two buildings. Trousers and underpants were savagely ripped down by the rifle barrels, an adherence to a physical aspect of the Jewish religion being sought. A loud shout of "Jude" which rent the air left no doubt that the further evidence sought for by the two policemen had been disclosed. There was nothing to do except be most sorry for the poor devil and leave the scene. Two shots rang out, the man lay prostrate, and the two Huns back on leisurely patrol, walked on as if nothing had happened.

      Where the Aleja Jerozolimska crossed the Nowy Swiat was probably the busiest intersection in Warsaw. East bound traffic towards and over the Poniatowski Bridge ran at right angles to the heavy flow to and from the city centre. A German policeman was always on daytime duty, busily engaged in directing the mass of vehicles and pedestrians and as is customary with such gods of movement control, all vehicles were halted every few moments and the crowd of waiting people beckoned across. The flow over, the wheels would be given an equally superior gesture to recommence rolling with an annoying tendency to keep the unimportant foot traffic waiting an unfairly long time in favour of the German transport. On one occasion, although stuffed with secret newspapers, my knickerbockers which projected a very young boyish image, saved the day. In great haste to meet a delivery deadline, scurrying along the Nowy Swiat and anxious to speedily negotiate the intersection, it was frustrating to view the tail end of a large pedestrian queue halfway across and the policeman about to signal two lines of vehicles to move. Ignoring the German's restraining hand, I sped after the last straggler who had by then almost reached the other side of the crossing. My knickerbocker clad legs went twinkling by the very large policeman, who, taking a dim view of a flaunting of authority, bellowed a very loud "Halt!" Much alarmed, I pretended not to hear and kept going. Heavy footsteps rushed up from behind and an enormous gloved hand seized me firmly and none too gently by the scruff of the neck. The Jerry cop screamed and frothed away about what he was going to do "Mein Lieber"*. Conscious of trouser legs full of secret newspapers, one could only pray that his purpling face was heralding the onset of a heart attack, and fortunately, no other police were in sight to whom he could have handed me over. A combination of a hastily blurted excuse that my mother had collapsed and I was rushing for the doctor, and a mounting queue of impatient undirected traffic resulted in a rough push on my way. Regaining his little rostrum he still waved a finger warning "Mein Lieber" to watch out. From then on, but only while wearing my knickerbockers, a cheery good morning was waved to the big traffic cop being meticulously sure not to offend again when crossing the junction. He eventually acknowledged the greetings with a smile and I hated him a very little less than all the other Germans in the world. Needless to say, when dressed in jackboots and breeches the traffic cop's path was avoided. No point in setting the man's mind wondering if he became curious about a striking change of wardrobe.

      With Polish now competently passing linguistic muster, a new range of social life to which Halina seemed pleased to introduce me was opened up. All her crowd of young people were dedicated to an 'eat, drink and be merry for tomorrow we die' existence and had I been a Pole, it was certain that a similar flood of patriotic fatalism would have also swept me along. She took me to a 'namesday'* celebration at a large apartment on the first floor of a prestigious block, which fronted on to Nowy Swiat, a fashionable street, the scene of the traffic cop episode. There lived a Doctor Kaziu with his plump and motherly wife Stefka, two twentyish daughters, Marysia and Krysia, plus teenage son Jedrek. Last, but by no means least of the household was Victoria, a buxom peasant maid, lovable and loyal. The spacious accommodation was crowded with guests of both sexes and all shapes and sizes. Proficiency in Polish now allowed a straightforward introduction to everybody present as Pawel, a Polish christian name the equivalent of Paul in English.

      I had become known as Pawel to all my Polish acquaintances and with them the name persists until the present day. It is pronounced more or less as written, although to the expressive Poles, more especially the females, the intimate form of Pawelek, Pawelku or Paweleczku was often used. Nothing like little Paul, baby Paul or little baby Paul to lend a warming touch of Slavic sentiment and endearment to the hard life of the times in which we were living. The friendliest of atmospheres, together with ample food and drink made for a most enjoyable evening, and glass in hand I chatted away answering questions about life in Britain, my family and the so many things English about which everybody seemed keen to hear. Halina enjoyed presenting me to everyone and, to learn that all of them were working in some way or another in the Underground created a comforting team spirit for the occasion.

      Curfew time was looming up, the crowd thinning with the approaching dangerous deadline for Poles to be out of doors. Keeping an eye on the time, it was clear that Halina and I were cutting it very fine to make it safely back home to Zosia's and suddenly the only people left were the doctor, his family, a youngish middle aged couple, Halina and me. I remonstrated gently with Halina that unless departure was immediate there would be every chance of being picked up by a German patrol. The mischievious smile of the young imp betrayed that she had, from the beginning, no intention of going home that evening and had already, in cohorts with the doctor's two daughters, secured an invitation to stay for the night. Zosia, her mother, had already been telephoned and as curfew time was now but a matter of minutes away, there was nothing I could do but gracefully, if grudgingly, accept the situation, although displeased that a foolhardy disregard had been made of basic Resistance essentials. Casual overighting with no prior security checks was asking for trouble. With no urgency to leave, we all sat around the large dining table. The now much smaller gathering permitted an intimacy precluded by the congestion earlier in the evening. Vodka and snacks were still in constant flow and it was a treat to be part of such a close knit and affectionate family. The Kaziu's were fortunate that they had so far escaped any serious family hurt, memories of which had often clouded the gaiety at many other Polish homes. It turned out that the middle aged couple who, apart from Halina and myself were the only remaining visitors who had not hurried off to beat the curfew, lived in an identical apartment one floor up in the same building. For them there was no need to run the gauntlet of Hun patrolled streets.

      Everyone was so proudly patriotic and full of good will towards Britain that acknowledgement is due to the public relations expertise of Britons long gone. These wizards had not only succeeded in making pink the predominant colour of the world atlas, but had also laid a foundation in everyone's mind that Englishmen were men of their word, brave and of impeccable taste and wisdom. To an unwarranted conceit I hasten to concede, but not to the extent which prevents a consciousness of the long gone investments of my British forbears which were still reaping dividends of affection and reverence in Warsaw. It was a studied importance to maintain this high opinion of Britons by curbing pretension with an accent on modesty. With all the talents and qualities of the Poles, it was not difficult for a person of my shortcomings to play a genuinely humble role.

      Conversation flowed back and forth across the table for ages, much of it humorous, some involved with the seriousness of the general situation. It was difficult to forget even in the midst of such warmth that within a few yards from where we sat, armed Huns were pacing the Nowy Swiat alert for an opportunity to subdue and kill.

      Marysia and Krysia, the two daughters, not unnaturally held my main attention. Marysia was dark and Krysia was blonde, both evincing through their eyes the depth of fullness of heart of a proud and passionate race. Emotional people like the Poles have for me always been easier to sympathise with than the more logical and colder fish. Logic may well be a practical approach to the solution of life's problems, but an emotional reaction which plumbs the depth of anguish ensures the full savouring of the heights of ecstasy. Those from birth doomed to be bloodless will forever remain unappreciative of such sentiments, unaware of what they miss.

      A whispered initiative came from Florian and wife Anna, the couple from upstairs. They would be delighted for me to be their guest for the night, the offer made so graciously that an acceptance was received almost as if a favour had been granted. To adopt the correct perspective it must be remembered that my presence, if discovered in anybody's home, was a one way ticket to eternity. I was soon installed at peace with the world in a comfortable spacious bed in a comfortable spacious room. The next morning Marysia and Krysia arrived from downstairs and took me firmly away for breakfast. The doctor went on his rounds, Krysia, departed for a lecture in an Underground medical school, Jedrek went wherever boys with no school disappear to, and I spent the rest of the morning with Marysia and mother Stefka to be once again joined by Florian and his wife. Quite a disruption had been caused in the two households, not least to Victoria, the maid. She appeared from all over the place to stand gazing at the visitor, who, from her wide eyed expression, might just as well have come from Mars.

      By lunchtime new lodgings for the future had been settled. I was to live upstairs with Florian and Anna and eat downstairs with the doctor and his family and there was every reason to be delighted with the new arrangements. Neither Florian nor his wife had an active part in the Resistance, the doctor was on Underground medical reserve and his family were probably best described as loyal supporters. Sheltering me plainly qualified them for that patriotic category and with the knowledge that a foundation had been laid for the safest accommodation enjoyed to date, I returned to live for a further week or two with Zosia and Halina.

      Before moving from Zoaia's much time was spent with Janek, whose Underground department agreed to provide me with a substantial background as a Pole legally domiciled with Florian and his wife. There was no need to change the Polish documents as Kawala, which with my German Labour card registered at the Lorenz factory and the leave pass, had stood me in good stead during street checks. Required was a background with a fair chance of survival during a casual night visit to one's lodgings by the Gestapo. To this end Janek somehow arranged for Kawala to be officially inscribed on the German dwelling register with a document verifying his residence at the apartment above the doctor's. A genuine birth certificate also came to hand, and what with a couple of false letters from a girlfriend addressed to darling Josef it was becoming difficult to remember my real name. The problem remained to protect Florian and his wife from the responsibilities of wilfully harbouring an enemy of the Reich. It was arranged therefore to advertise accommodation in their apartment, a smile appearing at an observation that although the 'Echo' secret paper would offer cheap rates, undesirable applicants might result from such an Underground insertion.

      Shortly after my move from Zosia's to the Nowy Swiat there were some serious tidings. Mrs Jankowska was dead. Lasting but a short period as Underground matron to the British escapees and other fugitives, she had been arrested together with her elderly mother. The arrest by the Gestapo coincided with a visit to her home by four other British ex-prisoners of war including my special friend Peter Winton. The two women and the Britons were all captured in one swoop. Mrs Jankowska who died under torture and her mother who possibly succumbed to the rigours of the notorious Pawiak prison, was also dead. The Britons had been fiercely interrogated but thankfully had survived and been sent back to a prisoner of war camp. The prescribed security evacuation from dwellings was thankfully unnecessary and as none of the captives had broken under pressure, the initial storm of anxiety subsided and everybody returned home.

      Mrs Jankowska's successor was a very attractive, bubbling mature blonde, a typical life and soul at any party. Czesia whose husband, an airman, had not been heard of since the outbreak of war, requested my assistance to contact the balance of the escapees for her, and to me was delegated the task of taking her to Klembow to meet her rural responsibilities, Ena and Daddy. Through Czesia I met a middle aged Pole, pseudonym Stefan, the newly appointed chief of a reorganised Underground section dealing with fugitives. Having received all the new documents deemed necessary to live comparatively safely at Florian's, and thus fortified to face the future, it was a further pleasure when Janek disclosed that my bona fides had stood the test in London from whence had also come an approval for duty with the Polish Home Army, the National Resistance Movement.

      To meet my future Underground chief I went to a dingy, small but comfortable cafeteria in the centre of the city, aptly named 'Burrow'. The girl cashier must have known the person to expect and directed me into a small back room where sitting at a table was Karol, a captain in the Polish Secret Service. His secretary, Lila, was also present. Why were all these Polish girls so attractive?

      Grey, going bald, moustached and, but for the bluest of eyes, not a readily recordable physical feature, Karol got straight to the point. He was in charge of Intelligence for the Reich, Austria and Czechoslovakia, in which territories my German fluency would be put to good use. 1943 said Karol, was to see the commencement of my active service and for the three months remaining in 1942, I would attend an Underground Intelligence school with Lila his secretary, who spoke fluent German, and had also volunteered for service in the Reich. It was a relief to hear that three months would elapse in training before the active consequences of impetuosity were due to eventuate. A waitress produced a bottle of vodka with some snacks, and enthusiasm for the job perked up as the spirit mellowed forebodings about a very short-lived espionage career. Additional vodkas further brightened the outlook. Prior to going on the spy course there was, said Karol, a little job to be done and as Lila was also leaving the service, an involvement would be good experience for her.

      It was explained that from Krakow — the renowned university city south of Warsaw — a request for urgent assistance had been received from a local Resistance cell. Four allied airmen, escapees from a German prisoner of war camp in Breslau, had managed to reach Krakow in the General Government and contact members of the Underground Army. Hidden just outside the city, in the normal way they would have been processed and assisted to the best of local facilities except for a disturbing suspicion which had been conveyed to Warsaw. Of the four airmen, three claimed to be English, American and Australian respectively with which description the Krakow group were satisfied. The fourth member of the escape group claimed also to be a Briton and the Krakow Poles had as yet been unable to establish his true identity with anything like confidence. A plant by the Germans was suspected, and who better to investigate an imposter posing as an Englishman than a genuine Englishman, yours truly, now living in Poland for just such an occasion. The Krakow cell, said Karol, had been advised that pending the arrival of a verification team from Warsaw, the four escapees were to be kept in strict custody. Lila and I were to leave as soon as arrangements for an interrogation were complete.

      Although it had been decided for Lila and me to travel to Krakow and vet the four escapees, no instructions had been given as to what to do after reaching a verdict. Were the airmen genuine, Warsaw seemed the place to bring and hide them if the interview revealed nothing sinister, which raised the question of accommodation, although with a near-future involvement up to the neck in Resistance work, there was little inclination to donate any of my long prepared safe hideouts.

      Czesia was instructed to arrange four sets of accommodation in Polish homes, if and when Lila and I were able to bring the new arrivals from Krakow to Warsaw. She was also requested to meet every overnight train returning from Krakow to Warsaw, which arrived at about breakfast time, until we eventually turned up with or without the escapees. Safe lodgings for the potential newcomers were comfirmed as already available and it was suggested that if the courageous lady hosts to these airmen could be in the vicinity of the station when we arrived, my countrymen could be distributed with little delay and more safety. All timing was synchronised and I had a drink with Czesia that afternoon, who reported approval of the plan from chief Stefan. I had been given a free hand and only hoped that nothing would go wrong. Free hands are all very well but there was a feeling that even for this small and comparatively unimportant war exercise, Karol had purposely thrown the new recruit in at the deep end to assess an ability to swim.

      After my acceptance for training in Resistance Intelligence, Karol had given permission for uncontrolled access to any false papers deemed necessary to assist survival in Warsaw. Documents for a particular mission involving travelling and the assumption of a certain identity would be discussed as part of an overall scheme. Other than this last minor restriction, with friend Janek in the document department, a whole field of wonderful aliases beckoned and almost disappointingly, no new papers were needed for the Krakow mission. Lila was to travel as a Pole and if the escaped airmen were to come back with us to Warsaw, they would travel in the Polish sector of the train, and as their escort, there was no option but for me to do likewise. My travelling outfit was that of a well dressed young Polish businessman in high boots, jacket and trilby, with a leave pass from the Lorenz factory for one week. Kawala had never been to Krakow and what nicer way to spend a few days off to absorb some of the beauty and character of the renowned old Polish city of learning.

      Back in my room at Florian's well before the eight o'clock curfew, I shaved and cleaned up, put my papers in order and went downstairs for dinner before leaving to catch the overnight train with a swastika stamped ticket which permitted being abroad after curfew hour. With the confident tread of one fully entitled to be abroad, I made my way past the German cafeteria at the corner of Nowy Swiat and Jerusalem Drive and turned right towards the railway station, some minutes walk away. Drunken German soldiers reeled, singing, out of the eating place. As no Pole even with my impressive papers could expect any consideration from a Hun in his cups I outdistanced them and sped on. Life hinged so much on luck and on an apparently authorised and legal way to the station, some drunken uniformed German lout could, by unhappy coincidence, prove a catastrophic undoing.

      Lila was punctual, wearing a smart little pill box fur hat which suited her well, easily spotted, even in the dim of a crowded platform. The train stopped a few times at deserted stations in marked contrast to the scene at Czestochowa, a town of religious and industrial fame about three-quarters of the way to Krakow. Even in the early hours of the morning, the platform there was swarming with German police and peering out from the darkened carriage to pick up the odd German conversation, it seemed that the train was in for a full-scale security check. The train was so crowded however, that the Hun patrols would have been unable to board and check without throwing most passengers onto the platform. A police officer gave a despairing signal and we puffed off with a considerable decrease in the tension which had invaded our compartment during the long and agitating delay.

      A chilly misty autumn morning welcomed us to Krakow station, the end of a tiring journey and after the uncomfortable trip, heavy lidded and stiff, it was difficult to drum up enthusiasm for anything, let alone Krakow. Lila hurried off the station and in an unassociated manner. I followed to rejoin her not far away in a small café where, over a cup of ersatz coffee, she introduced a contact man from the local Resistance who sat waiting. The café, our new friend explained, was as safe as possible under the circumstances and both Lila and I were further introduced to a walrus whiskered Polish proprietor, oozing conspiracy from every pore, as well as breathing it in and out, heavily vodka laden through the outsized moustache. The four escapees for interrogation were being held at a small farm just outside the city boundary. The Underground were confident that three of the men were genuine Allied airmen. The fourth was the problem and to leave my mind unprejudiced, no Polish suspicions were mentioned.

      The contact man departed leaving details to enable us to rendezvous and meet the escapees at lunchtime. After a further snack and a clean up, Lila and I farewelled Mr. Walrus Whiskers and sauntered out into the town. The most marked difference between Warsaw and Krakow was the absence of war damage in the latter city. Many of the old buildings lurched in drunken decay and, though doubtless they were of great historical and architectural interest, it seemed to me that the damage structures all over Warsaw, half blown to pieces as they were, possessed a life and spirit non-existent in Krakow. A major impression was of uneven cobblestones and streets of centuries old little shops with lattice windows. Traffic by Warsaw standards, both pedestrian and vehicular, was minimal and slower. A seat was possible on the much less crowded trains, and the German police, wearing the same uniforms as their Warsaw counterparts, seemed far less menacing. I could hardly wait to get out of the place and back to the captivating siren of Warsw. Bear in mind that it was a bleak day with not a wink of sleep on the preceding night and lack of enthusiasm for Krakow and its tempo is no reflection on the many patriotic Poles whose hearts beat as passionately against the Hun there, as did those of their more numerous compatriots in Warsaw.

      In a quaint little black market restaurant after fortifying ourselves with an expenses-paid late morning meal we caught a tram and alighted near a farmhouse to which directions had been given by the contact man. Well early for the appointment, I sent Lila for a walk and casually reconnoitred the area, unable to discern anything untoward. If one of these fellows was a German plant, such a trap could well hook Lila and me and suggesting that until the time to call we make ourselves scarce, we were about to do just that when the door of the designated building opened and five men came out. Obscured from view by a tramshelter and some bushes, from this vantage point the Resistance man met earlier that morning was quickly recognised and the other four looked exactly what they were, fugitives of some kind. Clothing, which would pass local civilian muster, was not the reason, simply a bearing from which emanated a wave length of physical and mental tension. Individually, this broadcast of trepidation might not have drawn much notice to the person involved, but the group, which was now making its way in our direction pulsating alarm, could not fail to collectively draw unwanted attention. A long admirer of Polish bravery, an impression that some Poles had suicidal tendencies was rapidly gaining ground. Here were four of the most suspicious looking characters imaginable, with no documents, being taken walkies in broad daylight by a member of the Underground movement in the midst of enemy occupied terriorty. As the little party shuffled by the tramstop I stepped sadistically out and all five came to a startled halt. The Pole recognised me at once, his shock of short duration compared with the others suddenly confronted with an apparition in high boots, breeches and a German appearance indicating that the game was up. Dismayed at the amateurishness of the whole performance, such a crass display was not the fault of the escapees and to have kept them on tenterhooks would have bordered on the unfair.

      "All right, chaps", I blurted out in public school English, "I'm one of yours, let's get back to the house." Inside the farmhouse I shook hands with the escapees, congratulated them on a clean break out, requesting names and ranks with no word about myself. Two other Poles already in the house were left guarding the prisoners, and the Polish contact man we had already met that morning took me to a room upstairs.

      The contact man and I remained upstairs and sat at one side of a large table, papers and pen poised with an empty chair on the opposite side for the person to be interviewed. The Pole's pistol was borrowed and placed under my hat on the side of the table. The pen is mightier than the sword but no saying when a touch of sword might come in handy. From the outset the first three were clearly who and what they had claimed to be. Sergeant Pilot Keith Chisholm, an Australian fighter pilot with the R.A.F. came in first. He had been studying dentistry in London before the war and since being shot down, most of his time had been spent trying to get out of prison, a fellow well after my own heart. The American, Charlie MacDonald, also a sergeant fighter pilot, had come over from the States at the beginning of hostilities and after flying with the famous Eagle Squadron, had been transferred to the R.A.F. and also shot down. Geoffrey Hickman, shot down over Calais, had the same flying rank and duty as the first two and came from my area of London. It was impossible not to have formed the highest opinion of three likeable and courageous young men, and a regard for them was further enhanced when all of them, without the slightest prompting, referred to me as "Sir".

      Before summoning the fourth member of the party, I had gleaned a deal about him from the other three. There was certainly much to ponder. The fellow about to be interviewed had joined them in a camp for flyers at Breslau, in territory incorporated into the Reich after Poland's downfall, admitting openly that he was not an airman. His new friends in the camp were told that he was a Pole who had emigrated in the thirties to Britain, joined the British Army to be eventually captured in Greece and taken to a camp in Germany. To facilitate escape he had schemed a transfer to the Breslau camp, which was before annexation, inside what had been his native Poland. To the Australian, the American and the English pilots, airborne talents were of little use in a prisoner of war camp, but a comrade who spoke fluent German and Polish was a warmly welcomed member to the team when an offer to accompany them in an escape bid was made.

      The entrance of the last man of the four immediately added a serious dimension to our problems. Just previously in the street outside the house, there had been insufficient time or view to come to the conclusion which was now patently apparent. Poor Nick Carter was a Jew. Not unfortunate for being a Jew, but for being a Jew in German occupied Poland. The information about himself that his three comrades had already volunteered was more or less confirmed and during our general conversation which followed, languages were switched from Polish to German and then to English. Polish, with a Jewish accent was plainly his 'Muttersprache', with German, fairly fluent but again with the Jewish accent. and for a man who claimed to have lived for some years in Britain and indeed to have served in the British Army, his English came in a very poor third place. These linguistic tactics resulted in Carter's face betraying the fear of somebody who realised that trouble was brewing.

      His regiment, name, rank and number were given without hesitation and as with the other three, he was asked to write down the name and address of his next of kin in England. As you will know, in Britain when giving an address, the christian and surname is given first. On the next line comes the number and name of the street, the third line has the name of the city, town or village, then finally the district and country. The name of Carter's next of kin was, not unnaturally, a Mrs. Carter and then, completely foreign to British custom, on the next line was written Manchester, and underneath the name of the city, a house number and the street involved. I sat and looked at Carter, trying to convey the dual impression that mastermind was at work with everything under complete control. To take the initiative Carter was informed that I had come from the United Kingdom to work officially with the Polish Underground Army, a legally constituted military presence in occupied Poland. This army was ready to provide all possible assistance to Allied escapees and everybody who fell into that category could rely upon my co-operation as well. His three comrades had already described his valuable assistance during the breakout so far, but free of German captivity they were under Polish army jurisdiction.

      Expressing concern that the Polish Resistance had not fully believed his statement, my own doubts were quietly voiced to infer that radio verification from London would be sought and until such time as a reply was received he would be held in safe custody by the Underground. Far preferable would it be however, if Carter were to tell the complete truth about himself instead of persisting with the United Kingdom part of his history to which I bluffingly referred to as fabrication. Poor Carter! I hated being unkind. Here was a chap who, I felt intuitively, was not a German agent but a man whose Jewish origins presented both of us with some ticklish problems beyond the normal call of military duty.

      As though without thinking, I lifted my hat from the table to reveal the borrowed pistol. Its silent, sudden appearance conveyed much more than words, although what type of message was uncertain. Carter gazed at the weapon and altered his story. Slowly at first, but with increasing speed, desperate to clear his conscience and tell the whole truth. In essence his family had left eastern Poland before the war to settle in Palestine, where the young Carter had enlisted in the army. Somehow or other he had finished up being taken prisoner by-the Germans on Crete. It was feared that a Palestinian home adress, in addition to his semitic features, would have certainly branded him as a Jew to his Hun captors. To avoid such a disclosure was his only consideration in embarking on a masquerade campaign and an escape. Carter felt that speaking Polish and German in Poland, his own former country, would have been sufficient to keep himself out of Nazi clutches to eventually reach England with his three bona fide airman companions. I believed him. An ignorance of the tragic Jewish situation in General Government might have been his only mistake but it could cost him his life.

      Relieved that the potentially messy business of unmasking a Hun spy had been avoided, I was, nevertheless, acutely aware of the precarious situation. In a twofold role of escaped prisoner and Jew, he was bound to be retaken and outside of a ghetto in the General Government such features were a mobile death sentence for himself or anyone helping him. The thought of leaving him in Krakow with the Poles was now unacceptable. He had escaped from the enemy and as Warsaw was the only place where safety might be ensured, to Warsaw he would go. Having taken this decision, the Carter complication aside, a safe arrival to as far as Warsaw with such an ill-prepared human cargo in itself presented a difficult problem. Some Polish false documents for the newcomers would have helped, but as these were not readily available, there was little else that could be done in Krakow.

      Lila went off to the railway station to purchase four extra tickets for the overnight train to Warsaw, the inevitable bottle of vodka produced, and the opportunity was taken for a briefing on procedure for the journey.

      The three Krakow Poles would separately escort the escapees to the railway station, where Lila would hand over tickets, and then onto the platform, followed by our fellow passengers. There was to be no mixing or recognition among the four and, although it was not necessary to walk about as though they owned the place, they were to appear unconcerned and sure of themselves, acting the part of normal Polish civilians on a perfectly natural train journey. What about anybody speaking to them, somebody asked. I refrained from saying that if such an approach was from either a police or civilian German security check, prayer was the only advice and when making such submissions to be sure and put in a word for Lila and me. Were one of them to fall, the whole train would probably be investigated in detail as without papers or language, the Englishman, the American and the Australian were weak enough links, but Carter, accent and featurewise through no fault of his own, rendered the whole chain dangerously unreliable. Were a Pole to engage them in conversation, they were to mime deaf and dumb. No matter how mystified the Pole might be, he or she would refrain from drawing any kind of suspicion that might be harboured to the attention of the enemy.

      Without relishing the prospect I decided to travel in the same compartment as Hickman and MacDonald, Chisholm, the Australian, a wagon or two away with Lila, and Carter sitting alone further down the train was well capable of looking after himself, not quite the true reason. If he was taken only under suspicion of being Jewish, a full scale search of the train might not ensue as escaping Jews did not travel in company.

      I walked up and down the dark and crowded platform to note with satisfaction that Lila and the four had distributed themselves along its entire length. Everything was so far so good, although premature optimism was influenced by reminding myself about a man who accidentally fell from the top story of a skyscraper. Sailing down past the first floor window en route to the pavement, it was quite correct for him to also note that everything was so far, so good.

      For the first time since travelling in Poland, it was unfortunate that the train was not overcrowded. With standing room only and hardly room to breathe, revision by the Germans would have been that much more difficult than in the half empty train which now moved out from the Krakow station on its way to Warsaw. There was not a standing passenger in either compartment or corridor. Lila with Chisholm and Carter by himself, had boarded as arranged while I sat between Hickman and MacDonald a few wagons removed. Sleep was feigned and the rest of the passengers around us seemed genuinely to be enjoying the same blessed pastime.

      An application of the Law of Possibilities pointed miserably to being caught through no fault of my own and still pessimistic it seemed no time when around midnight we stopped at Czestochowa. Like the night before on the way down from Warsaw, the station was swarming with uniformed Germans. Dim lights lit up the interior of the carriages and, with so few passengers the sense of security associated with being sheltered and incognito within a large crowd was lost.

      A harsh Nazi instruction to stay inside was the first sign of trouble. Passengers intending to disembark were being restrained from doing so and casually rising, I glanced up and down the length of the train. Police in couples were boarding every wagon, the leader with pistol drawn and his companion flashing a powerful torch. Other police with machine pistols at the ready stood alert on the platform. As the torches flashed, imagination tensely anticipated the shout of triumph which would herald the discovery of poor Carter's racial identity illuminated by a powerful beam.

      Our compartment was invaded and in came two Hun Police. "Hande Hoch!" Everybody in our compartment was reaching for heaven well before the "Hoch". The first policeman jabbed with a pistol and, with the light from his companion~s torch, scrutinised every man and woman in the carriage. Not asking for papers, a great relief, he peered at all those on the opposite side to turn and examine the passengers, hands still very much up, on our seat. Charlie MacDonald and I rated no attention except a cold stare, but the torch poised and played on Geoff Hickman, who was sharply asked where he was going. Geoff, not understanding a word of German, moved as if he thought himself to have been arrested and was to accompany the Germans off the train. My mind raced, not very courageously either. "Excuse me, sir", I addressed the policeman. German butter would not have melted in my pro German mouth. "This man," I explained, "Is unfortunately both deaf and mute. He neither hears nor understands." The policeman's focus shifted to me, and my papers were out like a shot. Passport, the German Labour card as always 'Im Dienst der Wehrmacht', and a holiday pass from the Lorenz factory were presented almost too eagerly. The diversion succeeded, everything was handed back and with a contemptuous look at Hickman, the two policemen left. Tense from my solo appearance on the centre stage, easy breathing was only resumed as the train, after what seemed an interminable wait, once again glided off into the night.

      Many passengers had alighted and with no other movement or commotion on the platform, Lila and Chisholin and, very fortuitously, Carter had survived. Suspicion reared an ugly head. The luck we had enjoyed might well point to Carter having so strangely slipped through a German net by indeed being a German agent. Arrival at Warsaw looked to be now quite promising, and with not a wink of sleep for so long, a doze was imperative. The trip to the recuperative land of nod was aided by an elderly and shawled peasant lady sitting opposite. Her bright eyes even in the gloom would never miss a trick. A large bottle of vodka emerged. Cork removed, she took a healthy swig and, like the lady she surely was, wiped the mouth of the bottle with the back of a sleeve, before handing it over to me.

      Poleaxed by a combination of fatigue and vodka, I woke to stare out of the window as dawn broke over a chilly and uninviting autumn countryside. Hickman and MacDonald were also proffered a drink and while they were partaking, I pulled out a hundred zloty note and pressed it into the old woman's hand, who vigorously pressed it back into mine with an exhortation to drink up. With a mind already in a whirl as to what to do with Carter on arrival, temptation was resisted. A crisis was building up. If Czesia met us at the station as arranged the Englishman, the American and the Australian would soon be sheltering under a patriotic roof. With Carter's physical appearance, however, it would be suicide for any Polish family to offer accommodation. To settle him inside the ghetto to mingle inconspicuously with thousands of other Jews seemed the only solution and as my mind wrestled this dangerous jigsaw puzzle with so many pieces not fitting into place, the train drew into Warsaw and disgorged its varied human cargo.

      Lila and I cleared the station without trouble and it was a relief to see Czesia waiting for us outside. The other four also appeared and with almost unseemly haste we disposed of three ex prisoners who were whisked off by three Polish ladies, mobilised by Czesia, who were to assume the deadly responsibility of mothering and hiding an Allied soldier. Lila departed to report to Karol as to our safe, if complicated, return. No Hun infiltrator had been unearthed but we had landed in Warsaw with a guest who could become a tricky responsibility and sending Carter's particulars I stressed the necessity to confirm his British military status and handle the problem as such. With Lila gone I remained alone with Carter, and Czesia wide eyed with anxiety, now fully aware of the situation, gazed fearfully from a short distance away. A fourth lady waited in the offing. Enlisted and prepared to accept the duty of escorting and sheltering an escapee, the woman's disappointment could be sensed as Czesia indicated circumstances which prevented her brave hospitality being put to the use for which it had been requested.

      In no way would I desert Carter, although unless he was speedily hidden from public view or smuggled into the ghetto to excite no attention as a Jew, standing around outside the main railway station was suicidal for both of us. Carter claimed to have originally come from eastern Poland with no friends or contacts in Warsaw, and realising that the affair was getting out of hand for want of help, Czesia was sent to fetch Stefan while I waited with my unfortunate and dangerous companion in the remotest corner of a nearby restaurant.

      Stefan, now titular Resistance head of the escapee and fugitive sector, had the authority to mobilise Underground resources and keep Carter away from a nasty fate at Gestapo hands. While waiting for Czesia to return with Stefan, Carter became increasingly excitable. Early in the forenoon, the restaurant was empty but for the two of us and, although the discretion of the Polish management and staff of the cafeteria could be relied upon completely, a constant hazard had to be faced. The entrance of one German and a glance at my companion would lead to our downfall. Huns, especially in Warsaw, were on the constant lookout for fleeing Jews. I sat close to Carter crowding him from the immediate view of anybody who might come in. As the temporary wisdom of a location within the ghetto was explained, he became jumpier than ever, and demanded to be re-united with the three airmen with whom the escape had been made. He was a British soldier and wished nothing to do with the Polish Resistance, and adamant dismissal of any suggestion of such a co-operation created misgivings that much of this alarmed man's background and history had yet to be disclosed.

      Czesia arrived with Stefan and joined us at the table. Politely and delicately, Carter's position as I saw it was outlined to Stefan. He nodded concurrence with the appraisal of the ominous risks of the situation and what should be done. With Stefan in favour of the ghetto concealment plan, Carter lost control of his feelings. Stefan was dedicated and genuine in a desire to protect Carter, but for reasons of his own, the escapee would have none of it and turned savagely, accusing me of betraying him to the Poles. The discussion became heated enough to draw the attention of the Polish waitresses and one or two others who peeped apprehensively through the serving hatch and I retaliated sharply about the idiocy of such behaviour in public for a quieter tone to prevail. After this rebuke, Carter, head low over the table, addressed himself to me and there was no mistaking what was said.

      "If I am not reunited with the three others and treated as a British soldier," he muttered quite grimly, "I shall go to the Gestapo".
"You might have just signed your own death warrant," I snapped, regretting the remark as soon as it had burst out.
Aside from my momentary flash of temper I had full sympathy for Carter's position. He had not foreseen the difficulty of remaining at large, of Jewish appearance in the General Government with false documents, and the assumption of an identity of no protection. The Hun was not selective. Jews were Jews and outside the ghettos, those of their race who had evaded forced resettlement into enclosed districts and camps were ruthlessly hunted down and exterminated. One could sadly guess at the future which awaited the forced concentrations of Jewish men, women and children, but confined to closed areas they at least had a place where their existence was acknowledged and, for the time being, tolerated. Carter's thoughts on living in the ghetto were understandable although for his survival, my plan was the only one with a reasonable chance of success and would spare the wider deadly risk if Polish civilian shelter could be arranged. The threat to betray me to the Gestapo came as a shock. Anger quickly passed had welled up, and about to reply in a mild vein at such joint stupidity and declare peace my proposed remark was frozen by some cold words from Czesia who until then had taken little or no part in the conversation. Such a statement was treachery, and she doubted whether Carter was a true soldier to display such vindictiveness and ingratitude to a colleague at considerable risk in trying to help him. Stefan chimed quietly in with an even more serious attitude. If Carter wished to leave the restaurant to organise his own future he was free to do so. Both Poles had spoken very calmly. Carter might rue the day he mentioned co-operation with the Gestapo on any Resistance matter. It had become a military matter under Polish jurisdiction.

      Often, when thinking of what better steps could have been taken to help the unfortunate Jew, my conscience has remained clear. Inwardly Carter had known of the risk but with understandable panic, had unwisely suggested an unheard of intimidation to which a natural exception had been taken very seriously by two members of the Underground.

      Stefan rose and taking me to one side, stated coolly that his department would accept full responsibility for Carter, a clear dismissal from a Pole in Poland to an Englishman in Poland. The assignment had been carried out and, although the conclusion was unsatisfactory, farewells were made and still confused, I went out into the city. Saying goodbye to Carter to sense that his departure from this world would not be long delayed, a sickening reflection. I never saw him again.

      Hickman, MacDonald and Chisholm were assimilated into the Warsaw stream, our social paths inevitably crossing from time to time. Carter was never mentioned and Czesia made no comment at all. Throughout the Resistance there were varied stories about three British airmen who had escaped from Breslau to Krakow and had arrived in Warsaw. The rumours had it that they had been accompanied by a fourth man who, among other things, it was claimed, was a former deserter of the Polish Army, a Jewish member of the communist party, and a suspect double agent working for both Hitler and Stalin. There was no mention of my involvement. The man had been liquidated and, on more than one occasion, I was to hear that he had been shot by the Underground while being taken for an accompanied walk in the suburb of Zoliborz. Poor fellow would have been a lot better off to have stayed in a German prisoner of war camp.

      My normal high spirits were dampened by the Carter episode. On the way back home to Florian's in Nowy Swiat after leaving the cafeteria, it was a pleasure to meet Dr. Kaziu on his rounds. Even in German occupied Warsaw the medical profession still carried their little black bags and the doctor had little difficulty in enticing me into a nearby bar where a deficiency in mental spirits was aided by an intake of the physical variety.

      Tired after the demanding trip, I slept the whole afternoon to be joyously welcomed on appearing downstairs for dinner that evening. Inspired possibly by reactions of relief, the doctor's apartment rang with laughter during the meal and at times Victoria the maid was too convulsed to serve table for some reason or other, always referring to me as her 'little frog'.

      Marysia and Krysia were happy to have me back. I lapped up all the attention, obliged as usual to concentrate on preserving a becoming modesty and the prevention of a swollen head.

      Next morning there was a summons to meet Karol at the 'Burrow'. Lila was already there when I arrived and after brief compliments on the Krakow trip the spymaster went on to what to him was clearly more important business. I had been enrolled in the A.W.I. section of the Polish Secret Service, and in addition to an escapee's sustenance allowance of twenty zylotys a day, the new position carried a monthly salary of fifteen hundred zylotys. I was rich. Just before dismissing us, particulars were given of the espionage course which was to commence in a few days. As if the consequences of being caught were not petrifyingly and permanently on our minds, a somewhat superfluous warning about security ended the meeting. Together with Lila, who had already volunteered for active intelligence service in the Reich, I was to attend for training at various localities in Warsaw. The course was of many weeks duration and after an introduction to some of the tricks of an agent's trade, serious action would begin early in 1943. I lost no time in getting in touch with Janek and his technical department. Within hours of the meeting with Karol the advantages associated with my higher standing in the Underground were being exploited. A range of false passports was ordered including one depicting me as a German engineer, either a Nazi or a Pole at will. In my room after gloating over the new papers, Florian's hospitality was abused by prising up a floorboard under the carpet to conceal the wonderful treasures.

      In view of the initial difficulty in locating Ena and Daddy, my services as Czesia's introductory guide were enlisted. Well laden as usual, we set off to visit Klembow. Czesia in a holiday mood looked radiant as we waited on the crowded main station platform for a train to the little settlement in the pine forests. The whole of Poland and his wife seemed to be going east that morning and already more than half full of Polish passengers, the train pulled in. I might have made it aboard, but Czesia, push and fight as she might, was still dn the platform when the train puffed out. The carriages for the Poles were bursting noisily at the seams, with people riding on the outside of carriages and clinging precariously onto door handles while perched on the running boards. The 'Nur fur Deutsche' wagons were, as usual, not even half full and their occupants, both military and civilian, wore the usual irritating Hun smirk of superiority on inspecting a lower form of life. Two more trains came and went and in spite of very strenuous efforts to get aboard, Czesia and I were left on the platform. If many more trains were missed, delaying our arrival in Klembow until after dark, finding Ena's house through the unlit forest roads would be almost impossible. Yet another train pulled in. A couple of young German infantrymen were hanging out of the window of a 'Nur fur Deutsche' carriage. Otherwise empty, their compartment presented the only visible transport solution as further crowds surged to enter the 'Polish only' wagons. Spurred by mounting desperation I stepped alongside the carriage Out of which the two soldiers were surveying the scene. My fiancee and I, it was very politely explained, were desperately trying to visit her aged parents with much needed comforts. Although Poles were forbidden to travel in German compartments, would they mind if we were to travel with them, for which kindness they would certainly not bear any responsibility. With an affirmative we were soon seated with two members of the Wehrmacht who chatted away like human beings, most unusual for Huns. I was explaining to Czesia in Polish, reassuring her that we should soon be in Klembow, when a most unwelcome development threatened. German railway police in pairs were checking the 'Nur fur Deutsche' wagons looking for Polish interlopers. Just before they burst in I could hear guttural questioning in an adjacent compartment also reserved for Nazis. "Sind Sie Deutsche?" the leader barked at me. My documents were Polish and to have confessed the truth, that I was indeed an Englishman, would have proved even more disastrous. At my hesitation in replying to the question "Sind Sie Deutsche?" the steel helmeted burly German policeman boomed out, "Pole?" to which question only a deprecating nod of the head was possible. "J'j' ja" I murmured. A stunning cuff to the side of the face laid me low and both policemen grabbed to toss me out of the door of the carriage and land, shattered in both mind and body, prostrate on the cold hard platform below. Czesia was also thrown out, the parcels and bundles for Klembow showering down on us.

      Czesia, whose fall had been cushioned by landing on top of me, got to her feet first and rising groggily I glimpsed the two Hun policeman looking very pleased with themselves, peering from the departing carriage. Hurt and humiliation was tempered by the thought that a physical roughing up was far preferable to being taken into custody. Our baggage was stacked against the platform wall and telling Czesia to wait, I hurried out of the station and jumped onto one of the many horse-drawn dorozkas queueing for passengers at the main exit. Within an hour, back at the station, Kawala the Pole was no more. A quick visit to the flat at Florian's had transformed him into Herr Joseph Kawala, a Nazi engineer of the German Eastern Railways, suitably documented and attired for his new role in jackboots, breeches and a menacing looking black macintosh, concealed under the lapel a little black, white and red swastika pin denoting the wearer, albeit incognito, a member of the Nazi party. A train for Klembow pulled in and with Czesia in tow a 'Nur fur Deutsche' carriage was ours to enter by rights.

      My "Heil Hitler," as we climbed into a half empty compartment left no doubt in the minds of the German passengers that they had been joined by a very keen young Nazi and a pretty blonde woman who looked somewhat ill at ease. After getting off at Klembow, with a much relieved expression on her face, Czesia turned to me as we set off through the woods. "Jesus! I was scared Pawel" she said.

      Ena and Daddy were their customary delighted and hospitable selves. Czesia was accepted with politeness, if a little reservation. She was a mite too attractive for Ena to easily tolerate but on learning of my reason for bringing her to Klembow and under the mellowing influence of a round or ten of firewater, good humour surfaced and we floated for the rest of the evening. Ena probed without success the reasons for giving up visits to them, visibly concerned as to what mischief I might be getting into. Comfortably wined and dined, late evening was soon upon us. We yarned and sang but somehow the usual rapport between Ena and me failed to reach the customary heights of laughter and music. The old Scots lady and I were fonder of one another than realised, hidden mutual thoughts betraying each time our eyes met the possibility of never meeting again. Ena was precariously hiding in the midst of enemy territory and my uncertain future was clearly a poor insurance risk. Such considerations were no foundation for genuine jollity, which even lashings of vodka failed to induce.

      Quiet descended on the little cottage tucked away in a Polish pine forest. To the sounds of Ena, Daddy and Czesia going to bed below, the lights went out and tucked up in the little upstairs attic room, I drifted off into an anaesthetised sleep. In former times it was doubtful whether what woke me some time later would have been heard, but in the pitch dark the never fully dormant ears of a wartime fugitive picked up the quiet creak of a footstep on the wooden stairs. A match was struck. A visitor had arrived. Very softly, a figure of loveliness in a blue nightie carrying a lighted candle well aloft was suddenly silhouetted by the bed. Surprised, somewhat hungover, and just about to rise to the occasion when what might or might not have taken place was abruptly interrupted by a strident voice from the foot of the stairs.

      "Hey, you two!" shouted a female Scots voice, "I'll have none of that here".
In the morning as her two visitors made ready to depart, Ena, with a very righteous air, made no mention of the previous evening's incident and Czesia, after a sheepish morning welcome, was quickly back into sparkling stride. Daddy, in great good humour, kept discreetly winking at me, for what reason there was no opportunity of ascertaining, although I had a fair idea. Liaison as to future visits by Czesia and emergency contacts between her and the old couple were reaffirmed. Saying goodbye to the tough but now tearful old Scotswoman and husband was sad.

      Czesia and I, waving until out of sight, made a way down the dusty forest road towards the Klembow station for the trip back to Warsaw. Czesia stopped walking and faced me gravely, very beautiful as she looked straight into my eyes. "Pawel," she said seriously, paused and continued, "I am so sorry about last night."
"Me too" I replied with a grin.
"Oh, you" she burst out in expressive Polish, smiling widely.
Holding hands for the whole train journey back to Warsaw, neither of us had much to say, for we had not much of a future to discuss.

electronic version by:
Roman Antoszewski
Auckland, Titirangi, New Zealand (Oct. 2000)
antora@ihug.co.nz