Red Runs the Vistula
by

Ron Jeffery
New Zealand, 1985

GRADUATION

     

      A message from Karol summoned me to a meeting at the 'Burrow'. The intelligence course was about to commence. For the next few weeks I met Lila at various rendezvous, mostly in the central districts of Warsaw, to be escorted to whatever address the lessons of the day were to be held, life becoming more tense as the lectures developed. Autumn and much colder weather had cast its gloom over Warsaw and under the extra clothes for warmth that everyone was obliged to wear, it was easier to conceal notes and other material related to my new trade. Especially when leaving a lecture and wending a way through the crowded streets back to Florian's, the avoidance of falling foul of a German patrol was more important than ever. To be caught after nearly a year on the loose and in possession of false documents, would prove bad enough, but to be caught carrying evidence of being a cadet spy would entail treatment horrific to contemplate.

      There were about six students on the course and the convenor was Jozef by pseudonym, a Pole recently parachuted from Britain. Lila was the only female taking part, though one of the men was of special interest, a deserter from the German army. With a Polish name, the son of a Polish family permanently domiciled in Germany before the war, he had been forcibly conscripted into the Wehrmacht, later to defect. He spoke German impeccably and long talks with him sharpened up my own fluency.

      Most lectures were given by a fresh instructor, a specialist in the subject for the day. We learnt about codes, lock picking, photography, secret inks and a multitude of behavioural necessities to be strictly observed on territory. To the new specialist subjects, earnest attention, and absorbing every detail to the utmost, my knowledge of Polish gratifyingly coped without difficulty during the whole course, which was delivered in that tongue. As to deportment, conduct and precautions in the field, my survival to date had been due to a commonsense application of most of the principles which were now being instilled into us.

      Early in December, 1942, the course drew to a close and towards the end of an afternoon session, dusk dimmed the room in a flat which had served as one of the many classrooms. An unobstrusive tap signalled the arrival of Karol and another man in civilian clothes, a Catholic priest closely associated with the Resistance. The class at the time was undergoing an oral test about various forms of coding, the current topic.

      Karol and the priest stood by and listened without comment until the questions concluded, and then explained the reason for their visit. With six classmates as witnesses, I was to take the oath of secrecy and allegiance to the Polish Underground Army, known worldwide as the Armia Krajowa, shortened to AK, the Home Army. I repeated after the priest the serious and solemn committal to loyalty and sacrifice. Everybody stood and the twice spoken pledge marked a solemn ceremony. The risks and dangers involved could be sensed as our two voices and hushed words filled the room with an air of history, of which for a moment we were a part. Everyone was moved.

      After the dedication I felt an almost fanatical resolve to do or die, and the faces of every person in the room reflected a similar reaction. As the priest concluded, I requested Karol for permission to speak. It was, I said, a proud moment for me and a devotion to the Polish people in their fight against the Hun would encourage me to continue the struggle at their side. In no way wishing to detract from the oath just given, I asked them to recognise that in front of them stood a British soldier separated from his own unit. While wholeheartedly grateful to be able to serve with the Polish Resistance in any capacity, no duties I might be asked to perform would be accepted were they at variance with my conception of duty to my own country. To me it all sounded a touch melodramatic, but there was a general murmur of approval at the qualification.

      After all round handshakes, kisses on both cheeks and a celebratory quaff of vodka, the class broke up. 'Niech zyje Polska' — Long live Poland.

      A usual procedure, the class left the building one by one at intervals of a few minutes and on this occasion it so happened that Lila and I were the last two in the flat. She sat on a sofa looking intent and indicating that she was to leave before me, I caught a glance from deep within the eyes of this brave young Polish woman. Her mind lay bare. We were two young people, little more than girl and boy. The small ceremony had clearly deeply affected us. Our ways were soon to part, probably for ever. I bent to take her hand for the customary kiss of farewell and respect when suddenly she held on to me, head pillowed on my shoulder, sobbing bitterly, "Kochany Pawel", she choked, "Co bedzie z nami?" "Dear Paul, what will become uf us?" My fate will unfold to you as the narrative progresses, but what happened to Lila within the year, I do not have the heart to recount in anything like full even in the addendum. Nearly dead before the end of the war her experiences were not pleasant.

      It was two weeks to the end of 1942 when the espionage course ended. Active service was not due until the New Year, and two weeks at that time was such an interminable period during which thoughts of what was to happen in so distant a future, did not warrant consideration. There was much to do and as a now fully accepted close member of the doctor's family, I participated in all social gatherings, both at the Nowy Swiat apartment and other venues throughout Warsaw and the suburbs, which housed the numerous members of this close-knit, happy, intensely patriotic and humanitarian family.

      Of great influence on all these goings on, were the obvious feelings developing between Marysia, the elder daughter, and me. There was no secret, and such was her beauty, charm and crystal clear goodness and decency, that to say the least, in spite of misgivings about the topical undesirability of what is known as falling in love, I was becoming incurably smitten with this joyous, yet worrying, virus. Beyond either of us to resist the inexorable march of nature, it started with an innocent holding of hands at every possible occasion, and to the host of thoughts and cares which had constantly crowded my mind, this tender affair of the heart added a burden, deeper and more painful than anything that had happened before. Under the influence of total affection, the safety of Marysia and her family was of ceaseless concern to constantly pray that no disaster would befall her in particular, or them in general. In the manner of an engaged couple, which opinion seemed to have found solid acceptance, many social calls were made all over Warsaw.

      As no duties were expected until the New Year, a message to meet Karol at the 'Burrow' restaurant came as a surprise, more so to turn up and be introduced to Marek, the head of Polish Intelligence operating in Austria with headquarters in Vienna. Pre-war incorporation into the German Reich had plunged Austrian manpower and all the national resources into a full partnership on Hitler's side. Of particular interest to Allied Intelligence were the great wartime industries, which had blossomed especially in the areas around Vienna, to service the Nazi war machine. Remote from air attack and far from disturbance by land forces, a vast production potential was being developed with all the customary vigour by the wearers of the swastika. Not all Austrians were willing participants in the merger. The murder of Chancellor Dollfuss in 1934 and the subsequent Anschluss, ran contrary to the desires of many Austrian citizens, who hated the dictatorial absorption. These Austrian nationals, albeit secretly in the face of political terror, yearned and in many cases worked for a return, with Allied help, to independence and freedom. It was this situation, which had brought Marek hot footed from Vienna to discuss with Karol a problem that had arisen in his territory, although why Karol thought that his new recruit was the most suitable for the task on hand, was not at first apparent.

      The next afternoon, there was a train from the East Warsaw Station and I was to be on it. It was going through to Oderberg, a now Germanised former Polish town in Silesia. Marek leaving that same afternoon from Warsaw to arrive a day earlier, would meet me at Oderberg and together we would travel on to Vienna for an Austrian operation which, hopefully, could be successfully concluded within a couple of days. The sudden development was startling. Well realising that the life of an Underground agent would soon be upon me, I had imagined a gradual induction into the realms of the secret world, with time to settle in and accustom myself to the challenge of a new career. Since completing the espionage course and being told that duties were not to commence until the New Year, there had been little on my mind but a happy few weeks leading up to and over the Christmas season, the joyous company of Marysia, her family and friends, with all the associated pleasures entailed. Reasons for the unscheduled start to an espionage career were forthcoming.

      Polish Intelligence in Vienna had made contact with a sympathetic Austrian scientist working on highly secret new weapons in the large industrial complex Vienna Newtown, which had mushroomed adjacent to the Austrian capital. Marek felt that a realisation of the importance of the present mission, especially as England was directly affected, would be of advantage. The Pole from Vienna, a personable young man, was right, the potential of this latest development of German weaponry truly disturbing. The Nazis were well advanced in the production of pilotless jet propelled missiles carrying high explosive warheads. From launching sites across the English Channel, these flying bombs were designed to rain down on southern England with London in comfortable range. Whether these latest types of bomb were being manufactured in Vienna Newtown was not known, but the anti Nazi Austrian scientist, a key figure in their production schedule, had proclaimed a willingness to co-operate with the Allies and supply details, vital for successful counter measures to be prepared. To supply this information however, a provision had been made which clarified the reason for my purely catalystic participation in the project. The new found Austrian friend, in addition to his hate of Hitler, was an anglophile, having lived for a few years in Britain to understandably come under the spell exuded by the inhabitants and the atmosphere of those fair isles. This key figure would only negotiate with an English intelligence agent and until one was forthcoming, further progress was stalled. One would have thought that the odd British secret agent might have been available somewhere in Europe to finalise arrangements with so priceless a scientist without calling on an escaped British prisoner of war to attempt the manoeuvre.

      A trip to Vienna and especially back to Warsaw presented the more formidable part of the operation. It had been all very well dodging about in occupied Poland, where most of the population hated the German occupiers, but travel to Austria and the Reich seemed akin to venturing into the lion's den. Faced with imminent reality and much inward misgivings about the train journey, my first mission was a daunting prospect.

      Marek left to catch the overnight train to Vienna, and would wait for me at the station of Oderberg, after having spent a day with his family who lived handy to that town. The majority of people living in the Silesian region were Poles who had, for a variety of unpalatable reasons, decided or been forced to accept German citizenship in order to remain in homes and jobs under the Nazis. Polish patriots at heart, their registration as Germans provided a much safer background for clandestine and less molested activity, than was the case in terror ridden General Government, the centre of open hostility to the Nazis.

      False identity was discussed and within hours a full set of documents and supporting papers depicting me as a German engineer of the Eastern Railways were provided. Included was a communication purportedly from railway head office in Warsaw, directing attendance at an engineers' course of one week's duration in Vienna. This course would get me home nicely in time for the keenly anticipated Christmas beanfeast at Dr Kaziu's, though at the time it was difficult to be optimistic about getting home at all. A bundle of German money and a two way crossing permit into and out of the Reich completed an impressive array of falsies, handsomely rounded off by a smart new suitcase and a large thermos flask, which concealed sheet after sheet of travellers' food stamps, carefully wound round the insulating barrel within. Each one of these stamps enabled travellers to buy meat and fats at provision shops throughout Germany. The lining of the suitcase was also substantially filled with further sheets of false food stamps, and it occurred to me that the Royal Air Force could disrupt the food rationing system in Germany by dropping them all over the place instead of bombs. Much the same travellers' food system operated in the United Kingdom. Were a person absent from a usual place of domicile for any length of time, his or her ration books, which had been registered for supply at a designated retailer, were cancelled for the period of travel and an equivalent amount of food could be purchased at any retail outlet on presenting food stamps, substituted for the period away from home. The system was admirably geared for good eating in Germany during the war, provided of course, that one had access to the Polish Underground printing works, which churned out an inexhaustible supply of stamps. I got into the habit of always taking a large number of stamps into Germany and even though it meant visiting many provision stores to avoid arousing suspicion because of the quantities purchased, quite a load of German butter and sausage usually accompanied me back to Warsaw.

      Before leaving Karol, he counselled about a possible approach to the Austrian engineer when soliciting co-operation. Were a material element to be introduced into the making of the arrangements desired, money was to be of absolutely no object. Remarkable how cash always seems so readily plentiful for everything warlike.

      After having collected the suitcase and the other equipment for the journey, I spent the rest of the morning in my room at Florian's above Dr Kazius, on the Nowy Swiat. All the new papers were carefully examined for possible mistakes and their particulars memorised. The name Joseph Kawala was retained for the new character, as there was no reason to suppose it to be under any kind of suspicion. It had, in any case, proved lucky so far and was also one less new name to remember. Either as a Pole or a German the name Kawala was adopted many times, only occasionally, as a precaution, making use of another pseudonym which, later in 1943, nearly led to disaster.

      To complete preparations for the journey, I packed the suitcase with a change of clothes and donned a German civilian outfit. The blue pullover, Halina's gift, a fetish on which so much reliance was placed, was tucked in with more than usual reverence. Never discarded, it could only be hoped that its powers of protection would function as well in the Reich as they had so far served in Poland. The garment had stretched a little and its former elegance was succumbing to wear and grime, but more than I dared do was to have it washed or mended for fear the celestial qualities, endowed by Halina, be impaired.

      Booted and spurred, packed and having made Florian aware of my intended absence for a week or so, I sallied forth. Only Marysia, mother Stefka and Victoria the maid, were at home downstairs, to be casually told that I was going away for a few days, but would certainly be back in time for Christmas. To be certain of catching the evening train to rendezvous with Marek in Silesia, I went in the afternoon to the east Warsaw station, booked and paid in advance for a seat and returned to the doctors. The rest of the family, the doctor, Krystyna and Andrew came in from their various pursuits, and although Marysia made no comment other than that I was going on a journey, her expression and the news of my pending departure, created such gloom that it was almost a relief when it was at long last time to leave. Marysia insisted on coming to see me off and the farewells from the family, not forgetting Victoria, were solemn, sufficient to be almost unnerving. The same emotions had been displayed before leaving for Krakow to meet the escaping airmen.

      Much as I love and respect the. Poles, it must be noted that they can be the happiest and saddest of people, and appear at times to relish the latter frame of mind equally with the former. Sweet sorrow or some such thing.

      At the station Marysia purchased a platform ticket, and in the sparsely lit gloom of a bitter winter's evening, we stood wordless alongside the train. Fully laden and armed German troops were everywhere. Leave for Christmas had swollen the travelling numbers to bursting point and I hurried to secure a place. From an inside seat, Marysia could still be seen on the platform, her wistful expression doing nothing for my morale. The only civilian in the compartment, one would have expected my different garb to have stood out and perhaps called for comment, but fellow passengers, a mass of packs, bandoliers, rifles and steel helmets paid not the slightest attention as they semi-collapsed in the seats. Most were already asleep, exhausted, and eyes which were still open were glazed with fatigue, deeply sunken and darkly ringed. The train moved slowly out with a last view of Marysia half waving in one-handed helpless despair. The soldiers by then were without exception, fast asleep, though for me it was nowhere near bedtime with a first trial coming sooner than expected.

      The compartment door slid open and the outline of a civilian flashed a torch, the beam remaining on the hat which was covering my face.

      I apparently woke to a gentle touch, lifted the hat to be blinded by the light and shielding my face, debated whether or not to open the conversation, when the Hun solved the situation by taking the initiative.
"Papiere bitte". "Most certainly".
Feigning a yawn, my wallet was produced and the contents fussed over. As if I was not perfectly sure of the whereabouts of the documents, my passport, service papers and the instructions to proceed to Vienna were presented. Relieved from the direct glare of the torch and watching the close inspection of each paper, a nervous swallowing would probably have been fatally visible if not for the protecting darkness. The documents were handed back. "In ordnung," he said and left. Lying back on the seat, face once more under the hat, a surge of relief flooded from head to toe.

      In the middle of the night the train stopped at a frontier station on the border of the General Government territory, formerly Poland, but now fully incorporated into the German Reich. The compartment door slid open again, this time to admit two men. The first of the visitors was the civilian who had checked my papers not long after leaving Warsaw who turned to his companion, in some form of uniform or other not definable in the poor light.

      "I have already checked him," said the civilian, "On railway duty."
Both figures left and feigning sleep was no longer necessary.
The train pulled into the substantial station at Oderberg on schedule and if all was going according to the arrangements made in Warsaw, Marek should be waiting. Life as an agent in enemy territory, was to prove a whole series of potential crises, some grave and some of lesser significance, although every incident, no matter how seemingly trivial at the time, which strayed from a preconceived plan, had the makings of a tragedy. Already considering the next move if the chief of the Vienna cell failed to show up, it was a delight to hear his merry voice calling out in cheerful German, "Ich bin ja hier." Marek shook hands like an old friend and we went immediately to the cafeteria where my companion presented some sausage sandwiches to go with hot ersatz coffee readily obtainable at the station.

      The expression on Marek's face was entirely different to the hunted look it had worn in Warsaw on first acquaintance. He was now calm and relaxed as was the whole atmosphere at the Oderberg railway station, in strong contrast to the tenseness which filled the air in the stations at Warsaw and Krakow, or indeed, the whole of the General Government. I commented to Marek on his happier appearance and the tranquility of the surrounding scene, the reason for such a change readily forthcoming. As had happened with the Polish corridor the whole local area had been annexed and, now in Germany proper, all supposedly disruptive elements had been evicted or rounded up, the remaining citizens peacefully and orderly registered. Those that still inwardly hated the Nazis, gave no evidence of such feelings and the hate for the Hun which could be felt in every nook and cranny of the General Government, was absent. Also absent were the hordes of German soldiery, uniformed gendarmerie and countless civilian secret police who, in occupied Poland, breathed aggression, hunted and repressed everything Polish. In occupied General Government, the reciprocal hate between Slav and Teuton was evident in every deed and glance. With less menacing surroundings the comparative calm was a refreshing change, and by the time the train for Vienna was ready to depart, although remaining alert and watchful, the tingling pressure of a first espionage mission had disappeared.

      The new train was full of civilians with but the odd uniform. Many were foreign workers, and as we stood in the crowded corridor, I learnt from Marek that most of the high spirited young people who joked and shouted around us were Hungarian volunteers, off to enjoy life working in the war factories of the Reich. Their cheerfulness was yet another contrast when one considered the forced male and female slave labour which was being rounded up like cattle and dragged by force out of Poland.

      As the train sped across the frozen countryside, a picture of much greater agricultural efficiency and care than the ravished and neglected territory of the General Government rushed by. It was strange to see towns and villages nestling in peaceful rural surroundings, with no sign of destruction by fire, shell or bomb. That such things as peace, quiet and harmony in mind and matter still existed awakened memories of the past.

      We arrived in Vienna and alighted to mingle with a stream of portly burghers, and made a way from the platform out into the city, ticket inspection the sole control.

      Until arriving in Vienna, I had imagined a billet with some fellow conspirator, or in discreet and private accommodation maintained for special visitors, but such was not the case. Vienna was well endowed with fine and solid hotels and Marek took me to one in the centre of the city. Without any fuss accommodation was booked for a week, tallying with the time committed to the bogus engineers course I had supposedly travelled to attend. On registering at the reception desk, a comprehensive list of particulars was required. Details of passport, occupation, the reason for and the duration of the stay were all noted down and after signing the sheet, I was escorted by an elderly male porter to a Victorian type suite, complete with bathroom, on the first floor, given the key and left in peace. After a luxurious soak, the clothes as worn by both Germans and Poles in the General Government were discarded, the jackboots and breeches replaced by a locally less conspicuous, long trousered suit.

      I went out wandering in no particular direction or hurry through the main streets, window shopping, and enjoyed the dignity of a tradition steeped, still well preserved European city. Nobody took the slightest notice, and eventually finding an old world underground Bierkeller, two large lagers were quaffed. Appetite whetted, in the adjacent dining room, with the aid of about two weeks supply of travellers' food stamps, I ate a much bigger meal than would have been the lot of a bona fide German, also coaxing a bottle of very passable wine out of the waiter. Much more comfortable in mind and body I returned to the hotel. 'Tis a poor job with no perks'.

      Marek had told me that one of his men involved in the recruitment of the Austrian scientist responsible for my visit would call at the hotel in the morning and after a much needed and refreshing night's sleep, I was up betimes, bathed and shaved, ready to receive the visitor. Reception announced that a caller was waiting in the foyer where I found a white haired, tall and elegantly dressed elderly man who expressed his great pleasure with a vigorous handshake, an elegant bow and a click of the heels, as Professor von Englisch. My new acquaintance was a retired Austrian academic, who at once endeared himself as we made our way to a coffee house, with his non-stop vilification of Germans in general and Hitler in particular. Over coffee, the Professor got down to business, but not before I politely commented on his name, which, on the face of it, was a most unusual one for an allied agent. Strangely enough, Von Englisch was his real name but as he had lived under it in Vienna all his life and as there was no knowledge locally of where his real sympathies lay, it would have been foolish to change it.

      The Austrian scientist had been advised of the arrival of a British member of the Secret Service and was willing to meet Marek and myself at his home on the following Monday evening. It was then Friday, and a first Austrian weekend was about to be enjoyed or otherwise. Various aspects of the scientist's background and attitudes were discussed and the Professor expressed full confidence that the problem which had brought me to Vienna would take only slight diplomacy to solve.

      By lunchtime, after a long and educational walk, we arrived at the Professor's home where except for an elderly lady housekeeper, he lived alone in a big house, surrounded by an old world garden of largish trees. His other companion was the biggest dog I have ever seen, blue gray in colour with short hair, to which canine giant a nervewracking introduction was made. Its name was Blau, in English plain Blue, and whether the pet was an unusually large specimen or not, my memory of the size of English Great Danes made this dog Goliath about half as big again. The Professor referred to Blau as a Bismark Hound and inquiring whether I had brought sufficient meat and butter stamps for personal needs, the dog's master was gratified to hear that ample feeds of German protein, courtesy of the Polish Intelligence service, were hidden in my suitcase. At lunch Blau sat patiently by the dining table and even sitting down, had no need to raise his head to accept titbits from his master who smiled at an enquiry as to whether the dog was often ridden. That evening wining and dining out, the Professor entertained with tales of his former life in the Austrian Army, a later career as a university professor, and the pre-war Nazi skullduggery, which had led to the annexation and subjugation of his country. Returning quite late, there being no beastly curfew restriction, another comfortable night was spent in the hotel, yet again agreeably full in body and mind.

      On the Saturday, we went to the famous Schonbrunn Palace, the day freezing cold but gloriously sunny, attracting crowds of sightseers to the Austrian showplace. On one of the terraces, the Professor and I were politely accosted by a German soldier. Flashing alarm signals within subsided as a favour was requested. Would the two gentlemen be so kind as to pose in front of one of the columns to lend a human dimension to some photographs he wished to take. I wonder if the snaps still exist. Perhaps in an old soldier's album from some piece of ancient furniture they still peer out, to be shown to visitors, a pictorial souvenir of a German serviceman's visit to Vienna during the Second World War. Even today, it would probably still come as a shock if the cameraman was to discover the true identity of the two posers.

      A visit to the cinema was a treat. Film of the fighting from the icy wastes on the Russian front made a great impression, though to be sure our reactions to the indescribably harsh conditions were opposite to those of the rest of the audience.

      Continuing to wine and dine sumptuously, I felt very secure in Vienna, though in the hotel a disquiet persisted. With a free hand I was confident that a fairly safe and fruitful life as an agent could be organised in Vienna, but living in a public hotel, registered only by forgeries was courting disaster.

      Sunday followed the same pattern with my continued enthusiastic introduction to the city landmarks. Next day, the morning of the proposed evening visit to the scientist with little better to do a visit was paid to a hairdressing salon. Since arriving in Vienna, I had been having difficulty understanding the local dialect. Those on the lower social rung spoke very fast and broadly to be almost impossible to follow. My 'Hochdeutsch' was fully understood by all of this range of locals and, being a stranger with rare need to communicate with them, there was little cause for concern. Greeting the barber, I asked for a haircut and sat in the vacant chair to watch my reflection alter in the mirror as the man snipped away, chatting completely unintelligibly to me at the same time. While musing that were I to be a frequent visitor to Austria, this deficiency in a language armour would have to be remedied, two men entered the shop and sat down to wait their turn. Though in civilian clothes, they looked strikingly official. Policemen! Could even be Gestapo! To avoid drawing the attention of the two newcomers, the role of attentive listener to the non-stop loquacious barber was assumed.

      The clipping ceased and the barber drawing back to consider his artistry, posed an incomprehensible question. Guessing that he was asking for a final approval of his efforts and in line with my no talking plan, satisfaction was nodded. At this affirmative, a further onslaught was launched on my hair accompanied by much unintelligible comment. I had sanctioned a closer trim. The two men still sat impassively awaiting their turn and with no intention of starting a conversation with the hairdresser I stared resignedly into the mirror to see my well loved wavy locks tumbling onto the floor. The loss of all that beautiful hair was a tragedy but a verbal rescue attempt at that stage could well have resulted in losing my head as well. At last, when the curls had disappeared and I was almost bald, the satisfied barber brushed and wiped me down. Smiling, nodding and miming, I paid and stepped with much relief out onto the street and one of the men waiting for a haircut took the vacated chair. Phew!

      Later while walking to the Professors house, at each provision shop on the way, rations of meat were purchased with some of the hundreds of food stamps concealed about me. BIau made short work of the contribution and having established good relations with generosity, the presence of the giant dog became less alarming.

      Marek arrived after dark and the two of us left the Professor's house to be within an hour tapping discreetly on the front door of a neat villa on the other side of the city. The scientist admitted us himself, a tiny, middle aged man of attractive smile and manners. After introductions and a couple of hand kisses, his wife and daughter hovered coyly in the hall background, as the visitors were ushered into a book lined study. All went well and after about an hour, the conversation rounded off with the scientist expressing himself satisfied to work directly with the Poles, convinced that direct contact with British Intelligence had been established. The covering of any expenses incurred in procuring information was delicately broached. With modesty and a little pride, the Austrian proclaimed himself the Director of the Research Department, privy to everything that went on in it, foreseeing nothing which might necessitate a call for material assistance, although pleased to hear that I would be in Vienna from time to time, and available for discussion as required. Mission accomplished and anxious to leave the next day I booked out of the hotel to stay that night with von Englisch. Marek came for a celebration dinner. The carousal at the Professor's lasted into the wee hours, the Austrian scientist having given an excuse to rejoice, as if ever any member of the Resistance was at a loss to invent one. One result of an overindulgence was the acceptance of a pressing invitation from Marek to stay at Oderberg for a couple of nights to meet his family and friends. There would be ample time to get to Warsaw by Christmas Eve and in the welter of camaraderie, well fuelled by alcohol, little coaxing was needed to agree to a Stopover.

      Blau was given a Christmas present of about a thousand stamps for meat and a large number for butter secured ample household supplies for a long time.

      The Professor saw Marek and me off at the station. We travelled separately on the train and after joining up again on alighting at Oderberg, had an incidentfree journey. Within the hour we met Marek's parents, who lived in a comfortable twostoreyed cottage not far distant in the township of Cieszin. They had never met an Englishman before and it is sure that their preconception was not at all similar to the man with Nazi style close cropped hair who stood before them.

      The word got around that Marek had brought an unusual visitor home. Some twenty people of both sexes called that evening, everybody in a festive mood to welcome Marek back and let their hair down as the jollity developed. Everybody, that is, except me who, after the visit to the Viennese barber, had none left to let down.

      All the people met that day and subsequently during the stay with Marek, were Polish patriots, who hated the Nazis with all the fervour of their Warsaw compatriots. They had, to outward intents and purposes, embraced the takeover by the Nazis, with the Germans woefully ignorant of the bitter enemies being nurtured in their midst. Marek at home was as excited and cavorted about like a dog off a leash, introducing me to everyone as an English friend. On the second day, a car ride was taken to a road which ran alongside a British prisoner of war camp and I gazed upon my incarcerated countrymen as if they were creatures from another world. They might have been safer off, but there was no desire to change places.

      Over the whole area the Polish language was 'streng verboten', both written and orally, but inside all the homes visited, it was very much alive and the only medium of communication used. A forbidden, hastily convened prayer meeting took place in the local church, and the priest spoke in Polish, referring to our friends across the seas, mentioned one who was that day even closer. At this, the whole congregation turned and looked devotedly at me who sat considering himself incognito and unnoticed. After the service, the priest entertained Marek and me plus a few parishioners to vodka and snacks in a back room. There was much handshaking and backslapping, with most unkind references to the Germans. I bade farewell to Marek and many wonderful people skating on thin ice.

      The train back to Warsaw was half full, the major traffic at that time of year being into the Reich on Christmas leave from the front and the occupied territories. No problems arose, although as we drew into the General Government frontier station of Porai, there were far too many police about for comfort. Standing up, I took out a pipe, went into the corridor lowered a window to look as if only interested in the passing scene. A German police officer was walking alongside the train peering into every compartment and in response to his bark, a few people were getting out onto the platform. He approached my wagon and the pipe, which was now well alight, was removed as he paused to glance into the compartment, to coincide nicely with my greeting of "Heil Hitler" and a casual unconcerned Nazi salute by the raising of the right hand to reveal its palm. In a few moments once again on our way home I felt to be coping better. The frontier negotiated, for the last part of the journey I gazed out of the train, happy and contented as we sped through the white icy Polish countryside, back to my second home.

      Mid-afternoon in Warsaw, taking a dorozka back to Nowy Swiat from the station, the half destroyed city bade a welcome to its ruined folds. Getting out of the carriage a few hundred yards past the Kaziu's apartment block, I reconnoitered the building from all sides on foot, before mounting the stairs of the back entrance to knock at the kitchen door.

      "Kto tam?" quieried a female voice from within. It was Marysia. "Pawel". Agitated fingers fumbled with the internal chain and in seconds I was being hugged by the beautiful dark haired Polish girl, an affectionate assault quickly reinforced by sister Krystyna, mama Stefka and Victoria the maid. The doctor and young Andrew could not get near but their faces were grinning a welcome. The Florians were called down from upstairs and in a flash vodka was toasting my return. No conquering hero could ever have had a more enthusiastic reception. There was a minor jarring anti-climax.

      "Pawel kochanie"*, wailed Marysia, "Whatever has happened to your hair?" Numbers of family and friends called that Christmas Eve and participation in the abundance of goodwill rounded off a satisfactory trip.

      On Christmas Day, Marysia, her sister and I made social calls over Warsaw to return to Nowy Swiat for a further round of eating and drinking. The city was quiet with most people remaining indoors for the holiday. Exposed in the nearly deserted metropolis, special vigilance was necessary, especially as escort to my future bride and sister-in-law.

      The range of food available was a tribute to the remarkable black market traffic victualling Warsaw. Though the professional earnings of the doctor enabled his family to cope better with the inflated prices of everything to eat and drink, most Poles of whatever calling seemed to be somehow supplementing their incomes and intake to keep body and soul well together. Compulsive eating, when a deal of food was available, became always hard to avoid. If the worst came to the worst, it was better to be caught after a good feed than with an empty stomach, or so most of us seemed to reason. Few people missed a trick, no matter how small, in the fight to survive.

      The following day, not Boxing Day, though a public holiday, as with us at home, saw me take the plunge. With all the old fashioned courtesy I could muster the doctor was requested for a private interview and seriously asked for Marysia's hand in marriage. Consent was eventually forthcoming, but not without a long hard presentation of a lamentably weak case. My future father-in-law was understandably in many minds about this stranger who had but a few short months previously catapulted into the family circle. Permission was granted at last and blessing given to the plea. In Kaziu's study, harmony was sealed with a bottle of vodka, rapidly becoming as favourite a beverage with me as with most Poles. No man ever arranged for himself a nicer family-in-law and on New Year's Eve an engagement party followed, the large apartment filled to overflowing with people, all very sincere in their congratulations to the happy if unusual coming union.

      Somehow during this spate of socialising, time was found to write a report on the visit to Vienna and the establishment of satisfactory liaison between the scientist and the local Polish espionage cell. In careful tones, not wishing to appear presumptuously critical, I also drew attention to the many unnecessary risks of capture which could be lessened. Particular emphasis was made of an agent's vulnerability when registered under false documents in a public hotel, liable at any time to perusal during a casual or routine enemy security check. Although agents more or less permanently stationed in an enemy territory were provided with genuine dwelling and occupational cover, during my time with AWl no change in procedures to give extra safety for regular couriers was instituted. Many men and women disappeared somewhere on the path of an expedition into the Reich from Warsaw, their failure to return, sometimes I am sure because of the planning weaknesses which had worried me on the first trip to Austria. Karol made little comment on my report, but expressed himself gratified to the extent of making a present of four thousand zlotys in addition to my normal remuneration, and gave me two weeks leave with no obligation to keep in touch with him. Advantage of this free period was taken to visit, on most occasions accompanied by Marysia, many of the Polish friends who had been so kind to me throughout 1942, the first full year in Warsaw, Tommie, the girls and the engineer in Saska Kepa were a priority call. Stenia and Janka had heard on the Underground grapevine of some mysterious Englishman in the Resistance, and the solicitations made by the two sisters for me to be extremely careful, indicated that I was the person referred to. Even Tommie, always the oyster in security matters, shaking hands on parting said, "For God's sake, watch it Ron." The thought of capture and torture haunted everyone in the Underground.

      During the period following my engagement to Marysia, I often remained closeted in my room at Florian's, upstairs from the doctors. That my abode was just one flight up from the family who had bestowed the title of son-in-law elect, remained a close secret in spite of so much other publicity which had been fostered by the betrothal. Other than my landlord and landlady, Florian and wife Anna, nobody but the doctor's family and maid Victoria who lived below, had an inkling of the whereabouts of my regular dwelling place. Reasonably secure, I often lay on a divan at Florian's, reading or sleeping, but quite often just contemplating the experiences of the past and prospects and plans for the future. Much time was taken up with matters pertaining to my engagement to Marysia. Marriage as such would have to wait, but a firm option had been secured on a wonderful girl and it was my determined intention to exercise it at the earliest, albeit safest opportunity, dependent on the solution of the Hitler problem. If only one could survive till the war had been won and Poland was free. England and my new country by marriage would flourish. Dreams, over optimistic perhaps in the centre of occupied Warsaw, visualised offices in both capitals and the founding of a prosperous commercial trading empire between the United Kingdom and Poland. Much depended on how long the war would last. At the beginning of 1943, it had been going on for over three years, and expanding out of its European theatre was now a destructive chaos of global confrontation. At least there was no further physical room for expansion and as events are ever on the move, the logical development to hope for was a reduction in hostilities towards an eventual peace, only acceptable, it went without saying, with an overwhelming defeat and destruction of the Nazis.

      Since arriving in the former Polish corridor in 1940 as a German prisoner of war, my mind had harboured a growing conviction that the Nazis were eventually bent on meting out the same liquidation programme to the Polish people as was evident in their approach to the Jews wherever they found them. Even were I personally to survive the daily cut and thrust of warfare, a future destruction of the Polish people after a Nazi victory would eventually encompass me and my intended wife in a similar fate. All very sombre reflections.

      By the time Tommie and I had broken out of the Litzmannstadt prison and through most of 1942, even the most optimistic of Allied supporters could not have discounted the possibility of a Nazi victory. Only the Russian winter with its ramparts of ice, had prevented the fall of the Stalinist empire. The Atlantic was a graveyard of Britain's shipping lifeline. The Africa Korps had proved the versatility, resilience and fighting qualities of German men and machines. Hordes from the land of the Rising Sun were poised for further massive action in the Orient. There were, however, some glimmers of hope shining through the clouds that, since the outbreak of war, had darkened the Allied landscape. Especially to the great people of America, setbacks seemed to have inspired a sense of destiny to help save the•beleaguered democracies of Britain and her Allies from tyranny. Sparked by the assault on Pearl Harbour, the United States had girded itself, militarily and industrially, to prepare for the great battles to come and eventual victory seemed not so distant. The RAF led Britain's way by mustering the largest single air raid in history when one thousand bombers pulverised Cologne and much more was to befall cities of the Reich.

      As 1942 drew to a close, Allied land victories in the North African desert and American naval successes against the Japanese in the Pacific were also welcome omens of things to come. On some sectors of the eastern front, the Russians had forced the Germans onto the defensive. Over the first three years the Allied tide had ebbed to dead low. A slow but sure flood had begun.

      A surge of German activity in Warsaw was heralded as 1942 gave way to 1943. One would have thought until then, that the cruelties, repressions and maltreatment of a conquered people would have reached the limits of even a Teutonic capacity for brutishness and barbarity. Few Poles could have anticipated a worse future than that which was to unfold for the ordinary citizen during 1943. A few had so far escaped much of the harshness and terror which accompanied the Nazi invasion, but now for every man, woman and child in the General Government, a new era of direct involvement with Hun bestiality was about to dawn. Much of the repression to date had been directed against categories of persons considered to be potential members of the Resistance. Thousands, in the quiet of night, disappeared from their homes. Equal numbers had been just as unobtrusively rounded up in the streets or while using the public transport of train or tram. Imprisonment, torture and death was on a massive, but largely unseen scale and escapers by word of mouth told of what took place in the concentration camps and the cells of the Gestapo. The beginning of 1943 was to mark the advent of a much wider campaign of terror of which every Pole was to be either a victim or closely affected. A reign of vast, indiscriminate, public round ups, deportations and murder commenced.

      With military demands draining its industrial labour force, where better had Germany to procure replacements, than from the defeated and occupied countries. Round ups, or lapankas,* the Polish name they were known under, became an essential feature of life in Warsaw and precipitated much wider ferocity on both sides. Abroad in public I had survived numerous German security checks, shielded from unpleasant developments by Nazi Labour department registration and other efficient false documents. The round ups of Poles, created an additional threat for me as well as all Poles. Whole streets were sealed off by police and soliders and most trapped men and women were carted off to concentration camps or sent as slave labour to the Reich. Tram and trainloads of people, regardless of work documents, were herded like cattle into trucks, many never to see home or family again. Being Polish was sufficient to qualify for such treatment.

      Moving round the city as a Pole became so dangerous that I decided to be a German out of doors and remain Polish at home. Within a yard or so of the entrance to the Nowy Swiat apartment was a small provision shop which, in addition to black market foods, also sold vodka. The doctor and his family were regular customers and by anti-Nazi remarks and general air of trustworthiness, the Polish proprietor and his wife had become sufficuently well known to the Kaziu's for me to be introduced to the couple who cooperated immediately. From then on, leaving the apartment, I wore a Polish type cap, and carried an array of Polish documents relating to my lodgings. Calling casually into the little shop, the cap and the Polish papers were deposited and exchanged for a German trilby hat and an envelope containing papers depicting me as a Nazi engineer. All very simple and an excellent way of not being rounded up, Germans were simply not rounding up Germans. "Durch lassen bitte", was sufficient to pass me through a Nazi hunting cordon and feeling more sorry than ever for the Poles, all I had to say, flashing a German passport was, "Let me through please".

      In spite of the greatly increased .risk in being on Warsaw streets, trains or trains, the Resistance was still dedicated to pursue a vast daily business, more hazardous than ever. All captured people were seized and interrogated, the discovery of false documents or evidence of Underground activity resulting in death after torture or a slower end in a concentration camp. Many thousands of patriots disappeared from Polish ranks but protected by the German language and a set of Nazi documents I was comparatively much safer than the average citizen of Warsaw.

      Towards the end of January on an official duty visit, Karol introduced me to an elderly little man, wearing very thick lensed glasses. Bolek was the chief of the Czechoslovakian section based in Prague. Everybody had heard of the great Skoda armament works which had worked fulltime for Hitler since the country's annexation in 1938, and it was no surprise to learn that Bolek would meet me in Prague. The nature of the new exercise was not discussed, although Karol had another small job for me to do in Vienna, where an overnight stay on the way to the Czech capital was to be made.

      It took but a day to prepare a brand new identity. The large German transport and forwarding firm of Schenker and Company had a branch in Warsaw. They were officially appointed carriers of war material all over Europe, and in an executive capacity from the local warehouse, I was to pay a visit to the company's depots in Vienna and Prague. My new German passport was supported by a substantial quantity of company material, letterheaded instructions and the like. It was of further comfort to learn that my new false name coincided with that of a bona fide young employee of Schenkers in Warsaw.

      Always one to let his mind wander over possible pitfalls, I hoped that none of the Germans who had checked my papers on the previous journey would be again on similar duty to perhaps query the change of both name and occupation of the young man who had been a railway engineer some few weeks previously.

      The compartment out of Warsaw was full of a lively crowd of young SS troops, who studiously avoided noticing so lowly a creature as the young civilian who travelled with them. They sang, proud with martial ardour, joked and laughed together. I preferred the ostracism as casual conversation was always a danger to be avoided if possible. By going to the toilet and singing, "It's a long way to Tipperary", loudly to myself and making a rude sign with fingers and nose in their direction, a somewhat childish satisfaction was enjoyed.

      In Vienna, now under a different guise to that adopted on the first visit, after registering at a fresh hotel, the Professor was telephoned and met at a restaurant. He brought with him a package for Karol to be taken back to Warsaw and in return received a large sum of German marks and sheets of food stamps. It was pleasing to learn that the Austrian scientist was co-operating and keeping Marek happy.

      Lila, Karol's former secretary who had been on the espionage course in Warsaw now worked in Vienna, busy in agent's harness. Professor Englisch gave me Lila's number and intending to leave for Prague the next day I farewelled him and sent a pat on to Blau, the enormous dog. Lila was delighted at the telephone call, and met me at a restaurant that evening. There was so much to talk about as we wined and dined with great good humour, almost forgetting that Vienna was an enemy stronghold. When Marek, the local chiefs name cropped up, from blushes and the confusion, aided by a little probing from me, a budding romance between him and my charming companion was revealed. In spite of well remembering Zosia's comment in Warsaw when she had learnt of my own engagement, about the added liability of a Resistance member being in love, the warmest congratulatory remarks were called for. After dinner we went to a theatre, quite at home, protected, swallowed up and hidden in the centre of a crowded, dimly lit auditorium. During the interval, the manager walked to the centre of the stage in front of the curtain. "Meine Damen und Herren," he began.The audience leant forward. Something dramatic was about to be announced. Stalingrad had fallen to the Russians. Ninety thousand men, including Field Marshall Paulus, the survivors of over twenty divisions, had been taken prisoner.

      No announcement was made as to the cancellation of the show, but as many thousands of Austrian troops had been in the battle sector involved, the crowded theatre rose to its feet convulsed with grief. Men and women were sobbing openly and moving towards the exits. Lila and I thought it best to leave also and although moved by a spectacle of so much heartfelt human sorrow, the news was a pleasant climax to the evening. We parted fondly and went our separate ways rejoicing. That night in Vienna was to be the last time I ever saw Lila.

      At the station to catch the Prague train next day, Goering could be heard over the public radio attempting to soften the shock of Stalingrad to the German people. From the moment I left the hotel room and went down to pay the account in the foyer until the train pulled out on its way to the Czechoslovakian capital, melancholy dirges musically complementing the stunned faces of the populace filled the air. No rallying commentary by the obese deputy leader of the Reich had served to diminish the shattering effect of what was for the Hitlerites, the first really bloody and ominous defeat of German arms.

      The passengers on the train to Prague were a mixture of Czech civilians and Germans, both uniformed and in mufti. A halt at a border control before leaving Austria carried out by an elderly policeman, was so casual as to hardly interfere with a studied reading of Goebel's 'Das Reich!'

      I had not been to Czechoslovakia before and as we thundered on towards Prague after the easy security check, in contrast to the tenseness of mutual hostility which could always be felt in Poland, the peaceful climate in this also occupied country was most noticeable. There was a feeling of acceptance between Hun and Slav, an opinion I came under no influence to change in the days to come. Should anything ever go wrong in Poland, one could rely at the very least on the passive help of every Pole to thwart the Hun, but under a first reaction in Czechoslovakia, possibly a misinterpretation, I resolved to proceed very, very carefully.

      With the name of a recommended hotel, shortly after arrival in Prague, I secured a room overlooking a busy main street. Peace of mind was not enhanced by the Czech male receptionist demanding the retention of my German passport. Although an official receipt was given for the document, in effect while it lay in the hotel safe it was available for any official inspection and without it, I was unable to leave Prague. That the passport was false and vulnerable was also disturbing. My Law of Possibilities produced some unsatisfactory combinations of potential misfortune, and even though I was becoming philosophically better able to accept such hazards, nothing much about Czechoslovakia was endearing. Completely alone, there was only a successful meeting with Bolek to rely on for a friendly face. In Warsaw, Bolek had named a coffee house in a Prague main street for us to meet. He promised to be there each evening at six for a whole week to be sure of not missing me due to an earlier or late arrival in Prague for some reason or other. After locating the coffee house, Franceska by name if memory serves correctly, my walking tour took in some of the city centre.

      Prague bore no visible scars of war and her citizens crowded the streets, with both pedestrian and rolling traffic, proceeding at about half the bustle prevalent in Warsaw. In Wenceslas Square, although there was plenty of snow round about, it could not have been the feast of Stephen and neither did I see the good king watching one of his subjects gathering winter fuel. As it was afternoon and no moonlight, this could have had something to do with it.

      In the Franceska coffee house well before six o'clock, for over an hour Bolek was expectantly awaited. It may not have been a bad omen, but the falling down of communications was certainly not good news and after the usual hearty meal of a Polish spy, at a nearby restaurant, possibly another last supper, I went back to the hotel in an unhappy frame of mind, to turn in estranged from the world and somewhat despondent.

      Hours later, the still of the night was broken by the sound of voices and heavy footsteps outside in the upstairs corridor. Startled out of a disturbed sleep I was even more disturbed lying in the darkness listening to the commotion coming in my direction. A loud banging on the door of the next bedroom was followed by the sound of some heavily booted visitors bursting in. It was difficult to breathe with the alarm and excitement. The sound of drawers being roughtly opened and furniture being man handled penetrated the walls, as did the dreaded invitation of the Gestapo, "Kommen Sie mit." Some poor devil had been arrested but more concerned about myself, I prayed that the neighbouring he or she was the sole reason for the frightening nocturnal call. The noise abated and whoever they were seemed to have left fortunately without realising that another potential victim had been sitting very apprehensively up in bed within a few feet. At long last came the dawn. Not having slept a wink, I went down into the foyer, to casually enquire of a porter what all the commotion had been about during the night. 'They', whoever he might have meant, had taken a woman away. I thought of booking out of the hotel immediately, but on reflection that so far, as no suspicion had fallen on me, one more night with a chance that Bolek would turn up was worth the risk. But for the bad experience of the night before and the prospect of possibly undergoing a further trial during the night to come, the day I spent meandering around byways and absorbing the Christmas carol quaintness of Prague, was entertaining and interesting for a lad from London.

      Arriving punctually before six, another fruitless hour passed at Franceska's coffee house waiting for Bolek, who once again failed to appear. I decided not to try a the third wait on the following evening. There was no logic in my business to think that a third time would prove lucky. Back to Warsaw the next day. Aided by a bottle of wine and a few ales, the second night in Prague was peaceful and blessed with the soundest of sleeps. I booked out of the hotel without fuss, retrieved the passport and got to the station in plenty of time. To hell with Prague and although it was a sincere wish for Bolek's sake that nothing serious had gone wrong, if he had just casually let our appointment down, then to hell with him too!

      Shortly after the train left Prague station, an elderly civilian clad security officer made a casual check of my papers. He was a fatherly type of figure, in contrast to those encountered on such duties in the trains of the General Government and in much better humour at having left Prague safely, I joked with him at ease while my Schenker papers were checked. Apart from possible interrogation on the train there was only one frontier control to be negotiated before getting home to Warsaw. It was a fine, frosty and brilliantly sunny afternoon as we pulled into the medium sized station of Porai. The name of this border checkpoint into the General Government is not hard to remember. I stood up as if to stretch my legs, but really to take the usual look up and down the platform for anything of alarm. On this occasion with no reason to expect anything untoward, I saw with surprise that the platform was swarming with German police, soldiers, and civilians with all the appearance of being Gestapo. If this large array of security forces was connected with the twice non-appearance of Bolek in Prague, the object of the exercise the Hun was now mounting on the train might be me. Forewarned is forearmed. I alighted from the train onto the platform to be immediately ordered back on by a German policeman and in my politest and most cultured German I enquired of him as to what was going on.

      "Stichprobe," he replied. I was having a rough Czechoslovakian trip. News of the Stichprobe danger had gone the rounds in Warsaw. Tired of being unable to catch convincing looking couriers carrying excellent false documents, the Hun had adopted new tactics.

      Regardless of age, occupation, nationality or sex, a percentage of passengers were taken off at any place on the train journey for thorough processing before being allowed to proceed. For the person with forged papers the damning check was an immediate telephonic communication with the official German authority depicted on the papers as having issued the document. For forgeries unknown at the stated place of issue, verification would not be forthcoming, the bearer of unsubstantiated papers then tragically unmasked. From a crowded train sometimes only one person in ten was removed, but often every other passenger was subject to the dangerous check. Were one to escape on a number of occasions, being caught by such measures increased to an inevitable arrest with every successive journey, a simple application of the law of averages. On this occasion, peering along the platform, I could see that every third passenger was being taken out and ushered into a waiting room.

      Two Huns burst into the compartment, the leading pistol jabbing a count at each passenger's chest.
"Em, zwei, h'raus — One, two out." I had drawn a number three and was bustled h'rous onto the platform.
Where the devil had my fairly godmother got to?
German citizens had priority processing and standing in front of a seated Nazi gendarme in a small office, I quickly blurted out, "From Schenkers out of Warsaw." My voice seemed to be shaking but the tremor was not noticed.
"Give me the Warsaw Schenkers' staff list," he called and taking my papers he compared them with a typewritten sheet which an orderly promptly produced. The moment of truth was awaited. The German gave a satisfied grunt and handed back the papers. "In Ordnung," back on board. Far too close for comfort, I prayed thanks for the genius who had bestowed me with a physically matching Schenker name. By the time the train pulled out, the trembling had stopped.

      Other spy catching tactics had also been adopted. The Germans were aware of the extensive use by Polish agents of false service passports as issued to employees of the Eastern Railways. I had used this type of document often in the General Government as well as on my first visit to Austria. The Germans had recalled suddenly all genuine Eastern Railway documents as carried by their own true employees, and a coloured and dated postage like stamp was pasted on the back of every service card. Gestapo were informed that any railway credential of this type, presented to them during a security check and not carrying the appropriate coloured stamp and correctly dated, was false. Many a Polish agent, in all innocence of this development, presented his Ostbahn forgeries with customary confidence, but without the correct stamp did not return to base. The Strichprobe controls, one of which I had survived, remained a deadly menace, but the stamps on railway passes soon ceased to be a problem. The Resistance had agents working within the official administration of the Eastern Railways and copies of the new stamps and the dates were obtained and affixed as and when necessary, for the false service passports issued by the Resistance to become once again undetectable on that score.

      There was a warm family reunion in Nowy Swiat. Warsaw was in a fever. Massive street round ups were continuing and tales of relatives and friends who had failed to return after going about their daily round were legion. Without warning and usually at a time when the city was most crowded, the Germans continually seized a whole thoroughfare of victims, and only those obliged to go out of their homes to work or on Resistance duties, ventured abroad with any frequency. Confinement at home because of the ever present threat of being rounded up in a Warsaw street, was very irksome for an active girl like Marysia. After much persuasion she agreed to use false German papers provided by the Resistance technical department, depicting her as my wife. The new documents were co-ordinated to match my own and, together, we were able to move around the city in reasonable safety. The combination proved very effective and no German patrol even remotely suspected either Herr or Frau of having forged passports. I did all the talking, and Marysia's face was hardly inspiring when the Nazi police occasionally stopped us.

      Familiarity was breeding contempt and by myself I became almost too confident moving around the city under an efficient German cover, although for the ordinary Pole day to day was a physical and mental nightmare. Up until the escalation of terror, mainly members of the Resistance, ex army officers in hiding, the intelligentsia and other classes considered a threat to Nazi rule, had been sought out and liquidated by the occupying power. For these latter groups, invariably disguised by changed identities, a front line basis for twenty hours every day since the fall of Warsaw in 1939 had been accepted, but now the whole population of Warsaw was being hunted as fodder for the war factories of the Reich.

      A campaign of terror was about to begin and to a depth hitherto not felt possible, hate for the Nazi oppressors was kindled to an explosive point in every Polish breast. As passion mounted, increasing quantities of blood began to flow and most Poles could hardly wait for the physical uprising being prepared by the Underground. Some were unable to resist the call for revenge and many an individual German was gunned down. The Hun retaliated, employing the cruel and unjust system of collective responsibility. Reprisals resulted in the public execution of casually, often street arrested groups of innocent civilians, whose blood ran daily in the gutters of Warsaw.

      Beset with these new and dangerous problems and with casualities rising, survival was now the number one priority of every Pole. To those in the Resistance, to an arduous task of self preservation, the need to step up the fight against the Hun made life more precarious with each passing day. Familiarity does not always breed contempt. As these new hazards become familiar without the lowering of caution in any way, the fact that life was even more fraught with peril than before was accepted. Poland lived, loved, feared and fought on, as vulnerability increased.

      It was Karol's birthday. He knew of my engagement to Marysia and felt that the occasion would be an appropriate one to make her acquaintance. A table for four was booked at the safe little 'Seagull' restaurant and in a cosy dining-room at the rear, Marysia and I were guests of the Polish spymaster and his wife. Our best clothes, mine nobly assisted by acquisitions from the Zoliborz days with the Lorenz family, would have stood muster in any company. Tailoring and dressmaking in the past had been of a very high standard in Warsaw and shoes, especially for ladies, were most elegant. Sumptuous food, its wartime presence always a source of wonder, though most expensive, fortified with vodka and wine, enhanced the good humour which filled the room. Marysia clearly met with the approval of Mr. and Mrs. Karol.

      No word of work was mentioned or hinted at, although even in his lighter moments, Karol was, as befitted every member of the Resistance, constantly on the qui vive. His eyes darted and his ears remained tuned for sounds other than that of the lively conversation to which an ordinary observer would have thought him to be paying full attention. Getting deeper into the military underworld, may be it took a young denizen to recognise an older one.

      In the dorozka on the way back to Nowy Swiat, there was hardly a care in the world. I was an engineer working for the Fatherland in a conquered territory, who had just dined excellently with his German wife. I wondered if Karol had such good papers. He spoke the enemy's tongue indifferently.

      In an official capacity, I met Karol again the next day, and was given a partial briefing about a problem in Hamburg to which he had already alluded.

      Hickman, MacDonald and Chisholm, the three I had escorted up from Krakow, all very personable young men, were lying fairly low and had become favourites of the families who were harbouring them. They had developed a social circle around their hosts and with caution at all times, and the absence of bad luck, might well avoid recapture. Tommie, Stenia and Janka were still safe at the Saska Kepa flat, as was their near neighbour, the engineer and dog Scotty. I learned with disquiet that the three pilots Lila and I had brought back from Krakow were now regular visitors to Tommie and the girls. The latter were most hospitable and charming company but Tommie who by now spoke excellent Polish had always been the soul of good Underground commonsense. For Stenia and Janka to provide a meeting place for so many others of far less experience than Tommie, smacked to my mind, of asking for trouble. I had, however, no authority to comment about the insecurity and as the two girls seemed to ignore the increased peril no unpleasant warning was sounded, and I reminded myself that many of my own social visits were hardly models of correct security practice. Only in Tommie was felt a confidence not inspired by the rest of the escapees, chiefly because of their language deficiencies.

      Tania, the little lady doctor, had been out to see Daddy and Ena, who had weathered the winter well and were still receiving regular financial support from the Underground through Czesia. With all the precautions and other matters in my head, Marysia remained my main concern. Her safety was of paramount importance. She was so delightful and talented a girl, that to think of her in Gestapo hands sufficed to worry intensely. Zosia had been so right about the liability of love in the life of a member of the Resistance and when Karol announced that the next mission was in Hamburg, enthusiasm was hard to muster. Had Marysia come seriously into my life a few months earlier, it could well have dampened an ardour for the type of Russian roulette existence to which an irrevocable committment had been made on oath.

      Details of the trip to Hamburg disclosed a preliminary similar pattern to the initial procedures which had applied to the previous journeys to Vienna and Prague. Because of the general lack of response to the scheme, the Germans had now ceased a long and despairing campaign to woo Polish workers to travel voluntarily into the Reich factories. The new pattern was to round up civilians for enforced deportation. Many of the Poles from Warsaw who had previously volunteered for such employment were members of the Underground, under instructions to use these means of establishing themselves officially and legally within the German homeland's work force. After a year or so of groundwork, networks of agents established throughout the Reich were now working in factories organised sufficiently to tackle the required tasks of espionage and sabotage. With Karol, while discussing the Hamburg trip, was a middle aged Pole sporting a toothbrush Hitler type moustache. According to my chief, Piotr was the collator of activities now ready to bear fruit in the west German region. Piotr had been working for over a year in a factory there, and with a good record had contrived an unusual two weeks compassionate leave from his Hun employers to attend to a domestic problem in Warsaw. Please note that I pass on my description of Piotr's role and functions in Hamburg as according to Karol, who may well have been misinforming me 'a la Resistance', an accepted deception.

      The only sound base on which to build a secret empire is a secret one, about which the fewer people who have any correct knowledge, the better. An increasing familiarity with conspiracy brought a realisation that unless the truth was imperative for a particular operation, lies and false descriptions of all details involved were normal procedure. An apt pupil, I broadcast many calculated falsehoods.

      Piotr was to be my only contact in Hamburg. I was to travel immediately and Piotr would leave Warsaw a few days later at the expiry of official leave from his German employers. He spoke poor German and although as a Pole, subject to a deal of revision on the long journey by German security staff, there was little or no danger of arrest. Piotr had the advantage of carrying a passport, furlough and travel documents, all of genuine German issue, and with no material of an incriminating nature, the closest interrogation or a body search would reveal nothing. My cover was to become once more a German employee of the Schenker transport concern, in the same guise successfully used on the trip to Prague and Vienna.

      For delivery to Hamburg, cash, ration stamps and other material would be taken and a back load picked up for the return journey to Warsaw. Hamburg had been placed on a priority bombing list. It was a vast war production centre and with an outlet to the sea, was home to a fleet of Nazi submarines housed in pens roofed by feet of reinforced concrete. They had so far remained unharmed. Now they were to be blasted in their lairs and the strength of the protective ceiling was required in London, to ensure that appropriate explosive penetration was achieved.

      Almost an old campaigner, within a day, documents checked, ample German money, suitcase with a false bottom, crammed with food stamps and a sheaf of typed papers. I was ready to go. With the little Nazi party members badge now on the open side of my lapel, the westbound evening train from the main Warsaw station was boarded.

      On this occasion, Marysia was unable to farewell me from the platform. Departure time was almost at the curfew hour, too risky to be out of doors and her absence permitted the journey to commence without the sad frame of mind occasioned previously by gazing at a delightful girl who waved goodbye perhaps for ever, as the train pulled out. First stop was Posen, a change of trains, and then on to Hamburg via Berlin. Leaving Warsaw there were more civilian passengers than previously encountered on any Germany bound train, presumably because the route lay through Berlin, administrative centre of the Reich. The first security check from German counter-espionage could be anticipated at Kutno before getting to Posen.

      I had settled down quite comfortably with my pipe, anonymous in the protective gloom of the compartment, when the door suddenly slid open. A torch flashed to catch me off balance by the unexpected speed of the visit.

      "Papiere," barked out a shadowy figure. There was no 'please'. I passed them over.
"Why are you going to Hamburg?" "Who do you work for?" "How long have you worked for them?" "You also speak Polish?" "Where are you staying in Hamburg?"
All my Schenker documents which supported the identity as shown on my German passport and labour card were closely scrutinised. The suddenness of the interview had detracted from my usual smoother performance, and despite making the most strenuous effort to answer calmly and colle.ctedly, matters were not helped by being obliged to blink into a blinding bright tOrch. The collection of papers was handed back in the darkness. The torch flashed on again, but not before catching a good glimpse of a hawk like face which was certainly not amiably disposed towards me or anybody else for that matter.
"Remain in your seat, some further answers are required".

      Taking no notice of any other occupant of the compartment, the man went out into the corridor. More than confidence was needed to subdue the ominous potential of the instruction I had just heard. The train thundered on. We would soon be in Kutno. The further questions which the German security man was seeking to put might well be asked in the police office at Kutno, while some knowledgeable person pulled my suitcase to pieces. The serious situation was weighed and the options considered. The train was going too fast to jump off into the night but as it slowed down pulling into Kutno, the leap might be possible though detection would be sure evidence of guilt. The quandary was solved when the train stopped and I went into the corridor the better to espy developments. The hatched faced interrogator walking along the platform in my direction turned aside and entered an office of some sort. Was he going to get help, or to what else could his movements pertain? Kutno might be the boundary of his duties. Unashamed of the anxiety that gripped me, I watched, and waited almost mesmerised, praying for the best and prepared for the worst. After what seemed hours, relief welled through my whole being as a whistle sounded and the platform commenced to slide slowly and mercifully by.

      The train had now entered the newly integrated Reich and with only a further cursory inspection of documents, I got off safely in Posen to sit in a large waiting room restaurant to await a change of train that would carry me on to Hamburg. There was an unexplained delay in the departure of the connection to Hamburg, which resulted in an enforced, uncomfortable wait of some hours, a consoling thought that perhaps our bombing in the Reich, now a daily feature in the German newspapers, had caused a worthwhile inconvenience. Passengers whose journeys had also been disrupted crowded the station which coincided with the appearance of many strolling pairs of uniformed police to keep me very much on the alert. Posen was the largest city in the former Corridor and still retained, in spite of the deportations, a sizeable Polish population. It was also a major centre of communications, hence probably the more than usual security control for a Reich city.

      A competent dodger of patrols, I sat at tables and feigned sleep, wandered around, keeping well out of harm's way, or sat smoking a pipe securely locked up in a toilet until the patience of other would be patrons was exhausted. Vacation of the haven before arousing pressing and irate comment provoked undesired publicity was an unavoidable nuisance. Train departure time now approaching, I made my way towards the appropriate platform. Dawn had long broken and railway work was in full swing, one goods train being unloaded by a party of British prisoners of war, distinguished by their khaki battledress. An elderly stout German soldier stood guard looking like a figure out of a comic opera. The prisoners were healthy, their uniforms clean and well pressed and, as one of them helped himself from a packet of Players cigarettes, I had a flood of homesickness. From their voices, they were from southern England, and it was fascinating once again, after such long time, to hear the cockney accent from a home which was so far away and unattainable. Meandering closer while the old guard was out of hearing and showing no sign of interest, I approached one of the soldiers.
"How's it going?" I asked quietly.
"Whassat?" he replied.
"How's it going?" I repeated.
The man's mouth dropped. Whatever compelled me to speak to him I do not really know, but the reaction which followed did not encourage any further conversation.
"Ere 'Arry," the prisoner shouted to a uniformed mate a little way along the platform, "Feller 'ere what speaks perfick English." The shock of this loud and tactless exclamation which could have been picked up by the guard or some other German, prompted me to veer off quite smartly. My farewell just about filled the bill.
"You stupid bastard," was a quite clear comment.

      Posen to Hamburg was a peaceful, uneventful journey and after the preceding fitful night, lost slumber was made up in the well ordered and outwardly tranquil Reich. I only woke up as we got into Hamburg and the first thing noticed on leaving the station left me staring in undisguised amazement and some respect. The large station was hardly recognisable from outside at ground level, and almost certainly not from the air. The giant building was completely covered and draped with a camouflage of mottled green material. I could hardly believe my eyes and grudgingly admired this evidence of Teutonic ingenuity on such a massive scale.

      There was no trouble in booking into one of the hotels which was recommended by Piotr back in Warsaw. The whole city was a bustle of orderly activity and the deeper one penetrated the Reich, the more peaceful life appeared to be. Of any war damage there was no sign. The hotel was large and comfortable. Reception was dignified with an old world charm. Only my name and home address, which I gave as care of Schenkers in Warsaw, were required and without being called on for the usual surrender of a passport, I felt more at peace with the world than at any time since joining the cloak and dagger club. After a few ales, a hearty meal, as always courtesy of the staff of our forgery department in Warsaw, I purchased a quantity of magazines and newspapers and retired to my room for a hot bath, a good read and an even better sleep. Spring might have been a little late in Europe that year, but it had arrived in Hamburg as I stepped out of the hotel the next morning, looking forward, in the brilliant sunshine, to an interesting walkabout in an enemy stronghold. Piotr was not due to arrive from Warsaw for a couple of days and time was my own and ensuring that nobody was trailing, with pleasant anticipation an exploration of a large and very important Nazi city commenced.

      The camouflage of the railway station registered on arrival the previous day was duplicated in many places, and on the many lakes further samples of Nazi ingenuity and thoroughness were revealed. Mock ups in light timber, of factories and warehouses, floated over many stretches of water and from make believe chimneys smoke belched forth to proclaim non-existent production furnaces below. As with the railway station, camouflaged full deception at ground level was not possible and had not been attempted. From the air, however, it must have been a different matter, with complete disguise achieved. Though eyes other than mine had probably made such notes, for what it was worth all I saw that day was recorded. Bombers would have been better advised to attack what appeared to be open fields or parks and strictly avoid smoking factories or warehouses.

      Hamburg seemed a city of brighter and more cheerful inhabitants than Vienna. Maybe the loss of so many Austrian troops at Stalingrad had contributed to an impression of Viennese gloom. Both cities had no sign of the saddening scars of bomb damage and being a seaport, perhaps the preponderance of sailors in Hamburg had further livened up the local scene. The following day was of similar pattern to the first. I wandered off in the direction of the docks to happily move about around the Altona district reported to be the waterfront home of the submarine pens of interest to Bomber Command.

      Busy examining the layout of the warehouses and other seaside commercial establishments, I did not fail to notice that the attention of a solitary Germany policeman standing motionless some fifty yards away on the other side of the street was focused on me. As he commenced to walk slowly in my direction, I countered by turning away from his immediate view into a side street. By the time he had reached the corner for a look, a couple of hundred yards separated us. A shout rent the air, "Halt!" Pretending not to hear I turned again very casually into yet another street, once again accelerating ahead. By the time he came into view around the next corner, the distance between us was so great that interest and pursuit was abandoned. Even at that distance he registered as an old, tired policeman, giving up a chase with a shrug of resigned disinterest.

      It was not long after this near brush with the law that I was sauntering through a very Victorian part of Hamburg. Street after street of solid, three or four storeyed villas with big ground floor bay windows projected the severe image of a bygone era. From these large houses there emanated no sign of life, although heavy curtains and polished doorknockers indicated some type of probably matching inhabitants. I came to a crossroad of such streets which gave a choice of direction, had not one of the streets attracted immediate attention. The roadway for vehicular entrance to the thoroughfare now exciting curiosity, was blocked for the whole width, from pavement to pavement, by a high brick wall. Access was available to pedestrians only. Intrigued but wary, the reason for closing this particular street to all but foot traffic was puzzling, and from a professional point of view, anything unusual in Germany called for investigation. There was no 'Eintritt Verboten' notice and after a cautious peep round the wall, this blocked off road looked identical to all the other arterials down which I had been meandering. With no wish to share the fate of an inquisitive cat, something irresistibly drew me to walk hesitantly down the pavement which revealed only the usual row of bay windowed mansions. The large front windows were in contrast to all of the others seen that day, which had been without exception draped inside with heavy, drawn, all-concealing curtains. A completely reverse situation now prevailed. The newly disclosed windows had no drapes at all. Not only were the contents of the room visible, they were being flaunted. Reclining, sitting or standing in each window was at least one partly clad female gesticulating an intimate welcome to any passing male. The enticement was crude and even though the name of the thoroughfare is remembered, and still functions as part of the Hamburg red light district, there will be no advertising in these pages. The unfortunate merchandise has probably more business than it can handle anyway. My official report on a Hamburg trip made no mention of stumbling onto the alley of brothels. Karol might have got the wrong impression and apart from its possibly large patronage by marine personnel the place was of no special espionage significance.

      Another minor incident occurred that same day. I returned to the hotel for a wash and brush up before going out to patriotically try and eat the Germans out of house and home. Retrieving the room key, a marked improvement in the hotel decor became apparent. The male receptionist in the morning was a conservative elderly and dignified German, who blended perfectly into the traditional heavy furnishings which typified the whole place. The hotel office was no longer in charge of this pillar of the establishment. In his place was a dark haired, youngish lady of voluptuous and striking attraction. Key retrieved, I simpered away, well under the influence, up the stairs to my room. On the way out to dinner my shy smile provoked a magnificent pearly effort in return.

      On return the receptionist had her back to me. I was half way up the stairs when a female voice called from below: "Herr Schneider." I kept going. Louder
— "Herr Schneider!"
I still kept going and reached the first landing. Goodness gracious, she was calling me. Silly ass, I had not reacted to the new name. To close this self inflicted breach in defence I bounded back down the stairs.
"I though I heard you call, but today with such a severe head cold I am quite deaf."
A further flash of dental lightning, was welcome evidence that the real reason for the lack of attention had not crossed her pretty head. Somebody had telephoned and left a message that Herr Peter would be calling tomorrow before lunchtime.
Before Piotr was due to arrive the next morning, I ducked out for some fresh air. The charming receptionist was again on duty.
"Herr Schneider."
Yes, gracious Miss," my immediate response.
"A little bottle of something for your cold, Herr Schneider."

      Paying profuse verbal thanks for her generosity, it was patently obvious that the German beauty, in addition to other charms, had a kind and thoughtful nature. With Marysia and Warsaw in mind, Satan was ignored. Piotr turned up on time with the welcome news that my departure would not be delayed as the material for Karol was almost ready. Notwithstanding a Hitler type moustache, Piotr looked very Polish, a stranger to Hamburg, probably the best cover for him as he was indeed a Pole and legally registered as as such with the Nazis. Business concluded and about to leave, the Pole warned me to be cautious with the good looking receptionist. Her husband was a member of the Gestapo. Just as well my conscience had warned me about Satan and perhaps equally as well the warning had been reinforced. Hamburg was departed according to plan. Although there had not been the pleasure and enjoyment of the personal contacts made in Vienna, an impression of Hamburg was that a more professional Resistance attitude prevailed. Isolated from the local operation, called upon and only familiar with the specialist function of courier, I was even unaware if the required details of the Hamburg submarine pens were included in my baggage.

      The journey through the Reich was, as usual, peaceful with undisturbed interesting contemplation of the German scene and its people in wartime. My suitcase was so heavy with documents that a report of the trip would include the advantages of microfilm. So much material was being smuggled that even a casual inspection would be ruinous. Without doubt nothing would remain undetected during a serious professional search. The false bottom of the case, designed to be a protection from a routine inspection was nothing like large enough in which to pack all the papers that Piotr had passed over.

      There was a change of train at Posen. During the two hour wait with unavoidable bad luck, I walked smack into a policeman who was coming out of the waiting room. My papers were demanded and handed back after the briefest of inspections. "Sorry," he said, "I though you were a Pole." No compliment was meant.

      Homecoming was joyous and more so to be tucked up safe and sound, always comparatively so, in my room at Florian's. Such was the volume of material from Hamburg that the consignment was split into four parts and conveyed separately to Karol at the usual restaurant rendezvous. Marysia's aid was enlisted for two of the journeys from Nowy Swiat to the restaurant, making the other two myself. Warsaw was a far riskier place to move about in than Germany, and the precaution of transporting only a quarter of the consignment at one time was justified. Karol was pleased with the results and the report. The HamburL trip had been a success, but our joint elation with the volume of material was marred by the appearance of a local girl courier with upsetting news just received from Prague.

      Bolek, the chief of the Czechoslovakian cell who had not kept his arranged appointment with me at the Franceska Restaurant in Prague a few weeks ago, had disappeared without trace. Fairly certain to be in Gestapo hands, Karol placed the Warsaw restaurant where both of us had met and talked with Bolek, completely out of bounds to all Resistance personnel. The little restaurant, was also one of my own rendezvous points with Karol, and the only Warsaw Resistance contact for Bolek which he could be forced to reveal as an Underground focal point. These precautions, in theory at any rate, should cause any trail the Germans might be following to peter out, as their prisoner had no knowledge beyond this geographical point.

      My analysis of the possibilities which could develop with Bolek's arrest, not unnaturally, centred around the effect his capture might have on me personally. The contact restaurant which Karol had just abandoned closed off the major physical line of enemy pursuit, although always of concern was how much had the Gestapo been able to add to one's Resistance file after the capture of a fellow member.

      Three further missions had been allocated to me. I was next off to Stettin on the Baltic, then to Vienna again and on return from there, once more to Hamburg. Unintentionally, my face must have disclosed some misgivings for Karol indicated that a request for better, almost foolproof travelling papers, was being given urgent attention. For good couriers to be caught almost by accident, because of incompetent false documents, would not be tolerated. I fervently hoped so. The Law of Possibilities had not ceased sounding an alarm.

      Came the bombshell. A rush of mixed feelings surged over me. I had long given up all thought about the matter, but here was my all powerful chief personally telling me that my return to England was imminent. By turns hot and cold, strict attention was paid.

      For a long time, personnel of varying qualifications and technical talents needed with the Underground had been selected from the mass of Polish servicemen who had, by many routes, reached the United Kingdom after the 1939 defeat. These men, after whatever training was needed the better to fit them for their task in their occupied homeland, were parachuted into the General Government to become automatically members of the Resistance. They were sent to use the professional skills they possessed and deemed valuable, to further the work of the Underground. Radio experts, gunsmiths, cartographers, printers, chemists, explosives experts were but a few of the callings in great demand to operate throughout Europe from the secret bases which the Poles had established. Karol warmed to the subject while I wondered what all this had to do with me.

      After much effort to get these newcomers and their important talents into Poland, often to be later established in the Reich and other parts of Nazi-occupied Europe, a most disappointing development was becoming apparent. Far too large a proportion of these new recruits from Britain were being picked up by the Gestapo. They were prone to arrest. Most of the men concerned had been out of Poland for years, with little or no conception of conditions or essential requirements to survive pursuit and control by German counter-espionage, and the host of methods that had been devised to counter the Underground. The Resistance, Karol continued, were of the opinion that of equal importance to the technical skills of these sorely needed extra staff, was their procedural training in-depth as agents in the field. Professional talents were useless if they failed to reach the geographical point from where they were required to go into action. Many of those who had disappeared either lacked the inborn talent and nerve for subversive work, or had not been trained in survival techniques, or both.

      As my friend and chief continued on, one could imagine some poor devil, who the night before had been safely in bed in his United Kingdom quarters, dangling in petrifying and lonely darkness at the end of a parachute, rapidly descending into enemy territory, unprepared except for some technical ability to face the varied ordeals which were certain to confront him. By the time Karol neared the conclusion of his summary, the reason for my being sent back to the United Kingdom was apparent. I was needed on many counts. I had accumulated a knowledge of Germany and occupied Europe, to be exploited before the opportunity was lost, if the Nazis caught me. The Poles, from their point of view, were also sure that a Briton familiar with the situation in Poland, would be able to present a better and more readily accepted account of Resistance activity and the stance of the civilian population, than one of their own people. Future parachutists would also have the benefit of being personally put through their paces, tested and fully acquainted with the conditions possible to meet from the first moment foot was set on German occupied territory or the Reich itself. Some unpleasantries such a position would enable me to foster for the Nazis came to mind. On a previously noted principle, I decline to elaborate. These dirtiest of untried tricks will hopefully prove a nasty shock for any future enemy. It would take some time to organise the departure for home aM by the time three further missions mooted for Vienna, Stettin and Hamburg had been carried out, all should be ready. By midsummer, a driving ambition could at long last be satisfied, home in England.

      No attempt was made in front of Karol to facially or verbally disguise the emotional impact these decisions had showered on me that day. Zosia was proving more right than ever. Resistance fighters should be given an anti-love potion on joining up. How would Marysia fare? Sympathy towards my mixed feelings was apparent from Karol's next remarks which, by design or accident, brought some comfort. The intention of the Polish Underground was to urgently request London to return me to active service based in Warsaw after carrying out the various duties in the United Kingdom. Some kind remarks about my suitability for subversive work, prompted a suggestion that an assurance from London about my coming back to Poland should be confirmed before leaving for home. On many counts I wanted to go but could not possibly stay for long with a heart now so firmly anchored in Warsaw.

      A hint of my second spring in Warsaw was dawning. With a week or so to April the third trip to Vienna was due. Before briefing and preparation I relaxed, if one could describe it thus, at Nowy Swiat. Lapankas were still taking place and the general mounting of stress which had heralded 1943 continued.

      The increase in tension made my mind up to tell Marysia that I was likely to leave Warsaw for some months. Were anything unfortunate to befall, it would be better to have married before departure. On a long term basis, with the war ended, she would then qualify for British citizenship by virtue of the wedding and though such a move might not provide any immediate protection in occupied Poland, possibly the reverse, the new status could eventually prove vitally important.

      After an initial surprised confusion which cautioned against what appeared to be a rush, my fiancee sighed and agreed to put arrangements in hand for the ceremony. "It may be all for the best, Pawel," she said. "I didn't want to worry you, but "mi sie zdaje ze jestem w ciazy." — 'I think I am going to have a baby'.

      Weddings are functions which in normal times create a vast amount of preparatory work and according to the way one views such matters, a deal of the traditional fuss could well be dispensed with. Families of the happy couple dictate the type and size of the ceremony and the celebrations to follow. As the latter usually foot the bill for the costs involved, no matter what the private thoughts or desires of the bride and groom, their participation is marked with a display of assumed or genuine gratitude and pleasure. And so it should be.

      One would have thought, with the Gestapo breathing down everybody's necks that discretion would have called for the quietest of nuptials, with a minimum of guests and attendant jollity. The madcap Polish nature in general, and that of Dr. Kaziu's family in particular, had been sadly underestimated. The event was to become almost a matter of national pride. A consideration of little things like life and death, that man Hitler and similar minor inconveniences were not going to stop the fifth of May becoming a demonstration of defiance and bravado under the nose of the enemy. The whole affair would have been even more admirable were I not cast to play, together with my new wife to be, such an exposed role in what could turn out to be a very hair raising production. Marysia's pregnancy as yet not obvious was unsung. The main objective was to get married as soon as possible and as my going away the given reason for an earlier ceremony had been accepted, there was little point in giving a second one. Besides, in spite of firearms being 'streng verboten' for Poles during the Nazi occupation, some irate and offended member of Dr. Kaziu's family might have rustled up the odd shotgun from somewhere just to make sure I did the right thing, or failing that, was rendered incapable of doing anything unacceptable again.

      At Karol's instigation, the priest who had officiated at the swearing of my oath of allegiance to the Resistance was to conduct the wedding ceremony. Having long given up the attempt to have the quietest of weddings, to hear that the priest, long steeped in subversion had booked one of the largest churches, the Holy Cross in the centre of Warsaw, was further proof of the futility to try and persuade a Pole to use the head and not the heart. To marry Marysia, with all the appropriate trimmings, it was obligatory to adopt the Roman Catholic religion. At Dr. Kaziu's, in front of a suitably solemn family audience, the priest who arrived in civilian clothes donned his robes. I said yes and no to everything making the transition from Protestant to Catholic without hesitation, as required. Looking at Marysia, although the Catholic Church might have been satisfied at my enlistment, I was without doubt making the better bargain.

      A question was somewhere to live, a roof of our own. Marysia undertook the task and who better than a Warsaw girl bred and born, bright and capable to solve such a problem.

      There was plenty of time before leaving on my next trip, so Kawala of the Eastern Railway, in the preferred German attire, excused himself from the up and downstairs families at Nowy Swiat and caught the train from the Warsaw main station to Klembow for a visit to Ena and Daddy. There was not much snow left as the train covered the few kilometres eastward on the track to Klembow. In a 'Nur fur Deutsche' carriage, I had for company two off duty uniformed railway policemen, who responded amiably enough to my 'Heil Hitler' and raised hand. They would certainly not dream of working in free time, especially as their travelling companion was so pleasant a young German. Leaving the small station I once again turned down the deserted and sandy forest road which led to my trusted old friends. The evening was dark and the dim glow of a lamp through a window was the only sign of life as I quietly mounted the verandah of the little cottage and tapped gently on the front door. There was a movement from within and Daddy's voice, "Kto tam?"

      "You'll never guess," in Polish and the door opened, a lantern held high. "Ena, Ena," said an elderly male voice from the shadows. "Ronnie is here." As Daddy commenced pumping my hand he was pushed none too gently out of the way by a charging Ena.

      "My dearest boy," she gasped, hugging me with both arms. "I have been so worried, worried out of my mind." The lamp was turned up and they both stood back gasping as if at someone reprieved from the gallows. "Ronnie, Ronnie," wept the elderly Scots lady. "What the hell have the Poles done to you, you are thinner and so much older."

      With the pressure of events in Warsaw, I had planned to stay only one night at Klembow, but the intention was so firmly over ruled that one became three. We talked incessantly, the vodka and food brought from Warsaw, soon exhausted, was well replenished from the local stockists of fire water and produce, for which Daddy was ordered to go for replenishments on a number of occasions. Still the dictatorial Scot was our Ena. The cottage was now quite comfortably furnished. Czesia had been arriving on schedule with the financial grant from the Underground and Dr. Tania paid frequent visits with comforts still being collected from Ena's fans in the city. There had been no sign of any German police activity and by now, one could be certain that the trail which had led the Gestapo to Ena and Daddy's flat in Warsaw was at a dead end. Apart from the inaction and the quiet of the pine forests, which at least provided plenty of fuel, the two ageing fugitives had few complaints. Czesia had intimated that my own prisoner of war days were far behind, and had shared with Ena a deep concern for my safety.

      With the security situation so stabilised at Klembow, a startled old couple were told of my plans to marry and a favour requested of them. Of course I was welcome to bring the new bride and to spend a couple of weeks or so honeymooning. Ena quickly reeled off a list of things for Daddy to do to add to the comfort of their intended guests. The grand old man acquiesced readily and with great charm.

      On return from Klembow an urgent summons from Karol awaited. Intuitively, making a way through the streets to the rendezvous, I sensed trouble. The city, its buildings and bustling traffic, were in warning contrast to the peace of the pine forest at Ena's. Very particular that day to skirt any German police patrol I was eventually ushered into Karol's presence, and even before the handshake, something seemed clearly amiss. The Vienna operation had given no sign of life for a suspiciously long time. A courier despatched to investigate had disappeared without trace. I was to leave immediately for Vienna with an open brief to report back as soon as the situation there had been ascertained. Marysia's dark eyes widened with concern at the news of a journey out of town. As usual no mention was made of the name of the city of my destination, neither was there any hint that the trip was of more than routine character. Cheerfully and emphasising that this was a last trip before our marriage, enthusiasm was infectious, rewarded by a heart melting smile from the softest of red lips and the whitest of even teeth which lit up the goodness of her face.

      Since joining the Underground to be injected with and surviving many fears I had become partially hooked in the associated thrills. With more than ever to lose and greater risk, there was a touch of masochism about the forthcoming emergency trip to Vienna. My taste for excitement continues right down to the present day. Though never to achieve the same heights of elation enjoyed under the combined influences of fear, danger and patriotism during the war, in later years underwater spearing with an odd shark about, or hunting wild pigs with a knife provided substitute thrills. Polish courage was the inspiration. I contracted a mild dose of this contagious infection but to nothing like the degree it had smitten my daring Slavic associates.

      For the Austrian trip the identity of Herr Schneider of the Warsaw branch of the Schenker Transport concern was to be assumed. Karol confirmed the real Mr. Schneider to be still in Schenker's employ and having survived a "Stichprobe" the cover could, with reasonable safety, be used again. My tools of trade, not forgetting ample meat stamps for Blau, the professor's Bismark hound, were rapidly assembled, with everything tucked safely away as the train pulled out of the Warsaw station, en route overnight to Vienna.

      The passengers were a mixture of soldiers and civilians and contemplating the journey and task ahead, I was relaxed, yet sharp for the first time to genuinely wake at the touch of a German security man with no stage fright within or without, and calmly answer questions as my documents were perused. My good humour was contagious. Apologising for having woken me, "Schlaf Weiter," he said, and with the confidence of a man with a clear conscience, peaceful slumber was resumed.

      Walking in mid Vienna, halfway through the next morning, blissfully unaware of what the immediate future held, it was just as well that I had enjoyed a quiet and restful trip from Warsaw.

      A cold spring had done little to liven up the town or the people. The rumblings of the defeats and German withdrawls on the eastern front added to Austrian gloom after the tragedy of Stalingrad. About to book into a hotel, something cautioned a change of mind. Instead of taking a room, the counter clerk was told that I had just arrived on business possible to complete that day in time to catch the evening train to Berlin. One of the conservative old school, the Austrian receptionist was a model of courtesy. It was no trouble for him to look after my suitcase for the afternoon and if unable to get away that evening, it would be a pleasure to have me stay. Introducing myself verbally and unintelligibly as Schneider, I went out into the Street.

      The three contacts in Vienna with addresses and telephone numbers were Lila, Professor von Englisch, and the Austrian engineer recruited on the maiden assignment. Feeling under no immediate pressure, I decided to operate on a full stomach, retiring into a beer cellar to wash down a substantial meal with Austrian ale while doing a spell of serious pondering. It was going to be easy enough by telephone to confirm the freedom or otherwise of the three people just mentioned. If one or all of them were in Gestapo hands, any enquiries would nevertheless serve to focus attention of a foreign presence in town on a voyage of discovery from nowhere more likely than Polish espionage headquarters in Warsaw. The situation looked sticky and if our agents had been arrested there was no way of confirming the position without exposing myself as being in the locality. If the worst came to the worst, staying overnight in a local hotel would be suicide, and the ruse of only parking my bag seemed justified. I went back to the near vicinity of the hotel which sheltered the luggage, the quicker to be able to retrieve it if necessary, and made ready to enlist the German telephone service in the Allied cause. About a quarter of a mile away from the hotel, from a kiosk, the home of the Austrian engineer was telephoned. He should rightly have been at work during the day and it was no surprise to recognise his wife's voice. After ensuring that the lady knew the identity of the caller, I commented that passing through Vienna a purely courtesy call as to the well being of the engineer and the rest of the family was being made. It was good to hear an untroubled voice announce that everybody was well, plus an invitation to be sure and call on a future visit. I left the kiosk to reconnoitre the immediate area, and finding no cause for alarm, returned within a quarter of an hour for a further call, this time to the Professor. A strange male voice answered, certainly not that of either von Englisch or his housekeeper. My hackles rose. The enemy was at the other end of the line. I was informed that the Professor was in the garden and would be summoned. Without replacing the receiver, within seconds I was on the other side of the busy thoroughfare, a couple of hundred yards away, mingling with numerous pedestrians in a retail arcade. Through a glass window well within the arcade, the telephone booth was kept under tense watch. Maybe the Professor had truly been in the garden and a minute or so without much danger could have been safely waited without getting so jumpy. Suddenly there was no doubt that the correct course had been adopted. A large dark coloured saloon car pulled up alongside the booth, three civilian males jumped out, I commenced a fast walk back to the hotel. The man at the desk on learning that I was now able to catch the evening train to Berlin politely handed over the suitcase.

      Back in the beer cellar, luggage once again parked, this time with a friendly barman, the situation was reconsidered. The Gestapo had caught the Professor. Poor fellow. Feeling sorry for the elderly Austrian a thought was also spared for the fate of Blue, the enormous Bismark hound now minus its master and meat from Polish Intelligence. Equally certain was that the Gestapo knew about an enquiring presence in Vienna, fairly sure whence it had arrived. All hotels would be checked that night if not sooner, but with luck after the precaution of not booking in, the Nazis should draw a complete blank. Nothing had been written down at the hotel and the courteous old clerk who had minded the suitcase would not be on duty at night duty for his memory to be jogged by an enquiring policeman. It was essential to get out of Vienna immediately.

      The train to Warsaw left at 8 o'clock each morning, but before then Lila's situation required checking, a disturbing prospect. A female voice in German answered Lila's number apologising for not being able to help. It sounded above board but as the girl from Warsaw was no longer at her contact address, I hurried off. The report from Vienna was that there was very little left to report. A speedy return was of the essence. Goodness knows what pressures would have by now been applied by the Gestapo to their new prisoners to squeeze out particulars of the Warsaw organisation. With one of the arrested a woman, her treatment would probably be used to coerce the men. That the courier who had preceded me on a misson of investigation had certainly been captured, and as I had no idea under what circumstances, my own situation grew grimmer every minute.

      With private or public accommodation not practical, where to pass the night was of pressing concern. The Professor and I, on one of our rambles through the city, had dallied in a beautiful park, a fair walk from the tavern where the suitcase had been left. Tree and shrub clad, though at the time of the year with little appeal to a sense of the great outdoors, the layout was soon being surveyed with all the expertise of a tramp looking for a night's shake down. There was a fairly large pond, though with no ducks, probably all eaten by wartime hungry Austrians. Funny how one's mind wanders. Thick bushes on three sides of the pond came right down to the water's edge. Lodging for the night had been found.

      I went back to the beer cellar to retrieve my bag, and the barman was generously tipped. With a cock-and-bull story about having just been invited to a party with some old friends, as well as trading blatantly on the goodwill established by the tip, two bottles of schnapps were wheedled out of him. On my way to the room booked in the park, a number of newspapers were purchased. Goebbels would hardly have approved of his pet propaganda outputs serving that night to keep the bottom of a British spy off the cold damp ground.

      It was dark by the time the middle of the park and the bushes were reached. With the pond but a few feet away to preclude completely any approach from that side, invisible in the gloom and thick undergrowth, I felt almost comfortable and secure. Staking out the newspapers and pinning the edges down with twigs, I lay down, suitcase as a pillow and peered up into the blackness of the sky. It was very chilly, especially in the legs and knees, alleviated to some extent by wrapping them up in newspaper. The anaesthetic properties of schnapps were called into full play that miserable night. Much of the physical discomfort of ache and cold was relieved by frequent swigs at the two bottles, both of which would have been gladly swapped for the loan of a decent sleeping bag. Never did time pass so slowly. Every two or three hours I would peep at my watch in disgust to discover that at least ten minutes had passed since the previous glance. Came the hour before dawn. Cold and stiff in every joint, drastic physical jerks were necessary to crawl to the edge of the pond. There I washed and somehow managed to shave in the dark, and complete a toilet back in the bushy bedroom. The spartan little haven in the shrubs was vacated by 7 o'clock, to be by full daylight on the approaches to the station from where the life saving train to Warsaw departed. Long distance and local trains ran from the large terminus and as the main entrance loomed up in the distance, a throng of pedestrian and intending passengers streamed towards it. There were certainly more uniformed police about than normal, hordes of them plainly visible and such numbers were ominously unusual. It was unwise to go further. If they were looking for me, and so it seemed, there was no hope of getting through to the train. It was probable that by now the Germans had a personal description, but even if such misfortune was not the case, it was positive that the name Warsaw seen on my ticket or papers would be disastrous. Under present circumstances the name of the city which housed the headquarters of the largest Allied European Intelligence group would precipitate a rigorous interrogation with no chance of survival. Turning around, my footsteps were retraced with mounting concern.

      The thought of another night by the pond was daunting, but after a look at the station the next morning, if the situation had not improved, some of the options which were stirring would have to be considered. The suitcase could hardly be left day after day in the same tavern, without generating some queries in the barman's mind. As affable as ever, he had a son serving in France which was influencing a helful attitude towards me. We had a beer together and two more bottles of schnapps were obtained without difficulty but with an even bigger tip.

      Before setting out once more for my quarters in the park, dinner was eaten at three restaurants, with the aid of false food stamps. The large intake of food would help ward off the cold of the coming night, horrible to contemplate.

      Until mid-morning, I walked purposefully up and down the main streets of the city centre, suitcase in hand with the air of a man on a mission. Nobody would have possibly guessed that in reality I had nowhere to go until it was safe to sit down thankfully, in the well patronised beer cellar which had sheltered me the day before. With a hearty "Guten Tag" my barman friend served a beer. It was no trouble to once again leave the suitcase in his care and return to the immediate vicinity of the station. There were still quite a lot of pedestrians about, but the early morning rush had subsided almost completely. Very noticeable too, was that the police had also disappeared. It was more than ever likely that the train to Warsaw had been of major interest to them and a keen passenger, yours truly, the quarry. Fortunately, the weather for the time of year became milder and though not conducive to sleeping overnight in a park without cover, it was pleasant enough to pass a physically comfortable day wandering around Vienna. Not sure whether or not the police had my description I skulked from tavern to tavern sipping beer, face well screened by newspapers being read with deep interest.

      The same procedure was adopted. I made my bed up with a fresh supply of newspapers and with string puchased during the day, thick sheets of paper were tied round feet and legs before settling down. Really sleepy as well as physically tired, before the cold set in to disturb the sorely needed slumber, a bottle of schnapps was tipped up and the contents allowed slowly to trickle down. With the hope that snoring would not prove an unwanted advertisement, the land of nod was tipsily entered. Chilled to the marrow, slightly hungover and aching in every joint, consciousness returned in the small hours. The second bottle of schnapps kept the pains at bay, but falling to produce some more sleep, a few miserable hours passed very slowly waiting to shave, clean up and sally forth. Stiffness, more severe than the previous morning made reaching the bathroom at the pond a painful business. A few more nights of this sort of thing would cause my whole body to seize up. Surprisingly enough I was not in the least down hearted and though the schnapps might well have influenced the mood, being really up against it was a major inspiration to continue battling the worsening odds.

      'Thanking Gott' for another fine morning and especially for the continuing absence of rain, I was once again in the middle of the early morning crowd of Austrians on the way to the station. From afar, just as many uniformed police as on the previous morning were clearly visible. All people entering the terminus were again being stopped with jackbooted civilians supplementing this function of the official gendarmerie. Gestapo!

      In an arcade buried behind a fully opened newspaper, I was not reading, but desperately urging a tired mind to circumvent the approaching disaster. Had there been somewhere to stay, under comfortable cover until the heat was off and German vigilance around the station had relaxed there would have been little to worry about. The scientist's home was a thought but to involve him and his family so far safe from Gestapo attention, and appeal for shelter at that stage would undermine any confidence the Austrian patriot might have formed of his new Allied associates and prejudice further business.

      From afar the station was kept under discreet watch. The departure of the train for Warsaw in an easterly direction had been accompanied by a gradual lessening of police presence. By midday, except for a couple of uniformed, disinterested railway officials strolling around, the uniforms who earlier on were checking up on everybody, had all disappeared. The normal peace of a Reich railway station reigned once again and the way into the main terminus was open. Now convinced that the Germans were concentrating only on eastbound passengers which, if persisted in, would certainly preclude a departure for Warsaw in that direction, called for a change in tactics. There was no saying for how long the pressure would be kept up and were I to wait for its eventual relaxation, succumbing to overnight exposure, rheumatic fever or being picked up around Vienna during the day was inevitable.

      If it was impossible to free myself by going east from the city which looked like becoming a prison, there was only one thing to do and that was to leave in another direction, a course which seemed not to have been considered by those so keenly trying to catch me.

      There were many snags in this reasoning and a Hun trap could have been set to apprehend me leaving Vienna by any direction. With the hope that only the eastern route was occupying full time attention, a decision was made. There was not a great variety of goods in the Vienna shops although fortunately, travelling luggage was available. Entering one such retail stockist, a cross between a brief case and a suitcase popularly referred to as an overnight bag was purchased. The new acquisition was under half the size of the suitcase which was to be abandoned, to prevent betrayal that the person carrying it was travelling long distances, an impression better avoided during the present crisis. Paying for the new and much smaller bag, both it and the suitcase were left in the willingly proffered care of the young lady counter hand. Entering the now far less crowded station a ticked to Berlin via Prague was easily purchased. The new route meant crossing one frontier from Austria into occupied Czechoslovakia, a further one in the north out of Czechoslovakia into the Reich and on to the German capital. Previous personal experience of these two frontiers now under option as an escape route via Berlin, was of very lax controls in and out of Czechoslovakia. Without supporting documents as a Schenker employee to warrant a visit to Berlin, it could only be hoped that easier conditions of frontier control would prevail to enable bluffing a way into and out of Czechoslovakia. Re-entering the station without hindrance I retired to the toilet and within the sanctuary, transferred the minimum of necessities to the small overnight bag retaining only sufficient false food stamps for about a week, the surplus flushed away. Clothing to be deserted was checked for tags or marks which might disclose a Warsaw origin, and satisfied that no clues as to the former owner remained, the suitcase was deposited at the left luggage office and the receipt destroyed.

      The terminus was quiet. A couple of tedious hours were spent moving from the toilet to the gloomier seats in the waiting room and onto the platform, the situation improving when dusk fell and train departure time drew near. A few minutes before the train was due out, I carefully scanned the whole scene from the shade of an unlit seat at the far end of the platform, to make sure that a carriage was not entered by a policeman or anybody who might be one in mufti. There was no apparent cause for alarm, and I was just about to make a move, when a group of uniformed and armed policemen marched onto the platform in my direction. Standing up I braced myself, and with nerves oscillating at full pitch, walked towards them to gratefully note that fright was unwarranted, the tactics unnecessary. The police were an escort party. In the centre of the marching uniforms were half a dozen civilian prisoners, including two women, handcuffed in pairs. Waiting until the late arrivals had chosen a compartment a few wagons away, I boarded the train a few seconds before it moved out. A complete mental and physical exhaustion engulfed me.

      There was a searing nerve pain across both eyebrows and no amount of eye opening wide and squeezing shut gave any relief. Over fatigued, affected by strain to a dangerous level, the slightest interrogation, looking into the beam of a torch, would prove my undoing. Though it was not to be long before we were to cross the border of Czechoslovakia, to try and improve the eye condition some sleep was imperative and mercifully, a falling off into deep slumber was immediate. The train stopped and the carriage door slid roughly open. The frontier. A torch flashed.

      "Anybody getting off in Czechoslovakia?" asked a voice. There was not a word from a single passenger. "Everybody going to the Reich then?" "In Ordnung," continued the voice. "You can sleep on". The door shut and in ten minutes the wheels began rolling.

      By the middle of the night we were in Prague. Nobody in the compartment stirred and when the train stopped once more at the northern frontier between Czechoslovakia and the Reich only one passenger gave a more helpful sign of life. The door opened again and a torch was flashed around, "We are all out of Austria into the Reich," volunteered a firm female voice. Once again the door closed. Thrilled with the good luck, slumber was resumed.

      After a couple of hours wait in Berlin there was a connection to Posen and with a shave, a good clean-up and mounting optimism a confident Briton was on it. it seemed unwise to purchase a ticket through to Warsaw. Posen was still in the Reich and sounded so much more respectable a place to be going than the Polish capital with its undertones of the Resistance. As the miles reeled uneventfully on the way to Posen, more sleep was welcomed. No wonder interrogators kept victims awake, for without the rest since leaving Vienna only the feeblest counter to any kind of crisis could have been mustered. For the last leg of a long journey the potentially most difficult security hurdle was ahead. Confident that the Vienna business had not caused the German police this far north to be alerted, the worry was that in returning by a most roundabout route only verbal justification could be offered and the suspicion of any security man who took a good look at my papers would surely be aroused. Travelling in the daylight was no help. There was always a psychological influence to get such things as document checks and little questioning chats over faster during sleeping hours, whereas during the day, anything which passed a policeman's time was welcome.

      The frontier station at the General Government border where the train ponderously slowed down to a halt was swarming with police. As soon as the wheels had stopped rolling, they crowded onto the train from the whole length of the platform. It was more like a military assault than a routine security check. Two massive, helmeted Huns invaded our carriage.

      "Everybody stand and present papers." The senior policeman was a uniformed bully, with plainly very little between the ears. My passport and sheaf of authorities from Schenkers were obviously beyond his mental comprehension.

      "After visiting Warsaw on Wehrmacht business, I am travelling further east in a similar capacity and then returning to Vienna." This information was conveyed condescendingly in high faluting German. The gorilla was completely disarmed, the aggressive manner subsided and without an enquiry, my documents were meekly returned. A vacant expression indicated that he had no clear idea of who I was, where I was going or where I had come from. Furthermore, to save baring a muddled mind, he abandoned all ideas of trying to find out, barked a little at a few of the other passengers and walked out. Many an ape has often been disguised by uniform. To meet a classic example at that particularly vulnerable moment was the best of good fortune.

      By the time I had got out of the station at Warsaw, and caught a dorozka it was evening, past the eight o'clock curfew and well dark. On reaching the Nowy Swiat well beyond the doctors and the Florians, footsteps were retraced and everything scanned for the slightest sign of danger, before entering the apartment block. An unforgettable trip!

      The memory of the extremes of mental and physical trials undergone in the crowded space of a few days, will be with me until embarking on that inevitable last journey which all must take.

      The family were still up. I tapped softly. The slit of light from under the back door looked quite normal. "Kto tam?" Quietly, "Pawel."

      Victoria, apron clad, cleaning up after the late evening meal, was all fingers and thumbs in her haste to free the latch and open the door.

      "Moja Zabusia!" My little frog. The apartment rang with her excited news. "Pawel is back!"
Royalty could not have received a more enthusiastic welcome. To the shocked remarks about my exhaustion, a shortage of sleep was a true enough comment. Packed quickly off to bed upstairs, it was the following midday before I surfaced to tread the streets of dear old Warsaw and report to Karol.

      Marysia, who was sparkling with joy at my safe return, had found our first home and took me to see it. An old school friend had married a Warsaw city waterworks engineer and within a month this couple were to move into a house at the filter station which had become available. Their flat, ours for the asking, consisted of three rooms and a kitchen, on the fourth floor of an apartment building in Elektoralna Street, not the most elegant of thoroughfares. From family sources, with typical Polish generosity, the new abode would be comfortably furnished and after giving the matter some thought and with the co-operation of Karol's document department, an even better security background of registration than already enjoyed at Florians in the Nowy Swiat above the doctor's proved possible. I already had a set of papers showing me as a Pole, Stanislaw Jasinski, working for the Eastern Railways. To supplement them was added a new Polish civilian passport under the same name, also supported by a genuine birth certificate. Don't ask how, but this certificate was incorporated into the appropriate pre war Registry office records, available for inspection, and was the name under which I was to be wed. It would have been by then quite a task to establish me as not pure Polish. The name Jasinski, together with that of Maria his wife, was also registered officially in German records as being domiciled in the flat in Elektoralna Street. All seemed to be as potentially watertight as it could possibly be. Danger of casual arrest, either at home or on the street had been minimised, not forgetting that being a Pole was precarious enough in itself.

      By now, one could with certainty assume that from prisoner of war records and other sources, the Gestapo had a fairly accurate personal description of me. Security behaviour was tightened up markedly. From then on, before going to ground either in Nowy Swiat of Elektoralna or anywhere else for that matter, over-shooting of an address being called on, followed by careful reconnoitring before doubling back was rigidly practised.

      The wedding day was imminent. To facilitate easy travel out of Warsaw for the honeymoon, a new set of German papers made especially for this one journey was procured. Yet another German engineer working for the Eastern Railways was born. I became Herr Franz Sporn.by passport and service documents, all suitably covered with swastikas and railways stamps. Herr Sporn's leave document, which I had much pleasure in concocting myself, contained reference to Frau Maria Sporn who would be accompanying her husband.

      The wedding eve, in our case the fourth of May, 1943, is usually celebrated by the bridegroom having a final stag party fling with his male cronies. I had, by now, sufficient close men friends in Warsaw to have participated in such a celebration and in spite of some pressure, managed to sidestep the wishes of quite a few young and pleasant Polish hotheads, who would have relished the occasion as quite an historical booze up. In a little restaurant not far from the Nowy Swiat, Marysia joined me for a quiet evening meal, a last batchelor feast. We reflectively checked and counter checked the arrangements and precautions essential for survival as a married couple. In view of the times, the normal hurdles faced by newly weds rated no mention.

      The great day, the 5th of May, dawned sunny and still, a beautiful spring morning. Rising early, fussed over by the Florians both as excitied as a hen over a chick, I dressed in all my wedding finery. A dark suit, matching shoes, socks, tie and a carnation contributed to an electric atmosphere. Half an hour before being due at the church, I went downstairs, escorted proudly by both Florian and Anna, entered the doctor's apartment, to be greeted by a flushed Marysia, radiant in a white wedding gown, surrounded by an alarming host of well wishers. Much as a simple ceremony with a few, or even no guests except the essential witnesses, would have been wiser, the Kazius' conception of a correct wedding for their eldest daughter would not be denied, war or no war.

      Krystyna, who had disposed of many men friends, seemed now to be steadily attached to a fine, good-looking young fellow, Zbyszek Nowakowski, whose willing services were mobilised to fill the function referred to in English circles as the best man. Zbyszek was in the Resistance and after having once shown me his very fine 9 millimetre FN Belgian pistol, he had further endeared himself by giving me a similar model plus a goodly number of rounds. As best man, Zbyszek had arranged a garlanded horse drawn dorozka in which he, Krystyna, Marysia and I left for the Holy Cross Church, only a few minutes ride away. There must have been a hundred or so people milling about outside the church. Most were strangers, but quite a few familiar faces of the Kaziu family, friends and Resistance colleagues stood out. Next door to the church was a German administrative office outside which, inside a striped box, a rifle carrying, steel helmeted sentry stood guard and impassively surveyed proceedings. All the world loves a lover and unless there was any hint of a Resistance flavour about the large church gathering, which was taking place without any attempt at concealment, why should even a Nazi stoop to interfere? The undisguised publicity of the whole ceremony would have been a great thrill with its unpremeditated audacity, were not so many participants and spectators relying on pure chance for their well-being. Had there been an information leak, or the Gestapo from somewhere had acquired an inkling of what was to take place that day, the Underground and many of its members would have suffered a crushing blow. Zosia, Halina, the whole Lorenz family all in their Sunday best, and many members of the Resistance could be seen in the crowd. A number of youngish-looking men hung about and the presence of hidden weapons and grenades could be sensed.

      The crowd opened as we got down from the dorozka, and pursued by the eager congregation, we entered the main body of the church. To the noise of the pews behind us filling up, we knelt, crossed ourselves, to rise and await the commencement of the ceremony. The pistol which as an afterthought had come to the wedding, was a little out of place tucked under my left armpit, as was the spare loaded magazine similarly lodged under the right one. It was a very warm day and except for its indispensable protection as a fetish, the blue pullover as always next to my skin could have been comfortably dispensed with.

      The priest, the friend who had sworn me in to the Underground, smoothed an acceptance into the Catholic faith and had listened to a first, and it must be admitted, last confession, droned on and on. I looked across at Marysia and a return glance indicated that the quicker it was all over, the better. Did nobody realise that we were not sitting, but kneeling ducks? Above the priest's incantations and getting to the end of a very strained patience, the large doors at the entrance of the church swung noisily open. Resisting the urge to turn around and reassure myself that the Germans had not arrived, my stance was adjusted, the better to grab the pistol if the worst had come to the worst. With the worst in mind it had been brought along.

      The priest was enjoying every minute of the service and lapping it up. He intoned my name a few times as Stanislaw Jasinski and on each occasion, bent conspiratorially forward and whispered "Ronald Jeffery", well audible to those of the congregation in our immediate presence. Marysia's real name was heard all over the church. Hymns followed, more incantations and at last it was all over. Kiss the bride and away as fast as possible to almost feel like writing, 'and to hell out of it', perhaps better not. But no! The register had to be signed as Stanislaw Jasinski, a signature witnessed by people who would afterwards sign a secret affidavit that my real name was Jeffery, unable to be used at the time for security reasons. All this over, I had hoped for a discreet departure out of a side door, but again NO! The newlyweds were made to retrace the length of the aisle and out into the main street, to be immediately mobbed. I was hugged and kissed, face plastered with lipstick, attempting to defend myself like a maniac by grabbing and kissing the hand of every woman who launched herself at the prey. The German sentry still on duty a few yards away, regarded without expression this mass of excited Poles, thankfully unaware that an Englishman and his new bride were at the centre of all the fuss. Zbyszek and Krystyna joined the fight, helping the bridal couple up on the dorozka and the four of us tottered into the apartment on Nowy Swiat. The Kaziu home had been transformed. The two largest rooms, the dining room and the doctor's study, had white clothed tables groaning with food and drink arranged all around them. There was a profusion of flowers. After getting the lipstick off and rejoining Marysia who had also been obliged to tidy up, a large glass of vodka pressed onto me, of necessity held in the left hand as the right one was being ceaselessly pumped up and down by successive people, who had formed a queue to take turns in trying to shake an arm off. My gratitude to the whole of the Kaziu family who had made a total stranger so welcome in their midst was boundless. The noisy good humour, the excitement on every face and an underlying mood of devil may care abandon had gripped everybody present, except the bride and groom. My new wife was also undergoing a trial of congratulatory fire. Every few minutes our eyes sought one another out for an exchange of alarm signals as responsibility for all the commotion which was escalating into more than a wedding breakfast was realised. It was now a gathering of patriotic Poles who had just witnessed one of their lasses, under the very nose of the Germans, wed an ally from over the seas who had joined them in the fight. They were demonstrating once again their loyalty, a confidence in ultimate victory, and the courage against adversity which continued to drive them.

      Zbyszek, ably assisted by Krystyna, managed to quieten things down and a round of toasts and counter toasts followed in quick succession. By the time I was obliged to say a few words, the noise had subsided appreciably, but the whole building seemed afire with a burning patriotic fervour which emanated from everybody present. Thanks were the main ingredient in what I said, not only for the welcome and all the kindness received since arriving in Poland, but also for the wonderful bravery seen on every side. As a spontaneous rendering of a stirring, emotional Polish song filled the large apartment, a less rousing speech would clearly have been more appropriate "Sto lat, Sto lat, niech zyje nam." Once again may they live a hundred years!

      Joint signals of concern continued to pass between Marysia and me. Ours was still the basic responsibility for what was going on and snatching a quick word it was decided to defuse what looked like spreading into a roaring fire of defiance. With the amount of inflammable alcohol about, a conflagration large enough to attract the attention of the Germans must not be permitted to develop. Marysia escaped to change out of her wedding dress, while I made a way cautiously up the backstairs to Florian's to discard the dark lounge suit and attire myself for the honeymoon journey to Ena and Daddy's. Herr Franz Sporn and Frau Maria Sporn were ready to depart on honeymoon. Marysia, in a smart jacket and skirt came upstairs to collect me, now much more comfortable in jackboots and breeches. We made our departure from the downstairs gathering, a heart swelling finale to all the emotions of the day, with most eyes moist and members of the family hard put to quell their tears. Marysia the Pole and Pawel the Englishman, had become engaged. As Mr. and Mrs. Stanislaw Jasinski they had married. None of the wedding guests was in the slightest aware that the newly weds to whom they were wishing bon boyage had just changed their names and nationality and become a German couple, Franz and Maria Sporn, for the duration of their honeymoon.

      At last the two of us were sitting in a dorozka, on our way to the station. I had refrained from more than a token drink or so at the wedding breakfast, but with everything so far having gone off without hitch, it was time to end the drought. A bottle of vodka appeared and without the usual desirable habit of drinking from a glass, Marysia's example was followed by a large and thankful swig.

      The station was as usual overflowing with would be passengers to the east. Mufti was far more numerous than uniform and with practised eyes there was nothing which presented a more than usual hazard. Quite a few pairs of armed German police ambled up and down the platform. A couple arm-in-arm, such as Marysia and I, created a less suspicious image than a solo male wandering about by himself would have done. For the half hour or so we waited for the Klembow train to come in, no attention whatsoever was paid and as as climbed into one of the 'Nur fur Deutsche' carriages, the crowds of Polish civilians fought for a place on the overflowing compartments allotted to them.

      Our carriage had ample room. For company there were three German infantrymen who responded pleasantly to a compatriot's greeting of "Heil Hitler." Fortified by the drink at the reception and on the way to the station, I was in a jovial mood. Marysia was by no means as self-assured. To me her eyes disclosed a lack of calm as they focused on three hated uniforms in such close proximity. Savouring the situation, I enlightened the enemy as to our day of happiness. Congratulations were in order and they tossed down a few vodkas to our health.

      A sense of well being was not disturbed when a couple of uniformed Hun railway policemen entered the compartment. Looking for Polish civilians unauthorised to use the 'Nur fur Deutsche' wagons, their attention lingered for only a moment on the three soliders, before one of them directed himself to me.
"Sind Sie Deutsche?"
"Jawohl, meine Papiere bitte." With that, out came Herr Sporn's various documents and with all their swastika plastered glory, rated only a brief glance.
"Danke."

      The gendarme handed my papers back and addressed himself to Marysia. "Sind Sie Deutsche?"
Prepare yourself for a shock. I certainly got one. My dear, new, sweet wife had been very busy since meeting me, learning English at every spare opportunity. Of German she spoke only a few words with no desire to speak the filthy language anyway.
"Sind Sie Deutsche?" repeated the policeman.
In perfect English Marysia answered, "Y'yes." I jumped into action. Just as well that I had a few vodkas under the belt, to pipe up immediately.
"Verzeihen Sie, dass ist ja meine Frau." Excuse me but this lady is my wife.
"Oh good," said the policeman and the two of them left the compartment.
A string of expletives tore through my mind. That had been close. More luck. The faces of the three German soldier passengers were still beautifully blank.

      Breathe again and look at the culprit. Poor Marysia, looking face down at the floor of the compartment had learned a lesson if ever one was needed. One minute full of exciting 'joie de vivre' and mocking the enemy, the next, after one incautious word, on the brink of death and disaster. Marysia peeped at me sidways. Her eyes, always so full of warmth and feeling, now betrayed a shocked awareness of the tragedy to which a lack of linguistic concentration had so nearly condemned us. A flood of pity consumed me. Who was Ito criticise, having thrown a young woman without training, into a kind of life in which to serve and survive, a demanding apprenticeship was indispensable.

      Profusely wishing both of us every happiness, the three soldiers got out at a small station. As soon as the train moved off we were alone and Marysia's head was on my shoulder. She hugged me tautly.
"Pawel, oh Pawel," she choked.
"There, there, forget it sweetheart."
Easy to say! It would take forever to erase that one shattering affirmative of three letters from either of our memories.

      The train drew up at the little Klembow station. Standing on the platform and gazing anxiously along the length of the train was an elderly tall and spare figure easily recognisable as dear old Daddy, come to meet us. He welcomed Marysia with all the gallantry of an ex-officer of the Imperial Austrian army. Less formally, I was clasped with both hands and gazing into my face, his silence and expression spoke volumes. Burdening himself with our luggage, Daddy made his way to a four-wheeled peasant cart which, until our bags had been placed on top of its tray had stood unnoticed, propping up an elderly horse within its shafts. Marysia seemed suitably impressed with her husband's foresight in providing transport as the wagon ploughed its way through the deep sandy dust of the forest road. In truth, I could claim no credit for the arrangement, which became apparent as Daddy, for once free of Ena's verbal dominance, seized the rare opportunity of being able to say a few words. The old couple were now well accepted in the little forest community and the horse and cart were willingly loaned to serve as transport for some very special guests. It was a surprise to hear that Ena had been at the wedding, returning to Klembow immediately after the service, and was now at home making final preparations for our reception. Daddy had met her also at the station on her return from Warsaw and had then been placed on stand-by station alert, to chaffeur the newly weds.

      The peace of the pine forests cast a soothing mantle over our bodies and minds. For a week or two, before being obliged to return to Warsaw, we were out of the path of war, out of the way and the sight of the Huns. Come what may later on, the next two weeks would have to be savoured and enjoyed to the full. There might never be another such opportunity. From outside the little cottage was unchanged. Inside, however, had been transformed. Flowers of all kinds graced every room, the welcome and goodwill towards the new arrivals overwhelming.

      We had not seen Ena in the crowd at the church. "Hitler himself wouldn't have kept me away," said the doughty old Scots lady. "But my God, Ronnie, you must have been out of your mind to have had such a big and public wedding."

      An inability to have influenced the nuptial course was explained. Ena grimaced, "Nevertheless, if these Poles are unable to control their emotions and are crazy enough to get themselves foolhardily killed, there is no need for you to be just as daft."
The well meant outburst over, which Marysia had fortunately not understood, the four of us settled down and tucked into yet another magnificent spread of food and drink. Toasts to ourselves, and our national toasts, well sprinkled with some bawdy anti German songs filled the air.

      For two wonderful weeks, Marysia and I roamed deep and safe within the pine forests. On not a single occasion did another soul cross our path to detract from the great joy of each other's company. Marysia was almost frightened to feel so happy. The weather was warm and sunny. We found a small lake of the clearest water, cool and invigorating in which to swim. Hidden by the pines miles from anywhere we picnicked almost daily on its shores. No future could possibly bring more joy and for us, time in the forests at Klembow could have stood for ever still. The wonderful honeymoon drew to an end and we made ready to return to Warsaw.

      For the time being, Ena and Daddy were safe. The tide of liberation from the Nazis had commenced to flow from the east and how tumultous the physical eviction of the German armies would be, was a question most people were loath to even consider. My leave was until the end of May before it was time to report back to Karol. A few extra days were stolen in the pine forests, but the necessity of setting up the new home at Elektoralna before starting work, brought Herr and Frau Sporn home to Warsaw with still over a week of free time left in which to organise the domestic side of a new life together.

      Krystyna and Zbyszek had capably carried out the duties they had undertaken on our behalf. For the flat at Elektoralna, all kinds of furniture had been assembled from many sources and stored under Zbyszek's supervision in the ample room made available at the Lorenz factory. The man who was to be my new brother-in-law supervised the removal arrangements of the heavier articles such as divans, tables and chairs, while Marysia and her sister took lighter effects such as crockery and linen in a relay of dorozkas.

      While all this moving was going on, I kept well out of the way, mostly reading writing in my old room at Florians. By now, the Gestapo had certainly a fairly comprehensive dossier on me, covering a military career, physical appearance and language capabilities. It had, therefore, been decided at the outset to keep to a minimum any personal exposure in the vicinity of the new Elektoralna home and hideout. When Elektoralna was ready to move into, only Krystyna and Zbyszek knew the location of the new dwelling and the housewarming party consisted of our very close knit family foursome. Security was as tight as possible. Zbyszek, though in the Resistance, was in no way officially connected, or likely to be connected with me. Krystyna was a student at a secret medical school and other than coincidentally being Marysia's sister, had otherwise no traceable connections with us.

      Everything was very comfortable at Elektoralna Street. Marysia was a fine cook. Having a pre-dinner drink and a smoke, reclining in a comfortable chair, it was nearly possible to forget the bustling and ferocious world outside. We chatted about every subject under the sun, our inner hopes centred on not being caught and our main theme was how happy everything would be in the post war world. Provided nobody tapped on our front door other than Zbyszek and Krystyna, we were only too thankful to be left alone. But one evening, very alarmingly just at about curfew time, someone else did knock. Marysia opened our front door, very relieved to recognise immediately the new visitors. There was another flat on the same landing as ours. We had both smiled in passing at the couple who lived there. The neighbours had arrived, bottle of vodka in hand, on a goodwill visit. It was established soon, after a few toasts, that we were all newly weds as well as having in common a hearty dislike of everything German. Of all places to work, the visiting husband was a train driver with the Eastern Railways. He was full of the perks associated with the job and how it was possible to smuggle in so much black market produce and drink from the country districts. Under the circumstances, I deemed it politic not to disclose Stanislaw Jasinski's association with the railways, modestly describing myself as temporarily unemployed. As a further precaution, it was made known that though born in Warsaw, I had been brought up in the United States and returned just prior to the outbreak of war. This explanation of any educational or language shortcoming possibly betrayed under the closer acquaintanceship which could well develop, was readily accepted by our new friends. Many Poles then living in Warsaw were 'Polacy z Ameryki' who had returned to the fatherland in its time of strife

      Husband and wife from next door were an engaging couple. The wife in particular bubbled with lively good humour and seemed to have taken a fancy to me. After the couple had left on this first occasion, Marysia drily christened her 'Pani Zielony Signal', 'Mrs. Green Light', the implication of which was not entirely lost. The visit was returned many times while living at Elektoralna and the bad news for the Nazis which, to the delight of all four of us, was becoming almost a daily occurrence, was always relished.

      With the trials of the last trip to Vienna and what with the preparations necessary to wed, there had been scant opportunity to keep abreast of the current news. Facetiously speaking, there was hardly time to keep up with my knitting. Now in my own hearth, surrounded by news journals in German and Polish, as well as our own Underground Bulletin, with some time to spare it was possible to catch up with what had been going on while I had been dodging the Gestapo in Austria and getting married and honeymooning in Poland.

      During these busy weeks, a report by German troops of the discovery of thousands of bodies of Polish officers interred in mass graves at Katyn, * deep within the Soviet Union, had been given mass exposure by the Nazi news media. Some fifteen thousand Polish commissioned ranks were involved, for sometime throughout Poland there had been much conjecture and anxiety as to the fate or whereabouts of these men. On September the 17th 1939, the Russians had swept into eastern Poland to meet up with the advancing Germans and occupied jointly with the Nazis the whole country.. Hundreds of thousands of Polish troops had fallen into Soviet hands. These men could not be considered prisoners of war, as no formal state of war existed in 1939 between Russia and Poland. That fifteen thousand Polish officers were in Soviet hands, at least up until April 1940, was substantiated by mail from Russia which was received by relatives and friends in Poland. Cards and letters had postmarks from the Moscow area where one could assume the internment camps were sited. A disquieting factor as to the well being and whereabouts of the officers had been circulating throughout Poland right up until the time of the announcement that some five thousand of their bodies had been unearthend. It appeared that all correspondence from the fifteen thousand had abruptly ceased in April 1940. No amount of enquiries to the Soviet Government at both an official or personal level had produced any reason for this sudden cessation in the normal flow of mail. Queries by the Polish Underground and the Polish Government in exile in London, drew no response from Russia. German prisoner of war camps which also housed many Polish officers taken in the 1939 fighting were scoured in vain for any trace of the missing prisoners who, it was thought by some German Russian arrangement, may have surfaced there.

      The announcement by the Nazis thus ended three years of conjecture as to what had happened to the missing men. Dead they assuredly were. The Germans claimed the Russians to have been the perpetrators and presented a plausible case for their verdict. The Russians counter claimed that the Germans were responsible for the killings. Within the confines of our Elektoralna flat, the statements of both accusing parties were read in depth. There were at the time insufficient details to arrive at a confident decision as to the guilt or otherwise of Nazi or Communist. One thing was abundantly plain. Fifteen thousand Polish leaders had been mass murdered in cold blood. Little was it realised while digesting such conflicting versions from the two sides about the terrible discovery, that not long hence, according to the way one looks at this sort of thing, I was destined to come into contact with some physical evidence filched from the graves at Katyn by the Resistance.

      Summer had suddenly come. Its warmth and brightness breathed a new life into the battered buildings and byways of Warsaw and the people who lived there. Lightly and colourfully dressed women of all ages scurried almost provocatively about their business. Men, now in open necked shirts, bodies well-exposed to air and sunshine, stood taller having shed the overpowering heavy clothes of winter. Divested of their ankle long greatcoats the ever menacing pairs of German police looked of more human shape as they oversaw the passing scene.

      It was over a month since last meeting Karol, and with pleasant anticipation I strode the whole way from Elektoralna to the Seagull restaurant. The air was charged, exhilarating and threatening. Full of confidence and ready to go back to work, aware that I was returning from a refreshing leave in a rear area and once again going to the front, there was little worth worrying about. The thought that the Gestapo had my physical description was one concern, and the fewer clothes necessary during hot weather eradicated the benefits of disguise brought to face and figure by the wearing of bulkier attire during the cold seasons. Hats, ear muffs, overcoats with collar up, made up most of the year's climatic necessities, and although such protective extras may have been irksome to wear they had the distinct advantage of making it impossible to clearly recognise a person except from an immediate proximity.

      The approach to the restaurant disclosed nothing of alarm. Adjacent signs were all pointing to safe. Within minutes cordial hand shakes heralded a joyous reunion with my spy master chief. Niceties over about the wedding, which he and his wife had attended outside the church, concluded with comments on my healthy appearance. Karol launched straight into business. Reports from Vienna were bad. To use an Underground expression about a member who had been arrested, as far as could be ascertained, everybody of our Austrian group I met was reported as 'sitting'. Only the scientist was so far unscathed and a sole remaining agent in the area was proceeding very cautiously to re-open contact with the anti Nazi Austrian patriot. Stettin, a city by the Baltic, was the next assignment. Close to the final development centres of the Nazi secret weapons, it was a relief to hear that I was not to be used in a courier capacity, the welcome news offset to learn that a presence there for some two months as area co-ordinator was envisaged. The job sounded fine, but the thought of being away from Marysia for so long made no appeal at all. I was to leave two weeks after detailed briefing which would mean committing to memory a summary of all the regional progress so far, as well as particulars of agents established there in various strategic positions.

      After the completion of the Stettin operation and return to Warsaw, arrangements for a trip to the United Kingdom should be finalised. It was confirmed that representations had been made to ensure my return to duties with the Resistance to which further news added some reassuring substance. Accompanied by a flattering citation, the Polish Army had seen fit to award a Cross of Valour to mark my efforts on the last trip to Vienna. General Rowecki, the Commander-in-Chief of the Underground Army, had telegraphed the Queen's Own Royal West Kent Regiment to say what a nice fellow I was, and requested my commissioning in Britain as Lieutenant. Commissioned standing in the Polish Army was also arranged. Years later, at an official ceremony in London, the medal earned in Vienna was pinned on. By then I was past the emotion felt when first being told of the award in the back room of a little secret service restaurant in Warsaw in 1943. Tears were hard to restrain as Karol spoke at that time. The initial ambition had been to get out of the bag and reach home. What had happened on the way had been practically unavoidable with very little possibility of side stepping the many issues into which fate seemed to have enticed me after somehow equipping me, mentally and physically to survive. Walking back to Elektoralna, aglow with satisfaction, and very little in life had been more pleasant than getting a pat of recognition.

      There was much to do before leaving for Stettin. Marysia was upset to learn of my proposed two months absence from home and, indeed, if she had not shown such sadness, I would in turn have been disappointed. Mention of the later planned visit to England was studiously avoided. I saw Karol on most days. The arranging of documents and the many extra responsibilities which fell within the scope of Stettin area co-ordinator were legion, and with nothing in writing, a tax on the memory. Keen to be off, diligent attention was applied in the quiet of the Elektoralna flat to maps, names of factories, whereabouts of agents, with all the enthusiasm of a person setting up for the first time in his own business. Briefing sessions had this far touched only lightly on the priorities of the exercise. Rocket propelled missiles were the main attraction, and also included were assembly sites for bombing, construction details, destructive capabilities and a host of other intelligence data. It was all thrilling enough to pleasurably anticipate. Apart from Karol and myself, no other person was present at the briefings. My participation was not to be complicated as it had been in Vienna, Prague and Hamburg by vague appointments with local agents who might or might not be able to keep them.

      During this period many hours were spent at home, happy in Marysia's company, preparing for the new assignment. It was a long list of a purposefully garbled nature being comfortably perused one afternoon in the flat on Elektoralna, when a louder knock than usual shot my eyebrows up. Notes quickly slid behind the wallpaper. There was no cause for alarm, at least not about the visitor herself. It was Krystyna, my sister in law, wide eyed and panting from haste, especially up the four flights of stairs to our front door. Something was very wrong.

      All Krystyna's Slavic emotion burst forth.
"Pawel," she gasped. "A messge for you from Zosia — she says it's a matter of life and death." I grabbed the piece of paper, recognising Zosia's hand, and the code. A bomb had been dropped on our little world.
'Karol and all at the 'Burrow' arrested. Most urgent see you'.

      I was early for the rendezvous and had been waiting for some time when my favourite Warsaw lady, with another middle aged woman entered the little coffee shop, both with expressions of gloom. Zosia's companion was introduced as Karol's senior secretary, a successor to Lila who had disappeared in Vienna. A serious faced woman, she regarded me with close curiosity as if wishing to confirm a mental picture already formed from hearsay. On the way to meet Karol two days previously she had been warned and stopped just before reaching the 'Burrow' and saved from sure capture by the Gestapo, dozens of whom were swarming outside the restaurant. Since then, the whole of the A.W.I. group had been alerted. Everybody with the slightest traceable contact with Karol had been dispersed.

      Not only through her daughter Halina, who had first introduced me to the Kaziu family, Zosia had also been at the wedding and must, therefore, have been well informed about the doctor's Nowy Swiat residence. Although Zosia knew nothing about my living upstairs at Florians, to learn that Karol in his turn had no knowledge of her address was a blessing. The three of us sat cold bloodedly examining the increased vulnerability now that so many people who knew me were 'sitting' in Gestapo jails. On the face of all the evidence it seemed that no security hazard threatened the Elektoralna home. Torture or no torture, it would be difficult for the Germans to elicit or unravel any clues from their prisoners which could lead to either the Florian's or the Kazius' in Nowy Swiat. Of that, one could be sure. Confidence about the safety of Elektoralna was most welcome, but with the welter of social publicity it had been impossible to avoid at the doctors, disquiet continued. The multitude of comings and goings at Nowy Swiat, in conjunction with the far reaching ripples to be expected from the tidal waves of disaster in Prague and Vienna could combine to give the Hun pursuers a solid line to me, and even worse, to Marysia.

      Karol's secretary continued comments in the same serious vein while Zosia, tight lipped looked on. Underground Counter Intelligence had reported a furious interest in Jeffery at Gestapo Headquarters. The Germans knew, and it could be assumed their information stemmed from many sources, not only the arrests in Vienna, that I had turned spy. Highly valued by the Poles because of his ability to pass as a German, Jeffery was now considerd to be dangerous and a dedicated Resistance fighter. This was all very well to know, but it would have been much preferable for this information to have been confined to the Underground and not known to the Gestapo. Obsessed with an ambition to catch me, motorised Hun patrols were daily on a physical lookout, cruising the streets of Warsaw, primed with an accurate description. Fame had come my way, and though craving for recognition is a common human trait, under the circumstances it was far from welcome.

      The tale of misfortune completed, both women regarded me with looks more appropriate to a farewell in a condemned cell.
"Pawelek, my dear," said Zosia, "you must get out of Warsaw and hide. A few months in the country until this immediate heat is off." Karol's secretary nodded agreement.
"Yes Mr. Pawel. An occasional visit to the city for money and supplies which will be made available. There will be plenty for you to do when this blows over, but for all our sakes, we dare not risk your capture at the moment. Besides, think of what the Gestapo would do to you.

      There was little need of a reminder. Under no illusions as to the all round seriousness of the position, a couple of days were spent quietly musing in the Elektoralna flat taking care not to alarm Marysia. She was always alarmed enough on my behalf anyway. I sent her very discreetly to the family at Nowy Swiat to tell them that from then on, we would be living outside Warsaw with rare visits only to the city. Zosia was also requested to convey to Karol's secretary, for further dissemination officially to the Resistance, that the Pawels were going into voluntary exile, a typical Underground deception. There was no intention of leaving Warsaw but the situation could have been worse. Though very upset personally about Karol, sitting quietly in the Elektoralna flat was far preferable to sitting in a Gestapo cell like my chief.

      Marysia applied her artistic talents to altering her husband's appearance. Spectacles and a change of hairstyle did nothing to enhance the Jeffery beauty and neither did a flourishing Hitler type toothbrush moustache. The risk was calculated. With luck, both friend and foe would absorb the rumour of our departure from the local scene. It was decided to stay in Warsaw with a new face, hopefully to mingle unobtrusively among the bustling crowds of the city. The months ahead would prove whether or otherwise the right course had been taken and giving the story of our leaving Warsaw time to become well circulated, I got in touch with Zbyszek and Krystyna jointly and later Zosia. From a purely family point of view it was not hard to convince Zbyszek and Krystyna of the wisdom of the policy adopted. They co-operated without demur. With Zosia, a member of the Resistance in close touch with my own Intelligence group, it was necessary to enlarge on the merit of my subterfuge and she also agreed to foster the deception that we had indeed gone to live well outside Warsaw. Lines of communication were secured as well as possible under the circumstances. For the three months necessary to allow the fuss to die down and be more than usually vigilant, I resolved to stay out of trouble, watch the local scene and look after Marysia, whose pregnancy could no longer be concealed.

      A major lingering care was soon put to the test. On my way to Zosia's, I got out of a tram one morning on the Marszalkowska to be accosted by two German policemen strategically sited at the 'Haltestelle' on the pavement. The full range of my Jasinski papers, the two most important being a passport as a Pole and a service document as an employee of the Eastern Railways was examined. The Jerry might have needed spectacles. He inspected the papers, which included photographs taken before the face change, returned them and waved me on. To him, face and photograph must have matched. A nasty little test had been survived.

      While reading one afternoon, feet up in the flat, someone tapped on the front door. As usual all alarms were activated, not too seriously, as it was at about this time that Mrs. Green Signal, our next door neighbour often made a call, either with or for a drink. Krystyna came in, tense and pale, with more alarming news. The Gestapo had arrived at six o'clock that morning at Nowy Swiat. Two groups of them had mounted both front and back stairs of the apartment building, passing the entrances to the doctor's flat on the way up, to bang loudly on the doors of my recent dwellings. Florian had been taken away. Anna his wife, was grief and terror stricken, not far from collapse. There was no indication as to the reason for Florian's arrest, although the Germans had left a couple of men who had been searching the dwellings for the whole day. Krystyna had delayed slipping out to bring us the news until the two Huns had finally left the Nowy Swiat building.

      Precautionary presumption was for me to be the reason for the visit and the search. Poor Florians! Better friends did not exist. They had provided shelter in times of danger and shown so many kindnesses and thoughts for my comfort that a wave of helpless misery could not be contained. In mortal battle, one could sally forth, sword or gun in hand, to the attempted rescue of one's friends. The mounting of a physical attack to free Florian from the Gestapo was out of the question. The Poles, and the Englishman, could only wait and hope. After Krystyna had left, Marysia and I sat dejected. The form of interrogation our friend would be undergoing in the dreaded headquarters of the Gestapo in Szucha alley needed no imagination. The emotional frustration was overwhelming. To help Florian the most stupid disregard for personal safety produced mental solutions without the remotest chance of success. The German secret police headquarters in Szucha alley was a fortress. Keep calm was the sober, but difficult self advice. If Florian was forced to talk, there was nothing about our Elektoralna set up to betray. The awful thought was that the Kazius' apartment downstairs could be revealed as part of the Jeffery affair to kindle the annihilation of the whole family. Marysia prayed and we were closer then ever in a misery of worry.

      I went to see Zosia and Halina. The gaily dressed summer crowds of Warsaw, oozing an infectious spirit of defiance, generated by the sun, were in direct contrast to my stark anxiety. Other than a confirmation that Florian was sitting in Szucha alley, Zosia had no news. Three days had passed since our friend's arrest and as there had been no sign of Gestapo activity, one could only hope that no news was good news. The Germans may not have been able to extract any information from Florian. Or had they? Were they just biding their time?

      Slightly reassured I was about to leave Zosia's when Jurek came in. I had not seen him for almost a year when he had been present so menacingly during the first call on Zosia arranged by Ena. He had moved back to the room, which had long served me as home and Zosia explained my apparent lack of response to Jurek's effusive greetings.

      "A weight of troubles has descended on poor Pawel," she commented miserably.
The gloom in the Elektoralna flat lifted a mite. With no unpleasant developments, the next day my poor wife even managed a smile. Perhaps her affair with a British soldier would not bring death to all her family. There was another caller, this time Zbyszek, face alive with news, not bad, but startling and curious. Florian had returned home and wanted to see me urgently.

      In a dingy Street down by the Vistula and running parallel to Nowy Swiat there was a solitary spare room in a decrepit tenement building. The room had been known to me since the early days of my efforts with 'Echo', the Underground news sheet. It had been used then for storing newsprint and anything else for which safe keeping was needed and also doubled as a quick local hideout in case of urgent trouble. I had never surrendered the key and as a matter of course, had kept my eye on the place when in the area, having in mind such an occasion as the one for which it was now to serve a purpose.

      I wanted to talk with Florian, but before meeting with somebody who had been a guest of the Gestapo for four or five days, a few basic precautions were called for. The programme was detailed to Zbyszek, already skilled in the ways of conspiracy, who promptly understood the role he was asked to play.

      The next day, Florian left the Nowy Swiat apartment to make what appeared to be a casual meeting with Zbyszek. The two walked on seemingly innocently together and it was no difficulty for me to tag on in the crowd, a good distance in the rear as they strolled in the direction of the selected meeting place. I made doubly sure that nobody was tailing them and Zbyszek played his part well. Not far from the proposed rendezvous, he slipped Florian a key, gave the address of the room, and disappeared into the crowd. There was no sign of surveillance as he entered the tenements. After a careful, observant wait, I followed through the main entrace and was admitted to the small room.

      Only his right eye was open. The left one was closed and all that side of the face swollen and blue with bruises. A right handed bastard had done that to my friend and facing one another, across a narrow wooden table, a bottle of vodka was passed over and following Florian, I took a solid gulp. My former landlord grinned through a damaged face as the firewater composed him. On the morn of the arrest he had just been waking up, to be completely roused by the noise of heavy footsteps coming up the stairs, followed by loud banging on the front door of the Nowy Swiat apartment.
"Auf machen!"

      Uniformed and plain clothed police, pistols drawn stormed through the apartment, opened the back door to admit a further contingent of Huns. They rushed through every room, clearly expecting to find somebody other than Florian and his wife. He was ordered to quickly dress and bundled downstairs into a waiting car. In the meantime, the dwelling was being turned upside down. Anna, still in bed, watched petrified as the jackbooted intruders ripped and tore through the home.

      Arriving at Szucha alley, he had been thrown into a tiny underground cell with two guards stationed outside. There passed two whole days without food and water, bathed in the brightest of electric lights. Sleep was impossible. At the slightest sign of slumber, the cell door opened and he was booted into wakefulness. On the third morning a giant uniformed guard had entered to administer a severe hiding with fists and boots. A dazed Florian had then been dragged out of the cell to find himself in a sumptuous office, seated opposite a Gestapo officer in full uniform.

      "It was you they had come for Pawelek," said Florian. He was then questioned for hour after hour. The interrogator was relieved by another who probed on and on about Kawala being Jeffery, sometimes conciliatory, sometimes menacing. Florian stuck rigidly to our pre-arranged contingency story. His apartment was large and renting one of the rooms would provide some sorely needed extra money. A verifiable 'room to let' advertisement had resulted in a young Polish businessman, Kawala, becoming a welcome lodger. He had been a model tenant, paid a good rent and other than partaking of the odd evening meal with them the Florians had little to do with him. Yes, his Polish was perfect of course, he was a Pole. Kawala also spoke fluent German and Florian, who spoke that language, had enjoyed using it from time to time with the new lodger. That his real name was Jeffery, a member of the British Secret Service, was astounding news. The interrogations probed on and on. Florian's persistence that neither he or his wife had an inkling of Kawala's true identity often exasperated the questioners to the point of striking him solidly in the face. After a particularly savage blow he was dragged by the arms down the stairs and back to the cell to collapse into painful oblivion. A confession would, in any case, not save him from death and the necessity of perservering with a stance of complete innocence was realised.

      Once again he sat opposite the initial interrogator. The Gestapowiec stood up to stride up and down the room. Deep in thought and more to himself than to Florian, the man muttered. "Dieser Jeffery, er ist ja em gerissener Bursch."* The German's face had a hungry look.
"You are to go home and carry on as normal. If you see or hear anything of Jeffery or Kawala as he calls himself, you will telephone this number at any time of night or day. We are by no means satisfied or finished with you my Polish friend. Both you and your wife are close to an unpleasant death." They took Florian back to Nowy Swiat by car.

      There was a deal to reflect on and analyse with gratitude, Florian's endurance of the ordeal. I was as sure then, in the heart of captive Poland, and am still sure that as long as a single Pole, man or woman, breathes on the face of the earth, their beloved nation will one day enjoy the freedom for which they have fought so hard.

      My thanks to Florian acknowledged the immensity of the debt to him. The words sounded more appropriate to the occasion in the flowing and colourful Slavic tongue. We embraced and parted.
"Goodbye Florian, may God go with you."
"Goodbye Pawel, with you too."
My wish was not heeded. God did not go with Florian or his wife. Anna was killed in the uprising and there has never been a trace of her gallant husband.

      I walked the whole way back to Elektoralna. So the Gestapo had honoured me with a title: 'Em gerissener Bursch!' 'A wily fellow!' the German had said, a description it was fully intended to try and justify.

      Reaching home and Marysia, I quietened down and pondered. My anxious wife was given a reassuring version of the meeting with Florian, urged to adopt supreme caution wherever she went, with the Nowy Swiat apartments placed completely out of bounds.

      The reaction of the Gestapo with Florian in their hands was surprisingly out of character. Fancy releasing him. Could it be that a matter touching British Intelligence, had tempered the barbarism typical of German behaviour to date when they had been associated with anything subversive of a purely Polish nature? So many influences which had caused the Germans' reaction in the present case had to be considered. Concentrating to the full on every possible scrap of evidence conjured up by the flexible mind of a wily fellow and try as I might, it was impossible to pinpoint the course of events which had led the Gestapo directly to the Florians in Nowy Swiat. Thank goodness the Elektoralna flat was almost completely isolated from outside contact. That the Kaziu family downstairs had been left undisturbed was a miracle. Or was it? The great game was hotting up.

      The beautiful summer weather had much to do with a tolerance of the blessings of a peaceful domestic existence. The banks of the Vistula were a delightful place to laze on a hot day. Marysia and I spent many pleasant hours stretched out on the sand alongside the wide fast flowing river in which to swim and frolic. We occasionally ventured across the Poniatowski bridge by tram to the east bank at Saska Kepa, to be joined by Tommie, Stenia and Janka, all brown as berries through living so close to the beach and basking daily in the sun. It was as though everybody who lived in that area of extreme and harsh climate was bent on charging up batteries of inner warmth to be drawn on for survival during the cold of winter.

      As a hunted creature who has temporarily at least, given his pursuers the slip, I should have felt satisfied. Far from it, and at the risk of deserving the description of malcontent, it is necessary to record that boredom set in, with nothing to do but maintain a watchful eye around Warsaw. The domestic side of life continued a joy. Relaxing to my mind, was to be enjoyed by the male of the species on return to the mating cave after a strenuous day chasing the family slice of bacon. Then, and only then, could the pleasures both deserved and necessary, be warranted. The days of unearned well being began therefore to weigh on my conscience. A man could not just sit and do nothing while the world had so many targets at which to shoot.

      Marysia was more than content to stay in the flat or make personal and social visits throughout the city, many of which were in some way or another connected with the coming baby. An uncle, a noted paediatrician, was one of her weekly calls and there were no pre-natal complications to report. Marysia's wanderings had, therefore, some purpose while mine around town were aimless, just as if I was waiting for something to turn up, and indeed, something did in a measure greater than that for which had been bargained. That the Germans were actively searching for me was no longer thrilling. A cry of 'tally-ho', had something led them to resume the chase, would have made life almost worth living.

      There was one diverting event much enjoyed but only in retrospect.
After a days solo walk around Warsaw, one evening our apartment home was approached cautiously and indirectly, as always. On this occasion, I was making a way across a large square off which ran a number of streets, Elektoralna included. Everything looked to be in order, when halfway across the square an early warning system registered two men in civilian clothes who quite noticeably had their eyes on me from the perimeter of the large open space. The enemy! Had I been recognised, or were they just curious?

      In the centre of the square was a hectagonal metal public urinal of a type quite common in France. The male patron, while making use of the facilities is not debarred from a view of the passing scene, provided of course, that he is of sufficient height to be able to peer over the metal wall which cloaks a public display of the reason for dallying. Hardly time to make a facetious comment, but if you ever have the opportunity, do not fail to make a study of the male facial expression of contrived unconcern while engaged on such relief work. Entering the urinal for shelter, I stood and gazed with oriental blandness at the two men who were watching, keener than ever. They started walking slowly towards my temporary refuge. No doubt about it. The way they walked and the intensity of their peering was too evident. It was me they were interested in. What luck it had been to spot the two before entering the apartment block. The little FN pistol would have come in very handy but how would these two so and so's know that my little toy was not with me in the urinal? An idea glimmered, not a flame, but better than nothing. The two men were within twenty yards of the urinal when I stepped out and faced them. They both froze and fear flashed over their faces. With the right hand firmly thrust in the pocket of my jacket and pointed purposefully, they stopped, well covered or so they thought. Had they recognised me, which seemed likely, my pocket indicated a weapon which somebody in the Resistance would have no hesitation in firing. The pair were certainly in two minds as to what to do. I reached the pavement on the perimeter of the square. By now, some fifty yards away, both men were engaged in a muttered conversation. One of the them walked off, probably to call for help giving perhaps about five minutes before German reinforcements arrived. Round the edge of the square ran a set of tramlines and keeping the hand in my right pocket, I edged towards a corner where the trams turned sharply to proceed down a street on the way to the city centre. Minutes went by and determined to make a desperate run for it with the arrival of the Hun police, the other man was still covered and deterred from getting closer. Why should he? His friend ought to be on the way back with help by now.

      A tram came clanking round the square, slowed down to negotiate the corner some twenty yards away and almost stopped, before rounding up into the street leading to the city centre. It was picking up speed as I sprinted off to jump on the back step in a flat out run. My pursuer appeared at the corner in full gallop. About to wave in triumphant farewell, it was suddenly necessary to drop to the floor of the tram's rear platform. The man who had now rounded the corner in fast running pursuit of the fleeing prey, came to a halt, pulled Out a gun and commenced blazing away. Everything went well. The front carriage of the two carriages was as usual 'Nur Fur Deutsche' while the rear one on the back platform of which I crouched, contained only Poles from whom would come nothing but help. There was also the noise of our now rapid progress over the lines and probably none of the passengers heard or guessed what was going on. Most important, the gunman proved to be a very poor shot, and possibly could not have hit the back of a tram, let alone the target. There is always a certain excitement when being shot at, much more enjoyable if the marksman misses. Within a few minutes I was able to peacefully alight and be swallowed up by the friendly citizens of Warsaw.

      Everything was quiet by the time I returned and reconnoitered Elektoralna to gain the shelter of the flat without incident.
"Interesting day dear?" asked Marysia.
"Very, thanks sweetheart", I replied, quite truthfully.

      During this period of inactivity I frequently visited Zosia. Talks with her and daughter Halina kept me abreast of Underground news and whiled away many an hour. Jurek, still at home in my old room, was often present. The ringside accommodation which the room had once provided to watch drunken SS atrocities being inflicted on Jewish working groups was a thing of the past. A rebellion had broken out in the ghetto which required bloody fighting by the Germans to repress it and also obliged them to do without fatigue parties of Jewish slaves.

      Boredom with nothing to do was constant. After recounting with gusto the thrill of being fired at and missed by a German security man, both Zosia and Halina looked at me as though I was going out of my mind. They might well have thought right, if an unkind fate was to condemn me to hanging about Warsaw, just avoiding recapture until the end of the war. In spite of officially recorded as hiding somewhere outside Warsaw, a plea was made to find me something to do, the upshot of the request, a talk with Jurek. From time to time the assistance of somebody speaking fluent German would be most helpful.

      Jurek was a member of an Underground liquidation group. Secret courts were regularly convened by the Resistance and trials were conducted of people both German and Polish. Sentences were passed for all manner of offences, the major misdeamenour for a Pole being collaboration with the Germans.

      There was proportionately to other Hun occupied countries very little of treasonable activity in Poland, but among people of mixed Polish and German blood, loyalties became occasionally confused from which a problem of control and punishment had arisen. Death was the usual penalty handed down for blatant treachery and particularly obnoxious behaviour by German members of the occupying forces, both uniformed and civilian, incurred the physical end of the offender at the hands of courageous patriots like Jurek. He would give me a call if an occasion arose, when I might prove useful.

      The sudden cessation of excitement which had filled the eighteen months after escape had left a boring void, and a growing tension illustrated by an explosive reaction of some stupidity, which could have rebounded far more seriously had my fairy godmother not been present as mistress of ceremonies and salvation.

      One bright day, very pregnant Marysia and I were in the rear tram en route to her parents. Germans sat in spacious comfort in the leading wagon and we were hemmed in the crowded second vehicle allotted to the Poles. Isolation from the family in the Nowy Swiat had been too much for my wife and from time to time a subterfuge was adopted which enabled her to call on them. When a domestic visit for Marysia was planned, we usually caught a tram which travelled along the Nowy Swiat. Both of us would alight a few stops distant from the Kaziu's apartment, and after mingling with the crowds to thoroughly spy out the land for any threats, when all seemed to be in order Marysia was signalled that it was safe to proceed and make the visit. The Germans, as far as we knew, were not close on Marysia's trail. They had missed the connection between Florian's and the doctor's downstairs, so it might appear that the security precautions taken were overdone, although the high stakes of death and torture must be kept in mind.

      On the day recalled it had been decided that for Marysia to visit her old home normal practice would be followed to get off the tram in Nowy Swiat some four stops before her parents' apartment. The appropriate halt was made and I was able to bulldoze a way through the crush of passengers and get down onto the road. Not so poor Marysia. Inextricably wedged inside the tram, try as she might it was impossible to alight. Her pregnant condition precluded the hurly burly of pushing and shoving and as the tram got on its way again there was little for me to do but get back on, which proved almost as difficult a task as getting off had been. At the next stop a similar scene was re-enacted. To my rising annoyance our plight was visibly amusing to some of the passengers who, from a prejudiced viewpoint, looked to be deliberately denying or at least hindering my wife's exit from the tram. Another stop went by with no improvement in Marysia's plight. The Kaziu's apartment was passed with no sign of success and growing desperation to jointly get off. The tram then pulled up at the junction of Nowy Swiat and Aleje Jerozolimskie, where months before the little affair with the large Hun traffic policeman had taken place. Paternal ferocity and frustration goaded by the now plainly visible amusement of some of the passengers opened my floodgate of wrath. Marysia was still unable to get out. An explosion resulted. Bursting off the rear trains platform, I sped along the road to the first wagon which housed the Germans, in the front of which sat the Polish driver, and sprang alonside him.

      "Halt!" I screamed.
"All Poles out!"
"So eine Schweinerei habe ich nie gesehen!"
Pulling at the communication cord and continuing to shout at the driver not to proceed any further, I dashed back to the Poles' only wagon. To repeat my demands for them to get off was unnecessary. The sound of harsh German commands and the stopping of the tram had imparted an impression that all might not be well for them as Polish civilians were they to dally. The tram rapidly emptied of passengers who scampered away into the street. Marysia, wide eyed, seemed in a state of shock and jumping aboard I helped her off onto the pavement.
"Go and see the family," I whispered. "I'll be at home later." She almost ran down Nowy Swiat. The German passengers were now all peering Out of the front tram apprehensively wondering at the reason for the commotion. They were in enemy territory and one could never be sure from one day to the next what to expect from the rebellious Poles.

      Striding to the driver in front, "Weiter gehen," I commanded, addressing the German passengers. "So sorry for the disturbance ladies and gentlemen and any inconvenience you may have suffered." There was no comment and everybody looked relieved. Feeling it advisable to disappear, with a quick "Heil Hitler," and the Nazi salute I jumped down from the moving tram to be quickly absorbed into the city crowds.

      Any lighthearted thoughts conjured up about the escapade were promptly dispelled by Marysia. She had visited her parents and almost collapsed there after the excitement of what had happened. The Kaziu's reaction to Marysia's version had evoked a mixture of feelings. There was horror at my having held up a tram, tinged with admiration for what was generously accepted as a demonstration of husbandly concern and affection. According to Marysia, although white with rage and temper my appearance otherwise was completely calm and collected. Ever the analyst, personal reflection pointed to a case of built up tension and with only a vague knowledge of such a condition it was resolved to take life quietly, somehow easier said than done.

      Memory, mine to be sure, is a flexible and sometimes unreliable register, a storage in the mind of life's experiences from earliest days. The disruption of the chosen career carved out in Karol's intelligence section was to be succeeded by adventures of a different calibre. How soon these changes were to follow, there was no indication. With no light as to the future, the thought of passing the rest of the war or at least a considerable part of it with nothing of moment but the by now common or garden exercise of evading capture by the Hun was unthinkable. I sat day after day in the Elektoralna flat in a mood of frustration and boredom. Lying in the sun at the beach had lost its attraction and Marysia was only partially successful in encouraging me to count our blessings to date and be contented with the comparative personal safety within the confines of the small dwelling. Long walks dodging Hun patrols and savouring the latent menace of Warsaw were insufficient to offset the demoralisation of being unemployed. During this period in limbo, a pastime of both therapeutic and gastronomical value developed.

      After one successful meal at a German restaurant in the middle of the city, I ate there regularly. Although most of the patrons were uniformed, my civilian attire was sufficiently Nazi to blend unobtrusively into the surroundings. An impressive array of German passports and documents completed the deception. On entering the restaurant the little red, white and black swastika pin proclaimed me a member of the Nazi party, such publicity not recommended when mingling with the Polish population outside. Not once during these eating jaunts was there a security check or a glance of suspicion. With all the experience of travel in Germany behind me and full of confidence, my attitude and physical bearing was modelled to portray a plainclothes member of the security police, at the very least an equal among equals to my Hun dining companions. The German head waiter, tipped lavishly after the first meal, smiled a cordial welcome on subsequent visits. Having previously indicated a preference, he always most deferentially escorted me to an inconspicuous small table in the dimmer recesses of the dining room, from where I gloated at the hated uniforms. Even while enjoying the thrill of sitting with the enemy and gorging on his food, delectable thoughts further enhanced the occasion. Ideas of introducing poison into the restaurant's kitchen or the planting of a few time bombs assisted the excellent wines, which were available to add a tasty edge to a pseudo Nazi appetite.

      Little excitements like these newly found eating habits helped keep me reasonably stable, though in hindsight, my affliction was the common enough military ailment of battle lust. Some soldiers, after a deal of action and an over exposure to blood, bayonet and bomb, developed well understandable mental disorders with a compelling desire to stay clear of action. Some, perhaps, like me at that time under circumstances of a too peaceful nature, were plagued with a craze for risk with an almost identical instability of behaviour in the opposite direction.

      I developed a passion for cleaning and caressing my pistol, taking it often from a hiding place in the bedroom to check and re-check the smoothness of the action. There was no rear exit from our flat, the front door from the landing the only access. With the still unexplained Gestapo raid at Florian's, there was no certainty that our haven would not also one day or night be shattered by the sound of jackboots and guttural voices. Every evening after curfew time the FN and a spare loaded magazine stood guard on a shelf in the hail passage. It had been distressing but not difficult to arrive at an inevitable conclusion that in the event of being bailed up at home, no useful purpose would be served for me or the Resistance to be taken alive. The same logic applied to Marysia, and those who have not lived through such pressures might find it hard to understand the desperate decision of a happily married young man much in love, to contemplate a final shoot out with the enemy followed by the self destruction of his wife and himself.

      Such gloomy forebodings were suddenly relieved by a turn of events. From a contact point, a request was picked up to call on Zosia with all possible despatch. Jurek was there when I arrived.

      Two Volksdeutsche, a man and a woman of mixed Polish and German blood had been collaborating with the Hun after infiltrating the Resistance, and were to be put away before more harm to the cause could ensue. Their guilt had been determined and death was the sentence. They lived in a neighbourhood well populated with Germans and most of their callers were Nazis. Rarely leaving the apartment, when they did so, it was with the protection of a Hun security guard. It was considered that their demise would be easier achieved within their own living quarters. The gaining of access to these quarters was a function for which Jurek felt me most suited. The Poles had done their homework and in no time my task was detailed in full. The sentenced couple had many visitors, some quite high ranking German officials and as a messenger from one of these gentry there should be no difficulty, after an appropriate introduction from outside, for me to induce the inmates of the flat to open the front door. As soon as the door opened Jurek and a comrade would take over.

      Dawned the day of reckoning for two German agents. I met Jurek in the centre of Warsaw for a coffee, to be joined by another tense young man, black moustached and wild eyed, introduced as Roman. Although no mention was made of my being armed, I felt it prudent to take along my F.N. and as it turned out, thank goodness I did. Not only was the pistol to save our bacon, its snug presence under my arm served to introduce me physically to a further dimension in an Underground career. Until then, being confronted by the inevitable enemy barriers, nerve, bluff, charm, well supplemented by false documents, linguistic effort and good luck had been marshalled to glide through a gap in the opposition defences.

      It was rare for a good spy to need a gun. As a general rule if he did he wasn't. Sipping coffee we discussed the layout of the enemy flat and the procedures to be adopted almost to the point of boredom. Jurek had still given no idea of the full address of the operation and seemed to have concluded that the three of us would travel together until the various duties connected with the action necessitated a temporary diversion of ways. Requesting the name of the street and the victims' address, I indicated quietly but adamantly that I would travel alone and meet my two companions at the site. Both of them, Roman in particular, regarded me askance at this decision, though both quietened down at my indifference to their reactions. Pandering to individual Underground whims as to behavioural preferences was long past. I felt most justified in not joining them to make up a cosy little public threesome of wanted Resistance fighters, where numbers increased and safety subsided. Watches synchronised and a punctual rendeLvous decided, I caught a dorozka to the street where the action was to take place.

      Warsaw rolled by as usual, hot sunshine warming friend and foe alike. The crowded pavements and busy vehicular traffic mingled together and created an air of unreality. How could death strike or suddenly threaten any living creature on one of Mother Nature's most beautiful days? That the grim reaper was abroad and seeking a harvest was evidenced by the sight of four young male civilians, faces to a wall, hands on high, covered by two German policemen with machine pistols. Two further uniformed Huns, weapons also at the ready, were making haste to the scene.

      Jurek and Roman were met as arranged. There was nothing more to discuss. My role had been hammered out and was word perfect for the part of a German messenger purporting to come from Gestapo headquarters in Warsaw. Jurek and I went into the front entrance of an elegant apartment block and Roman made to cover the exit at the rear of the building. At the fourth floor Jurek signalled our designated arrival, stood to one side and patted my back into action. To a sharp knock, a female voice enquired from within in Polish as to who was knocking. In dulcet German I acquainted the questioner that the caller bore a message and material from a Hun whose name and particulars Jurek had paintstakingly grilled into me. "Momentmal" came the reply, now in German, and from within came the sound of a door chain being manipulated. The door swung open.

      The woman's mouth had hardly time to open in fear or surprise when, with the speed of a pouncing cat, Jurek rushed past me and seized her. In a second the female was twisted around and, from behind, a hand clamped over her mouth. A pistol was jammed roughly into the side of her neck and as I had only seen things like this in films it was difficult to realise that the scene in front of my very eyes was real life and not some fantasy. Pulling myself together I followed Jurek into the flat and the front door closed. We were in a living room, and at the far end a very startled mature man with a Hitler type moustache wearing pyjamas appeared. Jurek's pistol pointed at him over the woman's shoulder. "Rece do gory!" There was not much the fellow could do. His hands went up slowly but surely as Jurek motioned his pistol to the ceiling. The woman was directed to join the man, and both of them stood side by side, hands up, facing Jurek who informed them of their guilt as collaborators of the enemy. The Polish people could not tolerate such behaviour, continued my friend. The peril of the situation and its probable outcome registered in the expressions on the faces of the condemned couple. These people might have warmed themselves at the hearth of the enemy, and keen as I was on wiping out Germans and their syinpathisers, no enthusiasm at all could be mounted for what was about to take place. Although some types of human beings may remain impassive and unaffected by such scenes I do not fall into such a cold blooded category. Conjuring up past visions of horrors committed by the Germans, I braced myself to prevent a sickening distaste from undermining a long cultivated calm which to date had brought me unscathed through more than one emergency.

      Jurek raised his pistol, aimed and squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened. He squeezed again. Again no explosion. The weapon had jammed. My illogical momentary relief at the non-firing changed suddenly to startled alarm. The pyjama clad man hurled himself across the room and grappled with Jurek. Both fell to the ground. Furniture toppled as interlocked they flayed at one another. The noise being caused by the brawl would not long go unheeded and what was more, Jurek was being worsted in the fight. Jesus Maria! The whole business was chaotic but something had to be done. Out came the F.N. and from a range of a few inches the man in pyjamas who seemed to be pummelling Jurek into unconsciousness while completely straddling him on the floor was fired at. So close was the range that the small bullet hole in the side of the shot man's head was plainly ringed by a small circle of smoke. The woman had until then remained wide eyed and paralysed. My shot, which burst like a clap of thunder in the enclosed space, galvanised her into violent movement. I was helping Jurek out from under the dead man when a sense of impending peril caused me to look around and up. A heavy metal ornament of some stature or other was on its way down to my defenceless forehead. I veered quickly to one side and received a numbing blow on the shoulder. The statue firmly grasped in the woman's right hand was again about to descend and land on the spot at which it had been aimed the first time. The trigger once more was pulled and the woman collapsed beside me. What a mess! A few minutes previously I had been almost pleased to think that the mission looked like failing and that nothing bloody was going to happen. Now, not only had it happened but fate had propelled me into the role of main participant. Still unsteady, Jurek slowly got to his feet. Gently grasping my hand, in its Polish equivalent he said "Good show, Pawel." My sentiments were precisely the reverse.

      From a pocket Jurek produced a couple of printed stickers. One he left in the apartment and the other was pinned on the front door of the flat as we departed. Where possible and practical after the carrying out of a death sentence it was usual to acquaint the Germans of the official Underground attitude and the treatment that could be expected by collaborators.

      In a very sober and contemplative frame of mind back in Elektoralna, a thoughtful pipe and a glass of vodka simmered me down. In war the destruction or maiming of the enemy collectively or individually is a prime objective. Accomplishment of such desirable aims is achieved in a multitude of ways which result in diverse personal reactions according to the manner in which the ambitious killer deals out his cards of death. The airman who releases his bombs, the presser of a trigger, the despatcher of a shell, all observe or learn later with satisfaction or otherwise, the accuracy of their aim. The impact of bomb, bullet, shell or torpedo is remote from the sender and the harvest of death, blood and pain registers but remotely in the imagination and thoughts of a distant operator. No sickening evidence of shattered bodies and contorted limbs is recorded indelibly on the perpetrator's conscience. The killer at close contact with knife, bullet, bayonet or hand has by contrast a proximity with the last moments of a victim everlastingly imprinted on his memory by sight and sound. I had never in life even contemplated raising a hand to a woman, yet had shot one on a bright midsummer's day in Poland.

      While still visible, good care was taken for Marysia not to see and enquire the cause of the whacking great bruise on my shoulder. Zosia was visited a few days later. Jurek had reported my prompt action in saving his life and Zosia's gratitude indicated her depth of feeling for that young man. It was made quite clear that if Jurek again required my assistance, an enemy in uniform would be the only target considered. Zosia concurred and was sympathetic to the attitude.

      Before recommencing espionage duties a sad event inevitable in the Resistance caused much pain. Once again there was a summons to call on Zosia. Halina opened the door, eyes swollen and puffed from crying. Something was very wrong. Zosia appeared behind her daughter, large handkerchief to a distraught face. Jurek was dead. He had been halted by a German patrol who had discovered him to be armed. He had shot one of the two policemen and escaped up the stairs of an apartment block to gain the roof. Quickly summoned, a detachment of Huns surrounded the building and sealed his fate. At every glimpse of the fugitive on the roof, fire was opened and returned until Jurek, out of ammunition, turned the last bullet on himself and crashed to the pavement below. Mother and daughter were inconsolable, and also very upset I returned sadly to Elektoralna. The war was getting bloodier all the time, but if Jurek could die so bravely, the necessity of demonstrating to the Poles that when the occasion arose a Briton would do the same, left me both alarmed and courageous, in that order if I remember rightly. One can never be sure of one's reaction in wartime but with deep sorrow at the loss of a brave and pleasant companion, the future was faced with added resolve.

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