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