Red Runs the Vistula
by

Ron Jeffery
New Zealand, 1985

OVER HALF WAY

     

      From its beginning, and difficult to conceive possible, 1943 heralded a slow but sure escalating of the horrors of the German occupation of Poland. With the political immaturity of a gorilla, the swastika had rampaged throughout the land since the blitzkrieg of 1939. The viciousness of the invader accelerated. The abandonment by the Hun of the slightest vestige of physical and moral decency had left every Polish man, woman and child under no illusion as to the eventual fate intended for them and their whole country by the Hitlerite barbarians. Resistance to the enemy remained the only outlet for the Poles. They had nothing to lose but their lives and in 1943 this fatalistic conviction nurtured an increasing fanatical revulsion to all things German, reflected in the explosion of anti Hun ferocity at every point of contact between temporary victor and vanquished.

      Reverses and withdrawals in the face of resurging Russian armies in the east and increased bombing pressure from the Allies in the west galvanised the Germans to hold viciously tight onto all initial gains, their losses assuaged by inflicting further suffering and death on the unfortunates overrun. In no other country did cruelties and spite prevail on such a scale, as unfolded in Poland from this stage of the war. Terror produced counter terror. Counter terror produced further terror. During the first half of this gory year, thousands of Jews, still remaining in the Warsaw ghetto, had decided to die fighting rather than submit meekly to being transported to the death ovens and for weeks the whole city listened to the sound of gunfire as German troops razed the Jewish district to the ground and slaughtered the defenders. The rise in ferocity brought with it an increase in the numbers of assassinations and assassination attempts on German personnel, particularly those guilty of excessive inhumanity towards Poles and Jews. The Hun adopted a policy of collective responsibility. One such German death would result in the immediate arrest of a number of civilians in the streets. Summary execution, up against a wall, by special mobile Hun firing squads, left a heap of corpses of all ages and sexes, lying on the pavement, their blood coursing the gutters. Such actions served only to strengthen Polish resolve and hatred. The mood had gone too far and an insane lust for killing gripped German and Pole, a sadistic safety valve to relieve the internal mounting pressures.

      The Poles seemed to find some consolation in their martydom. Sites where the street executions had taken place were strewn with flowers, and candles were left burning to emphasise an indestructible spirit of patriotism and nationhood determined to prevail. Thousands of Warsaw citizens witnessed some of these brutal reprisals. Fortunate enough never to be present on such a grim occasion, I happened on one scene a few minutes after the bullets had struck. The victims had faced their executioners and commenced singing the Polish national anthem at which the Hun officer had speeded his men to the task. A sobbing Polish woman recounted the heroic vocal defiance. A nausea of heart, head and stomach resulted from the terrible sight. Warm blood ran off the pavement and along the gutters.

      There was talk of insurrection. Arms were being gathered, men were being trained. Sooner or later the time would come when the Germans would be closer to defeat and the people of Poland would fall on them and cut them to pieces. All were so impatient for the wonderful day to come and prayed for survival at least until then to be able to participate and exact vengeance. My light hearted compassionate young manhood was long dead. I too ached to kill.

      Karol's arrest had caused the cancellation of the plans that had been mooted to send me back to the United Kingdom. The project suddenly became reborn in an unexpected and entirely different manner.

      During my period of compulsory retirement from espionage activities, more had been seen of fellow escapee Tommie Muir. Both of us now spoke fluent Polish. A joint survival in the Warsaw jungle provided much in common and we both enjoyed the others company. It was a bonus pleasure to converse in our native tongues. No exception was taken by Tommie to a comment that his Polish had developed so well that his native Glaswegian was now tinged with a Slavic accent. Tommie had been coaching a Polish Resistance fighter to speak English and his pupil having heard about me wished to arrange a meeting. Thus I became an acquaintance and later the close friend of a very talented man whose name is almost a Polish household word, synonymous with bravery and love of country. The Underground pseudonym of this hero to whom Tommie introduced me in a small Warsaw cafeteria was Jan Nowak. Such was the aura which grew around that name that his real name faded into anonymity, although the English mouthful of Zdzislaw Jezioranski might have been an important factor in the change. Nowak he became iffThé Resistance and to this day is known even in America, which, for him and his family, has become a second home, only as Jan Nowak. There are so many Jan's in this tale that all future references to this redoubtable Pole will be under the now permanently adopted surname.

      Nowak was slim, tall and good looking. Closely cropped hair was a registerable feature of his appearance, but it was the tenacity and courage projected by his eyes that divulged a dedication to whatever cause was chosen to follow. He knew a great deal about me and had been a party to another plan for my return to the United Kingdom before the disruption precipitated by the Vienna disaster. The subject of my repatriation had been raised once again at Underground headquarters, hence the meeting. Although with no wish to embarrass Tommie, Nowak clearly wished to convey some private information. After a spate of small talk in Polish, Tommie accepted the situation very common at gatherings of Resistance personnel, and with no umbrage, gracefully excused himself to leave us alone. Nowak wasted no time, disclosing immediately that he was a courier of the Home Army travelling from Warsaw to London and back. Months before it had been proposed that Jeffery, whose Reich journeys had caused favourable comment, should go to London for the purposes of reporting on the Underground Army. My enforced official departure from the Warsaw scene, until the German pressure to find me after Karol's arrest abated, resulted in the plan being temporarily shelved and now reactivated.

      In the meantime, however, Nowak requested a personal report in my own handwriting, setting out some of the conditions in occupied Poland to be microfilmed and carried by him to Britain. Nowak's eagerness was accounted for by a projected departure for London within a week. Having listened attentively to all the courier had to say, and with time at a premium, I hastened back to Elektoralna to compose a first general statement. Subject matter of the report and to whom it was to be sent were left to my discretion and if it got through, the editor of 'The Times' was my choice of recipient.

      There was insufficient time to prepare anything with which I could feel well satisfied, but in a couple of days Nowak received my letter, signed with name, regiment and number. The Poles were delighted. No matter how well a report written by a Pole was sent, it was felt that a British eye witness's contribution would make a weightier impression.

      The thought crossed my mind as to the German reaction on learning that the British press had its own representative with the German forces in Poland. That they were very angry with me had been evidenced by the Florian episode and the latest literary effort would certainly be furiously added to the Jeffery file. My commissioning in the field and a Polish Cross of Valour, was certainly going to place me with the newly adopted role of war correspondent, that much higher up the rungs of the Hun ladder of public enemies. I might even one day get to the top.

      In the letter to the 'Times'* taken by Nowak, I stressed the courageous anti German resistance of all Poles, the kindness and loyalty to people like me, and the vicious repressions carried out by the Hun, in particular the calculated inhuman liquidation of the Jewish race. I pleaded for an international condemnation of the bestialities in Poland and for a warning to be given by the Western Allies that all Germans were held responsible for the inhuman crimes and full retribution would be levied after the Nazi defeat. The letter taken by Nowak, reached the 'Times' intact. It is reproduced later with mention of the hurdles faced by my humble effort when it saw the London light of day.

      Domestic life at Elektoralna settled down to the normal pattern of a hunted animal who had established a new lair away from hunters who had lost the trail. Marysia, whose pregnancy was proceeding healthily and apace, was busy doing all those things that mothers to be are encouraged to do to give the expected offspring a better chance of a trouble free arrival. Painting a rosy picture of life after the war, and hard to keep from worrying about the so many problems which beset us, I quietened down considerably, attributable to the soothing effects of married bliss. There was an additional reason. A new development had burst on the personal scene, an amazing mass of implications, possibilities, complications and mind boggling potential.

      I have no precise recollection of how Horatio William Cook first came to my attention. While probing amongst members of the Resistance in an effort to resume full time employment Cook's name was mentioned. My informant disclosed that an elderly Englishman lived under the assumed Polish name of Cybulski, in an upstairs apartment in Widok Street. This news in itself did not seem of much importance, but to further learn that this gentleman gave English lessons as a cover, though in reality a British Intelligence agent, aroused curiosity. After painstakingly checking the authenticity and trustworthiness of the information, I called on Cook at his home. From the outset the visit gave every sign of proving a mutual waste of time. Cook was about sixty years old, grey haired, extremely well spoken, quite tall and of distinguished appearance, a pleasant, old gentleman, harmlessly teaching English and speaking little Polish. No connection with subversive activities was even remotely apparent. Having no desire to widen my problems, and about to leave, Cook included in his chatter about the war and Warsaw a remark which immediately riveted my attention.

      Quite proud of the social standing of some of his Polish students, the names of well known citizens of Warsaw had sprinkled Cook's conversation, among many to figure was a titled friend of Genia Uminska, my violinist benefactress. One name also mentioned as a pupil was unknown to me, and, concealing the interest aroused, I asked Cook to repeat and enlarge on what had been said. The Polish pupil to whom he had referred was, according to Cook, an old friend from pre-war days of a German colonel now stationed in Warsaw, a regular officer in the Wehrmacht and of White Russian background. With his family, the colonel when a young man, had flown from Russia and the Bolshevik revolution to find refuge in Germany after the end of World War One. The colonel, continued Cook, was fanatically anti-Soviet, anglophilic and secretly desirous of contacting the British Secret Service. Cook merely relating details of a second hand chat, had not grasped the potential significance of the enquiry directed to him. Without espionage contacts, he was not, in any case, in a position to pursue the matter. There was only one thing to do and that was to try to find out, and avoid being caught in the process.

      Cook sensed my quickening interest in the colonel and agreed to suggestions as to procedure. The colonel was to be made aware that his seed of enquiry had found a soil in which it could well germinate. Conscious of my lack of experience in such matters and unwilling to overplay the hand, to think things over and await the outcome of these preliminary moves was decided. Thoughts of a Gestapo trap persisted. Cook, to be sure, was no willing part of any deception, but could well have been innocently slotted into an overall plan to lure the Resistance into the open. Before saying goodbye after the first meeting, I requested Cook to provide information about the colonel within two days. The elderly Englishman entered into the spirit of the business and displayed the generally accepted signs of conspiratorial deportment and theatrical side glances. If nothing else, at this stage Cook was showing himself to be a good, keen man.

      A verbal report about the slavic Hun colonel was soon forthcoming, and I telephoned Cook to quickly give him a meeting time and place, concealing myself in an apartment doorway to oversee the security of the Englishman's arrival. Having made well sure that he had not been followed and eager for news, I listened to my informant with great interest over a coffee. Cook's Polish pupil whose action had sparked off the whole manoeuvre had reiterated a personal conviction of the colonel's sincere desire to operate against both the communists and the Nazis.

      The Russian family name of Smislowsky had been changed on reaching the safety of the West. From a Czarist background our colonel had gravitated smoothly into the new evolving army during the resurgence of German military might under Hitler, and was now known as Boris von Regenau.

      From the vast number of Russian troops who had been taken prisoner, especially in the initial stages of the Nazi Soviet clash, it had not been difficult for the Germans to foster the formation of a sizeable Russian Freedom Army, led by a captured Soviet General Vlassov. It has been mentioned earlier that, had the Nazis displayed more understanding of the mood of the Russian people and disaffection with Stalin and his government, their troops may well have been welcomed as liberators. In spite of the stupidity and brutality of the Nazi behaviour, some hundreds of thousands of captured Russians changed their status from German prisoners of war to become mobilised into military units of considerable importance and assistance to the increasingly stretched manpower resources of the Reich. Not fully trusted with front line duties against their own nationals on the eastern front, the Russian Freedom Army nevertheless functioned very usefully in many areas of occupied Europe. Countless German soldiers were released for combat, instead of being frittered away by a multitude of rear area semi military demands. Many Russian prisoners of war had volunteered for this new army, to escape the unbelievably harsh treatment meted out by their Nazi captors. The horrific conditions under which these men were obliged to live and often die, defy the imagination of the most depraved human beings. Other Russians in Nazi camps had contrasted the better conditions in the west they had seen, even from the confines of prison. These men were genuinely inspired to fight for the downfall of the Soviet government to bring about an improvement in the fear ridden, cheerless conditions which had been the only lot of their people since the communist revolution. Who better equipped by inclination and training to be the moulding influence of this vast mob of disgruntled Russians, than the regular German officer, who had once been Boris Smislowsky from Moscow?

      The Nazis decided to head the new Russian Freedom Army with a co-operative captured General, and Vlassov had been appointed to the post. General Vlassov s chief of staff was our Colonel Boris von Regenau, a proved anti-communist, now a capable Hun soldier held in the highest regard.

      Boris had a luxurious apartment on Belverderska Street, in the fashionable Germanised district of Warsaw, and lived with his wife and a military aide. Frequently away from home on duty, much of his time was spent at the Fuhrer's headquarters in East Prussia, well to the north of Warsaw.

      For days I sat quietly at Elektoralna, seriously milling over this Boris matter unable to arrive at any reliable conclusion on which to act. Were the feeler which had reached out to touch me a Gestapo plot, to proceed any further would be disastrous.

      What if the approach was genuine?
A staff officer, within the Fuhrer's headquarters would open up espionage and other possibilities which could spell a major catastrophe for the enemy. Here was an example of one of the vital differences between intelligence work behind the enemy's lines and intelligence operation conducted from the safe confines of one's own territory. Were a false decision to be made, my death would be certain and long drawn out, whereas a similar error of judgement remote from the foe could be forgotten about, with crocodile tears generated by a bottle of gin.

      Puzzling over a decision, an opportunity to call for help and advice rose out of the blue. My broadcast desire to go back to work had borne fruit. Karol's espionage section AWl had been demolished and a new completely reorganised section was being set up in its place.

      The chief was major Stefanski and a job for me was discussed at length. What a contrast between Karol and Stefanski. Karol had a warm and compassionate manner, whatever might have been going on in his mind. I had always felt at ease and happy with him, his blue eyes twinkling with joy at my more asinine comments. Not so Stefanski. His thoughts were cloaked with a frigid demeanour of inflexible calm and chill. No suggestion of a flicker of a smile softened his features and one could only wonder at the career or upbringing which had evolved such a human being. It was questionable if such a man had ever been a boy or had a mother who might have mellowed him with kindness and affection. Stefanski was the Warsw co-ordinator of a reorganised Austrian operation to replace the one shattered earlier in the year. I was to be in charge of field operations, domiciled in Vienna and given a free hand to implement some of the security precautions recommended in the fields of both courier and resident spy. Such was the lack of warmth emanating from Stefanski about the new project that there was no conscience problem in deferring a participation for a few months until the beginning of I 944. My would be new chief evinced some displeased impatience as an inability to become immediately involved in his assignment was expressed. It was necessary to remind him politely that an unswerving devotion to the Resistance had been amply demonstrated by enlisting in its ranks, taking the oath of allegiance with what my Underground colleagues at the time had felt to be a reasonable qualification as to terms of service. The right had been reserved to be guided by my own conception of British duties and until the conclusion of some activities which fell within this category, I was unable to leave Warsaw. Stefansky was clearly unimpressed.

      Marysia was of course a priority consideration. In blooming pregnancy with the baby due in early December, and our presence in Elektoralna seemingly unsuspected, absence was unthinkable. Stefanski seemed unaware of the domestic involvements, and security conscious as always about imparting unnecessary knowledge to a third person, I made no reference. A quizzing followed, as to my activities since Karol's arrest, which I enlarged on, to the limits guided by prudence. My continued close association with Zosia was detailed, as was the involvement with Jurek and his subsequent death from a Warsaw roof top. The microfilmed letter to the United Kingdom taken by one of our own Underground couriers was mentioned, as was a nebulous description of proposed duties which had been associated with the plans to return to the United Kingdom. Stefanski, though not changing his cold forbidding manner seemed impressed with my work record against the Hun since escape, and adopted a slightly more understanding tone.

      Another reason for deferring full co-operation with Stefanski was the Boris affair. Were it not a Gestapo trap, but capable of being harnessed to our intelligence work, the potential value of a foot inside the Fuhrer's Headquarters could have been of overwhelming importance when compared with whatever might hopefully be achieved by a few fresh agents trying to establish themselves in Austria.

      Indicating that I was on too devious a route for present disclosure, and attempting to enlist the co-operation of a staff colonel stationed in East Prussia, I gave Boris' name and rank, and requested all details available about him. Stefanski stated with some alarm and distaste that he knew of the gentleman and questioned me, without success, about the contact. I refused to be drawn until having studied whatever material on the colonel the Resistance could supply. At my undertaking to keep him in the picture, the Polish iceberg appeared somewhat mollified, and more as a ruse I suspect to keep in touch with me before starting work, a two weekly report on the Polish scene was requested.

      A premonition that Underground counter intelligence, through the person of Stefanski, would have nothing favourable to say about Boris, proved correct. No time was lost by the major who, within a day or so, presented me with a condemnation of the German colonel whose path mine had crossed. Boris had already made one or two moves suggesting some form of co-operation with the Resistance which had been rejected Out of hand. His record was suspicious and precluded any action by the Underground to offers which could well portend a Gestapo infiltration trap. With this attitude of the Resistance I had no quarrel. They would have for sure, more evidence than mine on which to make a decision, although an inner conviction persisted that a great opportunity was being abandoned too lightly.

      The climate of intrigue and dire penalties for an error in judgement frequently make for an automatic negative reaction, and could have happened in the Boris case. Something nagged within that the offer had been dismissed without sufficient vetting as to its possible sincerity. Stefanski well read my reaction to the advice and almost ordered me to stay well clear of Boris, and his disapproval of my nothing ventured, nothing win' attitude was equally sensed as I thanked him for his comments. Making a date to meet seven days hence in the same little side street restaurant, we parted none too warmly. Any warmth coming from Stefanski would have been difficult to conceive anyway, but his natural coldness was repelling, assuming undertones of dislike, distrust and perhaps a little jealousy. Understandable. I countered his attitude with a stance of independence. He had been given a subordinate whose talents, whatever they might be, were to be mobilised and I suspected that Karol's successor was capable of considerable unpleasantness to try and bend anyone to his will. Matters would certainly have been better if Karol had not been arrested, for such ticklish affairs to be talked over in a friendly setting.

      Cosily within the Elektoralna hideout, enjoying Marysia's company as always, the escalating problems were marshalled and even enjoyed. An early winter was upon us and in addition to having plenty to think about, I was busy writing anti--German and pro Polish material, which would hopefully arrive in the United Kingdom to enlighten an English speaking public. It was now October and I was well aware that if no more important excuse for delay had arisen by then, January 1944 would see my departure from Warsaw to set up with much reluctance a solo home in Vienna.

      The baby was due in early December. A safe and happy arrival would remove one of the reasons for deferring a prompt participation in the Austrian operation. Two other matters could develop of sufficient importance to warrant my declining to work with Stefanski. With no intention of sidestepping any duty because of purely personal problems, I dearly hoped that either Nowak's return or the Boris matter would give sufficient promise to justify a withdrawal from service with a superior who had given a cold impression that my expendability would be of little concern to him. Nothing could be done to expedite or influence co-operation with Nowak. When, and always if the courier returned, I could either be off to the United Kingdom or confirmed as a British war correspondent in the Reich and the occupied territories.

      But for an intuition that the Boris lead had been too lightly disregarded, the matter would have ended with the Resistance veto of the project as conveyed by Stefanski. The only way to be convinced right or wrong was to put the issue to personal test, although the more I thought about it, both the Resistance and Stefanski's attitude were understandable. If my intuitions and methods of testing them were wrong, an entrance like a fly into the spider's parlour would result in capture, alive and kicking. A further influence in making decisions was a deepening desire for self preservation, to live and enjoy a wonderful life after the war, a surging ambition. Together with Marysia and children, what goals could not be reached after such a schooling. The world would be our oyster. Many times during sleepless nights, with ears cocked for danger, my Polish wife heard of the fascinating possibilities which awaited. A colourful description of the heaven on earth which would open for us in a world free of Nazis served to bolster confidence and divert her thoughts from the immediate terrors. Some of my wishful accounts proved sufficiently eloquent to inspire me with my own verbal propaganda. In addition, therefore, to the worry about the terrible effects of my capture could have on so many individual Poles, and the Resistance, I was becoming increasingly imbued with a personal ambition to survive the war and participate in the joyous rewards to come.

      Constant mulling over the possibilities of Boris being genuine, the more defeatist it felt to be abandoning the offer solely on account of the hazards involved, such thoughts were also boosted by the distaste at being forced to become Stefanski's guinea pig in Austria.

      My mind was suddenly made up to delve alone into the Boris affair. How to reach a conclusion without getting caught were a trap being set, would have to be given considerable thought. The Law of Possibilities would have to be invoked and applied to the utmost.

      Cook's Polish pupil had full confidence in Colonel Boris von Regenau. He had, because of the war, maintained a very low key contact with Boris as between Polish civilian and German officer. Never had he experienced the slightest apprehension or embarrassement in word or deed during wartime meetings with his colonel friend. An unqualified conviction as to the sincerity of the powerful associate shone through every comment I listened to. Cook also felt himself not in the slightest danger were he to meet Boris in the company of his pupil. For the pupil he also had the highest regard and respect, built up over a considerable period.

      It was more and more evident that Cook came from a good patriotic English background, but had certainly never worked at any depth if at all in espionage or intelligence. A basic naivety betrayed a lack of association with this kind of work, although it also made him a suitable accomplice for the first part of a plan, the complexities of which were stretching my restricted mental faculties to capacity. I asked Cook to meet Boris personally in the company of the Polish pupil, a request to which he readily agreed. Giving Cook an honest opinion as to the possibility of a Gestapo ploy to deliver us into their hands via Boris, a realisation that the elderly Briton had already made up his own mind was quite clear. He agreed to follow my suggested approach to the colonel, and confident that as far as possible a correct and safe course had been charted, I farewelled him with gratitude and best wishes, to await impatiently the preliminary outcome of the machinations to date.

      Within three days Cook reported over a coffee at the usual rendezvous. In the immediate locality for over an houi' before we were due to meet, nothing suspicious had been seen before joining him at the table.

      Boris lived at number thirty-two Belvedere Street, a few floors up in apartment fourteen. Many names, places, dates and numbers had eluded my memory over the years and with such details of no consequence to the story as a whole, some facts which generally suited the chronicle have been substituted. Boris' address however, became somehow recorded, and is given correctly. It could well be that the whole Boris adventure made a deeper personal impact than realised at the time and it is much easier to recall many small details of this period. Others of a comparative nature and connected with differing events during the war, have proved elusive in the extreme to remember with clinical accuracy.

      On arrival at the flat in Belvedere Street, Cook was introduced by his pupil who was clearly on very friendly and long standing terms with the German colonel. Boris, wearing civilian clothes, was the soul of gracious attention to both the Englishman and the Pole. In an elegantly furnished lounge, a bottle of Scotch a status symbol indeed, was produced and a short period of pleasant small talk preceded discussion on the real reason for the visit. The conversation was in Polish, which Cook noted Boris to speak with a discernible Russian accent. Cook detailed to the colonel his relationship as an English teacher to the Polish intermediary who was also a long standing mutual friend. He had felt, on hearing of the desire to co-operate with British Intelligence, impelled to try and pass on such a potentially valuable offer. Cautious efforts had resulted in meeting a British Intelligence agent. This agent, Cook said, was highly suspicious of a trap, at which Boris nodded understandingly, and had also referred to previous unsuccessful attempts by the colonel to work in some way with General Rowecki, one time commander-in-chief of the Polish Underground Army. At this, said Cook, Boris seemed favourably impressed, to further hear that the British agent had said that co-operation from the Poles with the colonel would probably still not be forthcoming, but the situation might not preclude the British from pursuing an independent line if practical. If safeguards could be arranged, Boris was told the British agent was prepared to arrange secret talks. The colonel then called on this Polish friend, who had been silently sitting by and taking no part in the discussion, for a kind of character reference which was gushingly forthcoming. After that Cook was asked to convey to me the word of honour of a Russian gentleman that his motives were sincere.

      Unimpressed sufficiently with these superficial guarantees to consider them protection enough for my neck, my mind changed a little when Cook casually made a significant remark. Boris had declared himself a freemason, as was Cook, and after proving himself a member of the brotherhood by methods known only to another mason, the colonel had pledged the honour of one brother to another as to the integrity of his proposals. My father was a freemason as was his father before him. Although with no intimate knowledge of the brotherhood, I had a preconceived opinion inspired by the honesty and reputations of my forbears in all matters of truth, to firmly believe that a freemason's word could be accepted in general and in particular, by other freemasons. The confirmed statement by Boris that he owed allegiance to a society which had been banned and persecuted by the Nazis added a new dimension to assist in deciding on a course of action. A compulsion to meet the colonel was welling up within me and wishful thinking credited this new found knowledge to a fairy godmother who would never fail me and was once again charting a course with subtle and beneficial direction.

      Cook, who had proved so useful, was thanked for his handsome effort with a promise to be shortly in touch. My mind was further resolved to pursue the risk. The rewards, right or wrong, would be fairly definite, good or bad, but if a German colonel in the Fuhrer's headquarters sincerely wanted to work for us, a lack of opportunity was not going to hinder him.

      Cook was met again and elucidation sought about some points discussed with Boris. The charming, decent, elderly Englishman was still well under the spell of the masonic undertaking which Boris had given and to him it was now unthinkable that the German colonel was anything but a man of genuine motives. Since the possibility of meeting Boris personally had first arisen, it had been difficult to conjure up a plan to give me a reasonable chance of avoiding capture if indeed a trap had been laid. If treachery was afoot any meeting would be very heavily weighted to my disadvantage and impressing on Cook the need for complete secrecy, which included the Polish pupil instrumental for the introduction to Boris, I requested a further favour to which my compatriot willingly assented. The old boy was enjoying a conspiratorial role to the full, seemingly unaware that both our lives were forfeit were our conclusions incorrect.

      Cook was asked to see Boris again and make an appointment for a British Intelligence agent to call in three days time at five thirty in the afternoon, and be sure to restrict the subject matter of this next call solely to the making of an appointment. There was no doubt about Cook's patriotism, but inexperience and a romantic conception of his part in the affair would, I feared, if encouraged to chatter, leave my emissary at the mental mercy of a shrewd German colonel. His conversational limit strictly stressed, Cook left to make the arrangements for my first meeting with Boris, on which so much could hang in more ways than one.

      On the way home to Elektoralna it was necessary to come down to earth and remember while travelling by tram and on foot through Warsaw, that preoccupied with a new impulse to jump into the fire, I was not to forget that I still lived in a frying pan.

      From Cook, over the telephone, it was learnt theat Boris would be pleased to meet me in his apartment at the time suggested. With quite a journey across Warsaw from Elektoralna to Belvedere Street, it was preferable to move out of our home temporarily and operate from a base much closer to the colonel's dwelling. This plan was easily implemented and would save me much precarious travelling, especially if negotiations with Boris extended later than the eight o'clock evening curfew for all Poles. Even with the good sets of German passports and supporting documents, to be out and lone in the dark and emptiness of a Warsaw night after curfew hour, was an exposure to enemy attention better to avoid if at all possible.

      With Marysia the probability of an occasional absence from home for a night or two was lightly brushed over. The news was accepted sadly and aware that incorrect answers would be forthcoming, no queries were posed. Geared up for what might or might not lie ahead, I stifled regrets that my wife's worries stemmed from the association with me. The voicing of self recrimination brought denials from her that served to enhance the concern she felt. The joy of a new life together, which would otherwise have been our perfect lot, was marred by our care for each other, an unfortunate paradox. Marysia's approaching motherhood made it all even sadder.

      Of the many people I got to know while living in Zoliborz, all of whom were without fail friendly and kind to me, detailed mention of every name has not been made. A Pole from those days now warrants attention. First and subsequent social relationships with Stas Lorenz were to lead to a deeper association, the detailing of which is now essential. He was visiting his brother Gustav, my host in Zoliborz when we first met.

      Stas was fortyish, elegant in word and dress, an entertaining charmer in any company. Before the war he had been a sporting journalist of repute, popular as a writer and a favourite of the ladies. Stas was no black sheep of the Lorenz family, but his name was well tinged by the whole clan with an awe accorded to one whose lifestyle and behaviour shocked his more conservative kin. Money had never been any problem. Through some source or other, and the inference was that women had much to do with it, he had always been wealthy. Before the war his home was an elegant villa in a fashionable quarter of Warsaw, now favoured as a residential area by the elite administrators of the Nazi government. Most Poles in the area had been thrown out, their prestigious houses and contents confiscated. Not so with Stas who though dispossessed like so many of his countrymen, had somehow contrived to remain in residence and was not evicted by the Hun. His former home, large, two storeyed in its own grounds, now served as the Warsaw domicile of a high ranking German bureaucrat. The offical and his wife found the first floor of the fully furnished villa of ample room, sufficient to meet their accommodation demands. The ground floor comprised a number of rooms, including a well stocked library now a completely separated part of the large dwelling in which Stas had organised very passable quarters, his presence justified by acting for the new master in a custodial capacity. Stas accepted the position of caretaker with tolerant and good humoured satisfaction considering himself fortunate, as indeed he was by Polish standards. The non-paying Nazi tenants bestowed, by their very presence, many advantages not shared by the ordinary citizens of Warsaw.

      The villa was now officially German property and recognised as the home of an important Nazi official who employed a Polish live-in caretaker. Such a residence would therefore be spared the nocturnal Gestapo visits, which without warning could bring tragedy to any native household. The Polish playboy patriot and former sporting journalist slept soundly at night in a comfortable bed, secure and protected by the new German name decorating the front entrance of the building. On high over the name, an ornate Nazi eagle clutching a swastika gave baleful warning to all visitors that trespassing was perilous.

      Stas had often welcomed me as an overnight guest and, though not taking frequent advantage of an open invitation, together we spent quite a few uproarious nights protected by the lodgers upstairs. One such night coincided with the absence in Berlin on leave of the Nazi tenants. Pole and Briton had the house to themselves, safe from disturbance and protected by the eagle glowering above the front door. The Germans, not due to return for at least a week, a reasonable couple, had come to like Stas. He had been requested to keep a good eye on things upstairs while they were away and to carry out the duty, a bunch of his former domestic keys were handed over. Well fortified after the usual sumptuous dinner, my host's invitation to make a tour of inspection of the German quarters above was a welcome diversion. In an espionage capacity all drawers were carefully rummaged through, unfortunately without discovering any material of professional interest.

      As with many Nazi high civilian officials, the man whose effects we were now so cheerfully investigating was an honorary officer in the SS. In one wardrobe hung a black uniform suit and the death's head peaked cap which proclaimed the military allegiance. The cap was just my size. Encouraged by Stas, I donned it and the jacket, holding a small piece of black comb under my nose to portray the famous Hitler moustache. With arm outstretched in a forceful "Heil" I rampaged around the apartment noisily imitating the Fuhrer ranting at a party rally. Hoarseness of voice brought the show to an end. We both collapsed with laughter and no respect on the luxurious bed which usually refreshed the bodies of the weary Herrenvolk. It took some time to restore the shambles before retiring to the stronghold downstairs to celebrate what had been a strangely rewarding interlude.

      Without functional reference at any time both of us were conscious of the others involvement in the Resistance. Stas had ideal cover as a custodian and my hunch was that his literary talents were being put to good use, and had Stas not continued to reside so unobtrusively in the Germanised quarter of Warsaw, it is unlikely that our paths would have mingled other than socially. His address served well as a fairly safe hideout during an emergency, and to this useful function was added the factor responsible for its present prominence in the story. Stas lived within a stone's throw of the apartment which housed Boris for meeting whom I had developed an obsession. Stas willingly assented to a request with no reasons given, for me to stay the night after the planned visit. The call on Boris was due at half past five.

      Up betimes at Elektoralna that morning, an unusually substantial breakfast was eaten. Inner influences may have sparked a hearty appetite in a condemned man, but such reflection failed to curb an optimism that all would go well. Marysia was quiet about the flat as the material necessities for the next twenty four hours were prepared. The sombre and chill early autumn day outside matched my wife's face, the dressing gown and pipe markedly incongruous as I sat carefully checking the action of the F.N. pistol. The little pet would be coming along hopefully just for company and as a non-participating observer.

      Marysia who had met Stas occasionally was to telephone him from a neutral place the next morning. My safe return or otherwise would be reported. If otherwise, a general alert was to be sent out, and Marysia would vacate Elektoralna for safe accommodation with a relative not known to me in any way. The precautionary instructions made for less confidence about the evening meeting, not easy to hide when saying goodbye to a wife I might not see again.

      I sat in the 'Nur fur Deutsche' front wagon portraying a picture of keen young Nazi officialdom. Other German passengers, temporarily adopted compatriots, glanced approvingly at an elegantly dressed model of Teutonic efficiency with his smart suitcase, as a season ticket was contemptuously presented for punching by the lowly Polish conductor.

      Mysterious, indestructible Warsaw continued to roll by as the noisy tram provided a grandstand view of scurrying pedestrians and vehicles. Ever since my first meeting with these wonderful people, the wave lengths of Polish defiance had reverberated through me. On that afternoon, sitting in the midst of the enemy, determined to press on regardless, the legendary spirit of Poland was overwhelming and the spirit of do or die was contagious in its reckless abundance.

      Alighting in Marszalkowska Street I walked for a brief look at one of our chemist's shop windows. The coloured water bottles were positioned at 'safe', and with this slight reassurance that the Underground front in my sector was not under pressure on that day, a dorozka was hailed.

      Stas opened his back door to my tap. So far, so good. My appointment with Boris later that afternoon was but a minutes walk. My host for the night viewed a strictly German appearance with a curiosity not usually evinced in Resistance circles as we sat over a vodka, deeply enveloped in the comfortable leather chairs of the library. Possibly a journalistic leaning was getting the better of Stas who regarded his guest searchingly.
"Something interesting on?"
"Very" was my only comment.
"Dangerous?"
"I don't think so," answered the further question for him to realise a limit to the information. Nevertheless he willingly agreed to cooperate.

      Were I not to return that night, by morning a general Underground alert was to be circulated that I was in German hands. Marysia would be ringing at breakfast time and if necessary was to be told to carry out certain instructions. After I had thanked Stas for the help and the risks he had so often taken, the devil may care Pole characteristically shrugged his shoulders in fatalistic acknowledgement.

      I changed into my best suit and borrowed a tie, an improvement on the one intended to be worn. Into the right hand pocket of the suit jacket went the F.N. and as wearing an overcoat precluded a quick handling of the weapon, the inside pocket of the black machintosh was cut out, which gave my hand unhindered access to a defence it might be necessary to call on. On leaving, Stas was informed that it could be after curfew time when I returned home and not to worry, but his waiting up for me to open the back door would be appreciated. Within a minute of the appointed time I walked along Belvedere Street to mount the stairs to flat fourteen in the substantial and well kept apartment block at number thirty-two.
The bell was firmly rung.
"Name bitte?"
"I have an appointment with Colonel von Regenau".

      The chained door opened partially. Through the six inch gap a man's face scanned me from head to toe, the door swinging slowly inwards for me to be deferentially beckoned into an elegantly carpeted hall by a German uniformed soldier with the Russian Freedom Army insignia on both epaulettes. The door banged shut and the noise of the chain and bolt being refastened generated a tenseness, which stretched self control to the limit.
"Your coat, sir, please," in fluent German.

      Unrobing was completed, coat handed over, when an inner door opened. A sturdy middle aged man elegantly dressed in a dark civilian suit, hand outstretched and beaming welcome, advanced quickly. We shook hands, mine pumped with an almost excessive display of warmth and cordiality. Nothing in the jovial open face or manner hinted the slightest at any cause for immediate alarm. Hand shaking, which seemed to have been carrying on interminably, ceased, and with a further gesture of goodwill the colonel patted my side almost affectionately with his left hand. A shadow passed momentarily over his face and the situation was acknowledged with a look of mutual respect. The ice was broken. My host had distinctly felt and instantly recognised the significance of the metal object in my pocket. The FN was a solid little weapon.

      Shown into a tastefully and luxuriously appointed lounge, I detected a look of something like admiration in his eyes. Not a bad start.

      Deep seated misgivings which, in spite of my self willed confidence, had inwardly nagged, diminished markedly. Proffered a seat, I sat down, back to a wall and facing the door, a move also registered by the colonel's quick glance. My hand sought out the little weapon.
"Excuse me colonel," I quipped, "I'll put the safety catch back on this thing." We both enjoyed the joke and the colonel relaxed in this seat, as we gazed at one another. It was difficult to begin.
"You speak excellent German," he said. I nodded.
"Polish also?" Again, the slight physical affirmative.
"Russian?" A negative.
"French?"
"Etwas".
He broke into good Polish, though with the lisping accent of a Russian, and from then on our conversation proceeded in that language.
"Drink?"
"Prosze." A clap of hands and the orderly appeared. My eyes rested briefly on a bottle of Johnnie Walker as two crystal glasses on a silver tray were placed on the small table between us.
"Courtesy of the British Army in France 1940," said Boris, detecting the visual query. At his gesture I poured myself a reasonable drink and received a nod to do the same for him. "Water?"
"No thanks." Taking the glass on the far side of the tray I was still full of caution and the move was also registered by the sharp eyes of my host.
"Niech zyj e nam!"
"Na Zdrowie!" After the toast and reintroduction to a favourite beverage, to have flirted so seriously with vodka was shameful and unfaithful. Both of us were waiting for the other to broach the subject which had led to the meeting. The colonel, sitting opposite, was over twenty years my senior and would have much experience to draw on to gain a tactical verbal advantage. The onus was placed on my opponent as I still perforce considered him.
"Colonel," I began very serious of manner, "Your interest in having a talk with British Intelligence has come to notice. I am an Englishman of military background operating in Europe and look forward to what you have to say for hopefully some form of mutually profitable co-operation to ensue. If not, you may rely on our full discretion to protect your position to the full." An adherence to the truth will be noted and, indicating that a reply from Boris was now awaited, I sat ready to listen.
"My friend," began the colonel.

      Whether or not I was his friend had not been fully established, but as no name had been given, I suppose he was obliged to call me something. Paying the strictest attention to what was being said, my thoughts were concealed by listening without interjection or request for elucidation. A firm decision was made to garner every possible scrap of evidence for later digestion and analysis in the peace of Elektoralna. It was difficult not to be affected by the sincerity which flowed from Boris. What was related about his early life had much sadness associated with war, death and fleeing refugees which accompanied the cruel upheavals of the 1917 Bolshevik revolution. The Boris family name in Russian was Smislowsky and from somewhere on the grandmother's side the name von Regenau had surfaced. This Teutonic surname Boris had permanently adopted after escaping from the Soviet, to find welcome refuge in Germany and join their army. He had naturally gravitated to the Russian sector of German military intelligence, specialising, as he put it, not in matters Russian, but Bolshevik for which name a tone of revulsion was clearly detectable.

      A logical career development was a seconding as chief of staff to the new Russian Liberation Army formed out of the literally millions of Russian troops taken prisoner by the Nazis since the outbreak of hostilities in 1941 between the two dictatorships. For tactical propaganda reasons the captured Russian General Vlassov was the German appointed commander of this large anti Soviet military formation, but with modesty, Boris indicated himself as the power behind the throne by reason of a long German association and the trust he enjoyed fostered by constant condemnation of Stalin and the sufferings the despot had inflicted on the Russian people.

      The initial Nazi blitzkrieg in Russia, continued Boris, augered well for the destruction of Bolshevism and it was possible that some form of more liberal government could be formed in the country of his birth after the destruction of the Stalinites by the Hitlerites. In line with observations made since first arriving in eastern Europe as to the political imbecility of the Nazis, more details than ever before were heard about the alienation by the Germans of the Russian people who treated otherwise, might have welcomed the Nazis as liberators. The bestial behaviour of the politically motivated invaders, who instead of coercing a potentially receptive Soviet population with guile, used guns and terror, was tactical nonsense in the extreme.

      Boris enlarged at length on the atrocities of the Germans against the vast numbers of prisoners of war. A particularly gruesome photograph of Soviet captive soldiers cooking what appeared to be a man's leg is hard to forget. He conceded however that many thousands of the volunteer members of the new Russian Freedom Army had joined its ranks more to escape the often fatal rigours of a German camp than to actively fight against the Bolsheviks. There was however, a growing enlightenment among the Russians to whom the war had given a first glimpse of the west, that they had been misled. Their own nationals under the Soviet government suffered odiously by comparison with what they had seen of European conditions.

      The Poles, according to Boris, had been similarly fired to strenuous and continued resistance against the Nazis. The present massive and unified effort of the Underground was a serious problem for the Germans and also might never have escalated to the present size had the Nazis been capable of humanitarian treatment of the local population after they overran half the country in 1939. The mention of half of Poland being taken and savaged by the Germans in 1939 brought Boris to dwell at length on the conduct of the Soviets, who attacked the retreating Poles from the rear at the beginning of the war to complete the subjugation of a whole nation by two dictators in a matter of weeks. Russian treatment of the natives in the eastern half of Poland, then occupied by them, paralleled the Nazis' barbarity in the west. Boris put the figure of Polish civilians of all classes deported forcibly deep into the Soviet union as certainly over one million souls. I had listened and have mentioned previously similar versions of these deportations and later evidence indicated that some two million Poles who fell under Russian domination had been deported in an eastern direction. Confirmation of Polish suffering under occupation by their two traditional enemies was sickening to hear and Boris clearly found the telling equally distasteful. Influenced by these reports of Soviet and Nazi cruelty, one could be truly thankful to have been raised in dear old Britain. The cut and thrust of battle was an accepted part of British heritage, but the accounts of sadism and perversion towards defenceless fellow creatures which unfolded that evening, further stretched my already horrified imagination.

      The discovery by the Germans in White Russia of thousands of Polish officers, manacled and still in uniform, with their skulls blown off, was also mentioned. The reference was to the Katyn massacres*. The colonel confirmed Soviet responsibility for the crime. The Nazis had made great propaganda capital of their gruesome discovery in the Katyn woods and the Russians had been far from convincing in their protestations of innocence. The feeling throughout German military circles, claimed Boris, was one of revulsion to such an unsoldierly crime. Adhering to a decision to make no comments that evening, some rather nasty German habits I had come across might otherwise have been mentioned.

      Some of the foregoing comments on German and Russian behaviour to prisoners of war and the civilian population of overrun countries are repetitive of what was written many pages back. I feel however that confirmation from a source like Boris should further emphasise to the innocently ignorant, the attraction that weakness has for ruthless dictatorships.

      German resources in men and material had been drained by the vastness and the climate of Mother Russia. Partisan activity in all occupied territories fuelled by the asinine tactics practised by the Nazis, was intensifying daily. War material from the West was pouring into Russia, especially through the northern convoy route, in ever more telling qualtity. On the home front German strength and production was being sapped by constant aerial attack and the necessity of manning the European Atlantic wall against invasion from Britain. It was not denied by Boris that an Allied victory with a considerable Soviet dimension would be a disaster for every Russian who, either as a prisoner of war or a collaborator, had seen something of Western superiority to the Bolshevik system. Hopes he had cherished for an early collapse of the Soviet Union were gone. The fall of Hitler's Reich was inevitable. The whole of Europe would be then under communist threat and Katyn type treatment. The free world of which he desired to be a part would return to the dark ages.

      I was under no illusion as to the motives of the speaker, both general and personal. His sincerity throughout the whole evening had been plain, engagingly frank and I was beginning to like him.

      The physical course of the war and conclusions as to the eventual outcome had galvanised him to fight for an Allied victory over Germany before the Soviet hordes could swarm over Europe. With this goal in mind, he had made numerous disappointing attempts to co-operate with the Polish Underground and through them, the Western Allies. General Rowecki, Kalina by pseudonym, the commanding officer of the Resistance, arrested earlier in 1943 by the Gestapo, had suspiciously rejected such overtures and had refused to consider any negotiations. Bearing in mind Stefanski's attitude to my own suggestions, it was not surprising to hear of the difficulties Boris had encountered. Boris had cast a net in every water where the fish he sought might be swimming, very gratified he said, to have been rewarded with me. That German counter intelligence had not scented the ex-Russian colonel's machinations, portended either a deeper scheme than first suspected, or they were not as efficient operators of the great game as one would have supposed. Whatever the answer, an intense mental scrutiny of all that had been said continued unabated.

      In Paris in 1939 Boris told me he had given willing intelligence assistance to an Englishman who went under the name of Sharp. Why, when so many other names of people, places and dates have become blurred and preclude a warranty of strict accuracy, the name Sharp has survived, deserves comment. The great concentration on every small detail pertaining to the Boris affair must have been more efficiently credited in my memory bank during that tense period. I wanted to survive.

      The evening had flown and a pause was made for the colonel to observe that curfew time was approaching and it might be uncomfortable abroad after eight o'clock. As if of little importance it was commented that my movements in Warsaw at night were unrestricted by this regulation which applied purely to Poles. Boris would dearly have liked to be privy to the type of cover which allowed an Englishman to move freely at any time in a rigidly policed Nazi controlled city. He knew better than to ask and was certainly not going to be enlightened. An indifference to police control intrigued and fostered a recognisable respect for my standing which was precisely the impression it was hoped to create, by overnighting almost next door. Boris would certainly be unaware that only a few seconds of sharp walking in the darkness separated me from a safe refuge with a Pole under a German roof. With curfew time well past, Boris continued talking, but not before an invitatiton to dine had been politely declined. In truth with the demands of a young man's appetite, I was becoming peckish and settled thankfully for a tray of most tempting meats and savouries accompanied by the largest Scotch of the evening.

      I felt relaxed as far as my own security was concerned. The colonel's willingness to serve the Allied cause was, I would have staked my life on it, quite sincere and genuine. Which is precisely what had been done.

      It was difficult to control for the remainder of the evening a betrayal of the inner excitement which gripped me. The potential of what Boris proposed created espionage possibilities which staggered the imagination, although it was not going to be plain sailing. Boris emphasised that his rejection by the Poles had extinguished most of the desire to work with them. With the British he was prepared to fight in any capacity with the proviso that the main thrust was to be of an anti-Bolshevik nature. I still made no comment, praying to be back in Elektoralna, to collect my by now scattered and racing thoughts as more fascinating information was forthcoming.

      Boris, in addition to his role as Chief of Staff of the Russian Freedom Army, controlled and directed the efforts of four hundred agents on various activities over the whole of German occupied Russia. Some of these men were even located within the Soviet Union. He maintained friendly and professional relationships with most departmental heads of German intelligence, some of whom, over twenty years of close association, had become trusted friends. Many of these high ranking soldiers were disillusioned with the Fuhrer and his jumped up political entourage. Boris was sure that to save Germany from the Bolshevik menace, quite a few of them could be recruited to work on behalf of the Allies, the survival of a decent Germany their inspiration.

      Boris was off to the Fuhrer's headquarters in East Prussia for about ten days. Grateful for the breathing space provided by this absence, I promised to be in touch on his return to Warsaw and convey a considered reply to what had been said. Cordial handshaking concluded the first meeting.

      At the bottom of the stairs leading down from the apartment, Belvedere Street was dark and quiet. My rubber soled shoes were noiseless as they covered at a fast clip, the short distance to the night's haven. Not a soul was seen or heard. With no doubt that Boris was sincere, there was much to think about and complications even then crowded my mind, to take second place to the overwhelming satisfaction and relief of not having been meshed by a Gestapo net. Not for the time being anyway. Polish Resistance co-operation or no Polish Resistance co-operation the colonel had to be recruited. If the Poles refused to help, I would help myself set up a British private enterprise. These tumbling thoughts were interrupted as I tapped late at night at Stas' back door to be once again that day safely sheltered under a German roof.
"Jesus Maria, Pawel," said Stas, "I was starting to get really worried.
"The devil looks after his own Stas, I could use a stiff drink." No questions were asked, but my friend looked relieved as the next best thing to Scotch was gulped down. Lulled by liquor, I slept soundly, more than content with the prospects opened up by the day's events.

      A safe return from the meeting obviated the necessity for sounding any of the alerts arranged had anything gone wrong. Marysia had telephoned Stas that morning from the next door flat which still housed our friendly neighbours, Mr. and Mrs. Green Signal. Her relief to hear that everything had gone well was ardently reflected in the heartfelt welcome radiated at my homecoming. Relaxed and safe in loving and lucky surroundings, I sat quietly for many hours, absorbed and deliberating within a private mental world. It was difficult to escape a feeling that my activities would expand beyond the confines set by the Polish Underground. Bearing in mind responsibilities to the Resistance, and indeed to all the Poles who had befriended me, a way had to be found of exploring the situation which had arisen, without hurting anyone's feelings physically or mentally, mine included. At a meeting with Stefanski in a small coffee house off Jasna Street I was introduced for the first time to a subordinate, a lanky Pole, pseudonym Nord, a recent parachutist from England. Nord was to be my new liaison with Polish Intelligence and Stefanski launched into the urgency of my availability for the Austrian project. Some of Stefanski's disappointment at my reticence to commence the Austrian operation had been conveyed to Nord, who though not as chilly a person as his chief, gave me the impression that I was a difficult person to deal with. If by not rushing off to Austria on a semi suicide mission before bidding a warm welcome to our new baby and fully exploring the Boris proposition was being difficult, I had no quarrel with their point of view.

      Inwardly debating about further mentioning Boris, I felt however, duty bound to do so. With no specific details of how or when Boris had been contacted, both Stefanski and Nord were advised that the matter warranted much closer study than it had been given. The four hundred agents the colonel had under direct control were stressed, and I doubly stressed the sensitive ear to the ground that could be acquired in Hitler's field headquarters. There was also Boris' long standing association with many German Staff Officers and with disaffection spreading in the Wehrmacht, further recruitment to our side was well possible. Stefanski remained impassive and it could be sensed that neither emotional nor reasoned appeal would have raised the temperature of this inflexible fellow.

      Boris had referred to some infiltration of the Resistance by pro-Soviet elements and a seed of warning about Stefanski, because of my high opinion of Polish patriotism, failed to germinate or lodge in my mind. Later I was to be sorry for this lapse, not about Stefanski in particular but about the flood of unsuspected communist subversion already flourishing in the West. Flashes of anger passed over Stefanski's face as what was purely a difference of opinion between us was emphasised. He suggested that a I write a report and hand it to Nord as soon as possible. As we parted, Nord seemed to have warmed a little to me and my standpoint and as we made arrangements to meet again, his expression showed some variance with the major's attitude.

      There were many reservations as to how much should be disclosed to Stefanski. Had I been still working with Karol, complete thoughts on the matter would have been poured out verbally, confident of sympathetic understanding if not a necessarily affirmative reception. A nagging thought plagued me that Stefanski would do anything to sabotage plans to attempt the recruitment of Boris, and no matter how it was proposed to go about it or what precautions were adopted, he would be bitterly opposed. His motives were obscure and not one of them I felt, was any concern for my personal safety. I may be doing the man an injustice but a suspicion grew that Stefanski, under certain circumstances, would have no compunction in condemming Boris to death. Evidence to the Gestapo as to the colonel's proposals would close the case. The thought was worrying.

      I met Nord as arranged, and handed over another British birdseye view of life in occupied Poland. Since Nowak had taken my letter to the 'Times' some months previously, quite a number of similar articles had been written. What became of them was never reported and since the enthusiastic hurried despatch of the first one with Nowak, a lack of any comment on the subsequent efforts tended to dampen my original ardour. Nord pocketed my latest news despatch and enquired if the report about Boris had been made as requested. A second envelope passed over the coffee table of our Jasna Street meeting place. Nord glanced at it and, unable to read the English script which had been used on purpose, he handed it back and requested a Polish translation. I gave Nord a Polish garbled version and Boris would not even have recognised himself as the central character, which was just as intended. Nord asked about Austria and confessed to his own future participation, expressing relief to hear of my readiness early in 1944 when current matters, among them the arrival of the baby which was still a secret, should be cleared up. Stefanski, said Nord, was not very pleased with me. The reciprocation was not mentioned. We parted on a pleasant note, made more so to learn that my salary had risen to four thousand zlotys a month. Money is not everything, but it would help with the nappies, indispensable even to babies of the Resistance.

      Boris had yet to return from East Prussia, and other than constantly keeping our project in mind I relaxed not quite in the accepted manner, and busied myself around Warsaw. I went to see old Cook, more, it must be confessed, to check that nothing untoward had happened, than for social enjoyment. We chatted pleasantly of trivial things.

      It was months since Florian had been dragged out of his apartment by the Gestapo because of my former presence there. The Nazis had remained ignorant of the upstairs, downstairs connection and very cautiously, Marysia, now in the pillow case stage of pregnancy took to revisiting her family. Matters pertaining to the new baby were made much easier for us, that she was able to do so. Her uncle, the paediatrician, and other specialists, not forgetting future grandpa Kaziu, were all fully mobilised in the service of the little Jeffery to be. The whole family was agog with much clucking and crowing. I put in an occasional surreptitious appearance at family gatherings, to be feted and given the impression that a hero was in their midst. There was no bravery in becoming a father, but a new sensation of joy in the otherwise hard and cheerless times had burst upon the Kaziu family as they anticipated the new arrival. My rise in salary would not be needed to defray the additional outgoing of parenthood. Enough baby clothes and accessories were assembled to cater for innumerable newborns. A room at a still operating private maternity home had been reserved and a few weeks prior to B day, Marysia moved back to her parents, to all intents officially, an unmarried daughter whose imminent motherhood had not resulted in her being thrown out into the street.

      Warsaw was once again under deep snow and the dawn of the fifth year away from home was near. I felt confident of surviving to be a father, which would elevate my own and Marysia's parents to grandparents but if the war lasted too much longer, it would probably deny my wife and me the pleasure of ever reaching a similar status.

      With Marysia's departure to live under her family's roof until the birth of the baby, but for a new development it might have been necessary for the first time to keep house for myself. Such an irksome chore was no longer a threat. We acquired a maid. Janina, yes, yet another Janina, had come to live with us, comfortably installed in the small spare room. Small the room truly was. One might have been able to swing a cat up and down it but not across. Miss Branntwein, the new Janina's surname, was a surviving member of a family of Jews, the father of whom had been a doctor. Most of the family had been killed by the Nazis under their so called 'Solution' programme, and the young Jewess, in her early twenties, with not marked semitic features had escaped from the ghetto. She had found shelter in poverty stricken circumstances and hidden by some pre war Polish friends, for one of many possible reasons had again been forced to flee. In desperation she appealed for help to Dr Kaziu, a former colleague of her father. Marysia became involved somehow and the number of souls living at the Elektoralna flat increased by one as soon as Janina's plight was realised. Her official capacity with us under a false name and dwelling registration, was as housemaid. Neither considered nor expected to act as such, she was in truth very helpful and did more than a fair share of the chores. Janina was enjoyable company, bright in spite of a tragic background, cultured, intelligent, and very pleasing on the eye.

      Had the Germans ever raided our flat at this period they would have uncovered, with the advent of Janina, yet another crime against Nazi law which carried the death penalty. We were home for an illegal radio, weapons, sets of false passports and enough forged ration stamps to feed an army. All these, together with my own crime sheet at Gestapo headquarters, meant that we should have died eleven deaths, now increased by Miss Branntwein's Jewish presence to twelve. The association with Janina was terminated with the evacuation of the Elektoralna flat which, unbeknown to us at the time, was fairly imminent. Our ways, which had crossed so briefly, parted for unknown destinations in the fight for survival. Of her eventual fate, the most pessimistic thoughts prevailed until many years after the war came welcome news. For survival a miracle would have been required and our minds in times of peace often harked back to sadly ponder the fate of the only maid we ever had. A friend telephoned to say that an advertisement in the personal column of the local newspaper, a former Miss Janina Branntwein sought the whereabouts of the Jeffery family, now believed living in New Zealand. Contact was renewed and Janina reported herself happily married in Israel, the Jewish homeland. Post war scholastic achievements in the new country had enabled the professional earning of her daily bread, yet another illustration of the tenacious qualities of this long suffering race.*

      Boris remained out of Warsaw for over two weeks. I telephoned his apartment a couple of times from coffee houses, the length of his absence unsettling because of a growing impatience to get on with the job. Another meeting with Nord did nothing to improve matters and as anticipated there was no official co-operation or sanction from the Resistance for any form of association with the colonel, although the absence of a direct order not to proceed, averted a possible confrontation with Stefanski. Parting was again friendly, with Nord requesting Austrian duty as soon as possible. "Not before the New Year," I replied.

      Boris returned and I went to see him. He greeted me like an old friend, neither of us showing the caution or restraint which had marked the first meeting, and having again arranged to stay with Stas and with no curfew gauntlet to run, I spent a long and pleasant evening with an ex-Russian who wished to work for the Allies. On this occasion, the host was resplendent in the full uniform of a German colonel. His wife, matronly and tastefully dressed, came into the room, her manner betraying awareness of the true identity of the stranger who kissed her hand. Like Boris, she bloomed with sincerity. Stefanski just had to be mistaken. Or was he? Perhaps some other motives were at play for him to be so against Allied co-operation with this very anti-communist White Russian now being fostered by an English member of the Resistance. Mrs Boris stayed for a few drinks and, wishing me the best of good luck in a most friendly manner, left us together.

      During our first meeting Boris had done most of the talking. It was now my turn to comment and coming straight to the point, apologies were made for the situation which had arisen. Within the bounds of caution and security on behalf of the Resistance and myself, a genuine effort was made to be as open and as honest as possible. Boris was informed of my official attachment to the Polish Underground Intelligence. True. Representations to them requesting favourable consideration of the co-operation proposals had been made. True. Assistance or condonation would not be forthcoming for any solo arrangement made with the colonel by an independent Briton. Fairly true. While expressing my regrets, disappointment showed on Boris' face. To prevent a possible spontaneous abandonment of plans to co-operate, I expressed a desire to commence solely British negotiations, initially without Polish participation. Boris was receptive to the suggestion and leant forward to repeat a comment which was also made during the first visit to his apartment.

      "Soviet infiltration in the Resistance would sabotage working with me." Unfortunately the import of this second reference to subversion was once more not to develop until much later in my career.

      Tolerance for these laborious though much condensed accounts of the discussions with Boris, is justified by the narrative yet to be unfolded. Boris' failure to elaborate on one aspect of his desire to work with the Western Allies had not escaped attention. The Soviets were coming and Germany was on the road to defeat. To fall into Russian hands would be the end of Boris, his life, his family and any possibility of a change of government in his original homeland. To have worked with the Allies during the war years would provide a moral insurance cover and in view of the premiums paid by such a policy holder, a request to be spirited away from avenging Russian hands could expect to be granted. Having been fairly blunt but understanding on these lines, I implied that the only solution to our joint problems was for me to return to London, state his case and seek assistance, although without Resistance co-operation a journey to England was impossible. Were Ito arrive in the United Kingdom with Boris' help, our whole case would be strengthened, and my report as to how the journey had been accomplished would also establish his integrity. From London a directive might induce the local Polish Intelligence to accept the colonel as a partner, or failing this, a solely British operation could be mounted.

      Boris was a picture of mental concentration. Something could be done, had to be done, he said with determination. He was off again to Hitler's central command post in East Prussia and as a spymaster himself, controlling four hundred agents, had cordial official dealings with high ranking German officers of parallel espionage functions. A plan was already forming in his mind and on return to Warsaw in December for Christmas leave, he was confident that a trip to England would have been arranged. Just before leaving I suggested that it might be possible to incorporate me officially into his body of German agents. Nobody better than the colonel would appreciate the value of official registration and documents authorised from within Nazi headquarters.

      "For you, this will be arranged without problem," said Boris, gripping my hand in smiling farewell. "You have remarkable talent for one so young." It was difficult to imagine after some of the things that had happened during the last two or three years that I had ever been young.

      With Boris away again and Marysia living with her parents, there was little to do but wait. Resistance Intelligence did not want to hear from me until ready to move to Vienna, although kept well aware of my continued existence by a regular retrieval of salary from one of the retail pick up points.

      The early darkness of winter and the anonymity provided by all the extra warm clothing necessary to ward off the bitter cold, permitted me now and again to sneak up the back stairs of the block in Nowy Swiat and into the doctor's apartment. Victoria, the maid, still fussed over her 'little frog' and let me in to pass a quick time of day with Marysia, whose blooming pregnancy was a joy to behold. The war had been forgotten in happy anticipation of imminent motherhood. The Florians were still living upstairs, but with surveillance or a visit by the Gestapo a possibility, their dwelling remained strictly out of bounds. A number of old friends, which pressure of business had prevented my seeing for such a long time, were socially called on. With a secret fatherhood and an equally secret Boris affair filling my thoughts, it was therapeutic to relax and enjoy such occasions. Moving round Warsaw I was more alert than ever before. It was not so much fear of being caught, but with so much of past, present and future running through my head, such a calamity with so much in the offing would have been heartbreaking in more ways than one.

      I went to Saska Kepa to see Tommie, still miraculously and peacefully domiciled with Stenia and Janka. The engineer's dog, Scottie, was staying with them. His master was in the Reich on Resistance business. Zosia and daughter Halina, as well as the Lorenz family, all of whom I had stayed with for so long were also visited with much mutual pleasure. These social diversions, better than nothing as indeed they were, provided insufficient adrenalin boost for the type of person I had become. Travelling by tram, dorozka and on foot throughout busy, bustling and dangerous Warsaw was still something of a thrill, now overshadowed by the bigger events looming ahead. Of permanent comfort was an unwashed fixture next to my skin, the knitted blue woollen pullover, a present from dear little Halina which kept an unrelaxing vigil.

      Most evenings were spent sitting at home in Elektoralna, smoking and quaffing the odd vodka, reading the Underground press or listening to an overseas radio programme. Housekeeping requirements were admirably catered for by Janina, the refugee Jewess. Krystyna, Marysia's sister, who still lived at Nowy Swiat as now did my wife, was the sole physical direct liaison from Elektoralna with the outside world. One morning she arrived momentarily so excited as to be incoherent. Marysia had been taken that morning to the maternity home with every indication that the Jeffery family was about to be increased by one, at least. It was the 10th of December 1944. By design the location of the building where the baby was to arrive had been kept from me. Krystyna appeared again next morning to announce the great news that a bonny baby girl had arrived without problems, mother and child both well and returning to Elektoralna in a few days. More than the odd glass of vodka was guzzled that day. Janina went out often to replenish the rapidly diminishing stocks, into which great inroads were made by the nextdoor well-wishers, Mr. and Mrs. Green Signal. According to Krystyna, who called daily with progress reports, the new baby had been inundated with visitors, mostly members of the numerous Kaziu family. Relations of both sexes and all ages were filing respectfully past the cot, which contained such indisputable evidence of Anglo Polish unity. Security precautions adopted still precluded my knowing the whereabouts of the maternity home and it was understandably impossible for me to join the throng of visitors. The baby girl would be entering a secret world and very few members of the Kaziu family could expect to see anything of her for a long time.

      A festive atmosphere prevailed when Zbyszek and Krystyna arrived by dorozka. They had ridden escort to my little family and a first glimpse of our new daughter was somewhat startling. Until then the youngest girl babies which had come to notice were delightful little talking dolls capering around in pigtails. To the choruses of "Isn't she beautiful, Pawel?" after a first close inspection it took some diplomatic prevarication to agree. There was nothing to worry about. Little Patrycja, everafter known as Punia, grew up, first reservations to disappear forever. She became and remains beautiful. As a matter of justice it must be recorded that Mr. and Mrs. Green Signal, who had drunk me out of house and home when Punia's arrival was first announced, made gallant amends on the day of homecoming. They arrived loaded and thus they departed to negotiate the winding road across twelve feet of landing to their front door. Marysia did not have a drink. Breast feeding mothers should abstain completely from liquor. Bad for the baby. The new father had reared a martinet's head.

      Krystyna returned unexpectedly to Elektoralna the next day with news that did not improve an aftermath of the new baby celebrations. On the night of Punia's birth, the Gestapo had driven up in force to surround the apartment block which housed Zosia and Halina on the first floor. Mother and daughter were roughly dragged out of their beds and held at pistol point. The Nazis then rushed into my former room, the one which had provided an awful ringside view of drunken SS troops massacring a Jewish fatigue party in the countyard below during the summer of 1943. The room now housed a young Pole, Bolek, a distant friend of the family who had sought temporary accommodation. As far as Krystyna knew, Bolek was innocent of Underground activities, but had fallen into just as much trouble had he in fact been a member of the Resistance. He was roughly bundled into a van and driven off. Surprisingly enough, Zosia and Halina were unmolested, not even questioned, and lost no time in spreading the alarm. To pinpoint the reason for the visit was not possible. A multitude of leads onto which the Gestapo might have latched presented themselves, but there was only conjecture as to what might have put the Germans once again on my trail. Fortunately there appeared to be no immediate or even long term threat to the security of our Elektoralna haven, although thought had to be spared for the innocent Bolek whose misfortune it had been to be found in my former bed at Zosia's. The young Pole's fate turned Out nothing like as bad as had first been feared.

      Bolek had white, very blonde hair. "Oho" said a Gestapowiec as they took him away, "You have dyed your hair white, Jeffery." In a cell at the Aleja Szucha, Bolek was beaten up, but not too violently. He vehemently denied being Jeffery and confessed nothing. Poor lad had nothing to confess in any case. All his white hair was shaved off. Blondie became Baldie. The Germans waited for hair to grow again, aware that mine was almost black. The Gestapo chagrined when Bolek's hair regrew its natural colour, white, freed him at once and one could not blame him for returning to Zosia's, packing and leaving without delay.

      I had seen Zosia and Halina a few weeks before Punia's birth. It was to be our final meeting and the Bolek incident the last news about them. The torrent of events which descended from then on, swept most away, struggling in the raging cataract of war. By now, Zosia will be with the stars. Possibly the long legged Halina who gave Polish lessons in a dangerous classroom beside the Vistula survives somewhere. Maybe the name of her long lost pupil, Pawel the Englishman, sometimes stirs a nostalgic chord in a memory of those times when every full day lived was a lucky victory over death.

      Tucked away in Elektoralna with Marysia, the baby and Janina, in a flat festooned with damp nappies, the colonel's return from the Fuhrer's headquarters was impatiently awaited. It was charming to watch two women, Marysia Polish and Janina Jewish, lavish so much affection and care on the baby and while I remained always conscious of the vicious and cruel world outside, their maternal instincts went no further than the welfare of a child, an incongruous, even sad situation.

      Krystyna brought more bad news. Geoffrey Hickman, the English pilot who had escaped toegether with Chisholm and MacDonald was in Gestapo hands. The escort of the three flyers accompanied by Carter, the ill fated Jew, from Krakow way back in 1942 has been recounted. Carter was already dead and MacDonald, courtesy of the Resistance, was back in England via the Pyrenees. Chisholm the Australian still hid somewhere in Warsaw. Geoff, an English compatriot, had followed my example and married a Polish lass, the couple living with his wife Julie's family somewhere in Warsaw.

      Misgivings about the linguistic deficiencies of most Allied escapees who succeeded in getting as far as Warsaw had always been a worry. Wandering about the city with little knowledge of German or Polish, carrying only a false Polish identity card, was a fragile shield liable to easy unmasking and consequent capture by the enemy at any time. Some blame was mine for not having strongly advocated some type of language and survival course for all Allied escapees who arrived in Warsaw. Only two who had adjusted completely by themselves to the hazards of German occupied Poland come to mind, the other was Tommie. These long-felt misgivings proved unfortunately too well founded as Krystyna enlarged on Geoffs misfortune brought about by language failings. Not only was the young pilot in Gestapo headquarters on the Aleja Szucha, his girl wife was being held there too. Ghastly rumour, later confirmed, had it that she was pregnant. Poor girl! Our gloom and pity for the victims compounded. Very upset as everybody felt about Geoff and his wife, the absence of any direct contact between the arrested couple and Elektoralna was a blessing bestowed by a constant application of the Law of Possibilities. Worry about Tommie and the girls should the arrested couple be tortured and forced to talk, precluded much sleep that night. It was nearly eighteen months since Geoff and his colleagues had arrived in Warsaw from Krakow. A very personable and appealing young man, hidden since escape by Polish families during nearly a year and a half of freedom, he would have accumulated much knowledge of great value to the Germans who would doubtless strive hard to force disclosures of people and places. A chain reaction of torture, talk and more torture could well set off a series of raids and arrests. Those who had not constantly adopted devious security precautions and disguised their tracks would quickly find themselves in Aleja Szucha as guests of the Gestapo, and it was a continued relief to feel confident that my own deceptions shielded the whereabouts of our current home. The unfortunates in German hands could, in any case, not betray an address unknown to them although my own dossier in Gestapo files might expand sufficiently to continually warrant the title of 'Wily Fellow'.

      A ray of hope brightened the gloom. When the Nazis had taken Florian off to gaol earlier that year in the role of my landlord, the treatment by the Germans had been surprisingly mild. Tortures from the so called Dark Ages could have been inflicted on Florian and the most depraved imagination would be tested to conceive the cruelties of which human monsters were still capable in our times. Fortunately for the man who had so courageously provided shelter from the enemy, Gestapo behaviour did not follow the normal gruesome pattern. Before complete release and no subsequent molestation, Florian had undergone only a comparatively light beating up by Polish pride and intestinal standards. The recent arrest of the fair headed Bolek which had taken place in my former room at Zosia's had followed a like pattern. His head had been shaved and when the hair regrew blonde, he was released from gaol with nothing like the customary efforts to extract information. Desperate wishful thinking along these lines inspired a slight optimism that for some reason or other the Nazis were not pursuing a policy of predetermined sadism when interrogating prisoners with a direct English association. Other nationals in their hands, particularly Poles with Resistance connections, could expect agony without mercy. Being the very staunch patriot he was, were Hickman to receive no worse treatment than did Florian or Bolek, nothing would be wrenched out of him. There was no likelihood of Geoff or Julie being freed, and one could only hope that the pressure applied to the young couple would be in line with my theory. Had Julie not been arrested and held in the same place as her English husband, it would have been easier to maintain this brighter view as to the possible outcome of the misfortune. That the Gestapo would pressure her in front of Geoff as a lever to break his resolve had to be taken into account. Visions of Marysia and me, and even the new baby, at the mercy of the Germans plagued a restless night, confidence crumbling as a distraught imagination ran riot.

      With a great distance and millions of enemies between Warsaw and home, a claustrophobic influence was difficult to fight off. Pushing pessimism aside, the next week was spent carefully checking on people known to have been involved with Geoff and Julie. During this period I assumed both Polish and German identities, wearing clothes which would not be familiar to either of the two captives who were possibly under the direst pressure. Tommie had once again prudently departed his Saska Kepa haven, as had hostesses Stenia and Janka. Many others were also absent from usual haunts and homes. Preferably a night or two in strange beds than an everlasting sleep. In spite of the growing tenseness of moving about Warsaw during these times of ever mounting danger, seeing Tommie more frequently than had been possible for a long time was about the only bright spot occasioned by Hickman's arrest. We met often at safe and unthreatened homes of mutual acquaintances or in cafés where we passed easily for a couple of Polish civilians. The conversation between us was by then fully possible in the Polish language, Tommie's accent and grammar both superb. One thing about my friend stood out. If anyone would survive, he would. Gone the immature glance of curiosity and wonderment, replaced by a lean and hungry look with eyes that roved over every nook and cranny. I had also developed a multi-focussing vision and a photograph taken at the end of 1943, reproduced further on illustrates the lean and hungry look endowed by an Underground lifestyle. Days of carefree dancing were gone alas, like our youth, too soon.

      While fossicking around Warsaw for clues about Geoff, a few days were spent away from the Elektoralna flat. Marysia and Janina, who was still living with us, as far as could be ascertained were in no more than the usual dangers associated with living in Underground Warsaw. With the arrival of baby Punia, my domestic presence was superfluous. The master had been deposed.

      The ever hospitable and German sponsored roof of Stas Lorenz was a place to relax, think and sleep peacefully. Boris arrived back in Warsaw before the Christmas holidays and on the telephone our conversation was warm, his confidence indicating no problems which might thwart our project. A meeting before the onset of the festive break was arranged, and Stas agreed without hesitation for me to stay with him for the night in question.

      The Hickman tragedy clashed chronologically during the negotiations with Boris. As neither event was remotely connected with the other, it will be more practical to avoid confusion and conclude the Hickman episode, which was to end within a few weeks in January of 1944, and return later to the already interrupted report of the Boris affair which was to prove of much longer duration.

      No source had reported any trace of Gestapo follow up activity after the capture of Geoff and his wife. Tommie and the girls in Saska Kepa had often been visited by the escaped pilot, and were clearly in the front line of potential peril were any leak to have occurred. Time passed with no apparent cause for increased alarm. I resolved to remain socially out of sight for the festive season, and vetoed Marysia's wish to attend a family reunion at her parents' apartment on Christmas Day. Though one could sense a lessening of the recent crisis, continued vigilance was essential and any celebration outside the precincts of the Elektoralna flat, already stocked with a mass of black market food, liquor and tobacco, was against the Law of Possibilities.

      In recalling the worries and reactions after Hickman's arrest some of my account is repetitive. No excuse is tendered as that is just how it was. The worries and reactions were repetitive. No book would be large enough to present in detail the mental permutations of a human mind dedicated to the preservation of its obligations and earthly form in the face of such odds. Those who have been blessed with freedom from the varied harassments which beset us, may consider themselves truly fortunate.

      Baby Punia was healthy, well cared for and thriving on a bountiful sustenance from the best natural source. Marysia, Janina and I ceased to worry and behind the front door of our Elektoralna flat, at which a loaded pistol stood sentinel, we ate, drank and were almost merry; although nothing prevented a vision of Geoff and Julie languishing a mile or two away in a Gestapo cell from making a sad and private intrusion into all our thoughts. The two girls softly sang Polish and Jewish songs around the little Christmas tree, its seasonal function enhanced by the white napkins with which it was now draped. During the four or five days of voluntary incarceration, our only visitors from the outside world were Zbyszek and Krystyna. My brother in law was to be an experienced Resistance fighter, and his security precautions when visiting people on the Nazi wanted list could be relied on. He was far too shrewd to allow Krystyna and himself to be followed and with Underground functions unconnected to mine, even his capture by the Gestapo could hardly result in any questioning about me. Mr. and Mrs. Green Signal, tenants of the adjacent flat on the same landing, were in and out of our dwelling for most of the time. Their visits were heartily reciprocated. Mr. Green Signal, a worthy and patriotic Pole, still worked for my old firm, the German Eastern Railways. A large quantity of delectable freight on its way to the German troops at the eastern front, sausages, hams, cheese and schnapps fortuitously found its way onto the tables of both families. As the Polish railwayman so aptly put it "Wszystkiego dobrego od Hitlera" — "With best wishes from Hitler".

      The New Year came and was welcomed in with sincerely genuine resolutions to try and live through 1944. The serious business of war was quickly resumed and January once again renewed the daily twenty four hour hazardous cycle. The only person of the little group at Elektoralna without a care in the world was baby Punia, even by Polish standards not quite old enough to worry about the Nazis, let alone hate them. There was no news on the Hickman front until one day later in the month Krystyna was once again the bearer of distressing news. Geoffrey Hickman was dead.* The report, unquestionable, direct from an Underground source at Gestapo headquarters was that he had been taken lifeless from a cell. It was further indicated that Julie, his wife, had been transferred to another prison, whereabouts unknown.

      Many years have passed since Geoff died, his first thrust against the enemy as a fighter pilot operating from the green fields of southern Englahd we both loved so well. Courage, skill and dedication in abundance are the essential prerequisites of a combat flyer. Unable to comment as to his skill as a pilot, of his courage and dedication to the Allied cause I can write with authority that Geoff Hickman died without revealing any information to the Gestapo which would have cost the lives of countless others, a heroic feat substantiated by every scrap of evidence to emerge. No follow up arrests were ever made by the Gestapo which could in the remotest way be connected with anything which Geoff might have divulged. What he fully endured will never be truly known but the sparse details of his end which later came to my personal knowledge are recorded with reluctance and gratitude to a brave man. Julie, his wife, somehow survived a terrible ordeal and that her lips must also have remained courageously sealed is placed on most respectful and admiring record. A picture appeared somewhere of her as Mrs Hickman, being welcomed in London after the war and it will not be necessary on her account to gloss over the details of Geoff s death. She would have been well aware after her own experience of what did or could have happened. If Julie still graces the earth may this tribute to Geoff be of some consolation to her. Geoffs parents will by now almost certainly have passed on and beyond any upset which details of their son's end might otherwise have caused them. This brief account of Geoff Hickman will lessen by one the countless number of unrecorded and unsung heroes who journeyed from Poland to the stars and Valhalla during the tremendous fight which endured in that country for the whole of World War Two.

      It was not until the middle of 1947 that an astounding letter was received.* From a man long since given up for dead, it had been sent from Allied controlled Hildesheim in West Germany by my old friend and Intelligence chief, Karol. A close association with this Polish spymaster before his arrest has already figured at some length earlier in the narrative. There had been no news of Karol since the Gestapo caught him in Warsaw in the middle of 1943 after the Vienna collapse. His arrest had precipitated great changes in the AWl sector of Resistance Intelligence and disrupted completely my own career. From the letter it appeared that Karol had been in Aleja Szucha when Hickman was brought in. He would certainly have known of Geoffs existence as my trip to Krakow to vet the four escapees before they were escorted to Warsaw was at his direction.

      Lodged in a cell immediately adjacent to Hickman's, Karol had been a part of the interrogation procedure of the recaptured English pilot. Further, wrote Karol, he was able to hear the very harsh treatment of Hickman by the Gestapo and when confronted with him as part of the interrogation, signs of the heavy beating Geoff had undergone were obvious. The Gestapo seemed to have confused the Christian name of Geoffrey with my phonetically identical surname Jeffery. They tried to extract from their new prisoner a confession that he was indeed Ronald Jeffery, a member of the British Secret Service operating under the pseudonym Pawel. At that stage the Gestapo had come to an erroneous conclusion that Allied Intelligence agents were infiltrating various territories by allowing themselves to be taken in battle as normal prisoners of war, and then escaping fully trained, to operate in already designated areas of Germany and the occupied countries. Karol's letter of 1947 to me concluded with his version of Hickman's death by hanging at the hands of a Gestapo member, the hanging contrived to give the impression of suicide. Whether Geoff took his own life or was murdered is of little consequence to the tragedy. If a posthumous decoration was not awarded the young fighter pilot the anti-Polish machinations of the Philby clique cannot be discounted. My reply to Karol's letter was not acknowledged, probably not delivered if the developments to come are taken into account. I received no answer from my old chief and friend? The arrest and death of Geoff Hickman was in no way connected with the Boris episode and had not hindered the pursuit of that matter. By the time we heard of the young pilot's en