will invade Europe eventually, I come here and join the French

resistance.'

'How did you get out of Poland?'

'I travel by night, usually cross-country, keeping well away from

the roads. I also cover great distances by train, hanging under the

carriages for hours.'

'That's a h.e.l.luva thing to do,' Bradley said. 'One h.e.l.l of a thing.' 'When we have to, we can do surprising things. You should know

this by now.'

Bradley was certainly learning it. He was gradually getting used to

the fact that many of the people he interviewed, who often looked so

young and inexperienced, had lost their families and loved ones, been

tortured by the n.a.z.is, lived under the threat of death for as long as they

could remember, and treated adventures such as that described by

Pialowicz as perfectly normal.

He was getting used to it, but sometimes it still amazed him, though

he tried not to show that.

'So you've been in France since...?'

'June 1940.'

'Have you heard anything about your lover since?'

'No.' Pialowicz showed the merest flicker of emotion, then became

stone-faced.

'You don't know which camp she went to?'

'No.'

'If you give me her name, I'll put her on the file. If she's found,

we'll get in touch with you.'

'This I would appreciate. Also, she is the reason I come to see you.' 'Oh? Who is she?'

'Her name is Kryzystina Kozilewski.'

Bradley wrote the name down in his notebook, after asking

Pialowicz how it was spelt.

'So,' he said, looking up again. 'What's the relevance of Kryzystina

Kozilewski?'

'One of my functions here in France,' Pialowicz responded, 'is to

liaise between the French and Polish underground groups. It is one of