"For the next week or so I was fed some horrible brew made from pine needles, the only medication which made me throw up. I suffered agonies during the changing of bandages on my frost bitten feet, but my worst fears were connected with the camp mafia. I couldn't do my work satisfactotily and they did not carry passeners. They have divided amongst themselves my miserable clothes. My 'boots' were already gone, for the rest, they had to wait a bit longer. I realised that in case of an attack I would not stand a chance, and there was no one to help me."

"The young nurse, also a prisoner, knew and understood my fears and thanks to him found a place for me in the barrack for the sick, known as the place for the" dying off". There were much more of a criminal element than very ill prisoners. Because of very little rations for non-workers, they collected bread from dying ones, as the poor men no longer needed it."

"The hospital was almost clean. Here, however, filth and dirt was the order of the day. Many men lay and died in their own excrement, mixed with the moss of the bed (bed of straw) . The whole place stank terribly. In charge of it was an old man, known as a good father ( batushka). He commanded respect from everyone including the Russian hooligans. He decided which of the patients needed attention and who was past help. His place was near the stove, made from an old barrel, and it was his job to keep the fire going and fetch the guards to drag away any dead bodies.

"My patch of moss (bed of moss is a straw bed made on the floor) was not far from batushka's place and I could hear him muttering to himself or singing, as he spoke seldom. I asked him to sing something for me and eventually he did. The song was about a young Russian, who like me was diggng for gold somewhere over the Baikal Lake. He eventualy escaped and crossed the Baikal in a fishermans boat and reached his house only to find his father dead and brother sent to Siberia. This very sad song made me think and compare my life to his. I could get away in a fishermans boat, but from Kolyma there was no escape...-' How is my father?', is he still alive and free? 'What about my brothers . . and the other relatives or friends?', 'Are they alive?'. 'My fate will be unknown to them, and no one will light a traditional candle on my grave, as corpses were thrown from here into disused mines. That was the communal grave of the murdered ones, worked to death, starved in unimaginable hardship'-These unhappy thoughts got on top of me and I burst into tears, crying like a helpless little boy..."

"The old Russian-batushka came over to me and tried to cheer me up. He started to call me 'sinochek' (it meanigs 'son' but most sweet ). He listened to all my problems, and after that he took rotting 'bandages' off my feet, fetched a bucket of snow and started to massage my legs and feet. The pain was unbearable, but he took no notice of my screams, just asked if I wanted to die and carried on. I kept losing consciousness,but the good hearted Russian just whispered over my feet, and said: 'good, good'."

"He looked after me the best way he could, and thanks to his efforts I began to gather strength and faith in humanity. After some time I could walk a little on my feet and we both knew that the time of our parting had arrived. It was a very emotional 'goodbye'. Batushka, my Russian Daddy, gave me advice for the future, and when, cap in hand, I kissed his very thin old hand, we were both in tears. I never knew his name, but I shall never forget him. When I asked him let me know his name, he said: 'An old Russian prisoner has no name.

"At the end of March 1941, I returned to the barrack and the slavery of work. Spring was still far away, but the strong sun was melting the top layer of the snow, only to freeze it again at night, and so did our boots made from rags, waterlogged at one time, crippling icicles the next. I spent two more nights in the dark isolaton cell, became very ill and eventually ended up in hospital."

Karol's experiences in Kolyma hospital came back to him very vivedly on one day in particular when I brought him his morning mug of hot milk. Karol liked to begin the day well, so his breakfast was always a good one. Generally about an hour before having breakfast he wanted to have a mug of very hot milk. Before he started to drink it, he held the mug in his hands, looked with a smile at the milk, then while drinking it he used to say how lovely and delicious it tasted. He could not understand why I did not like to drink milk.

I still remember that morning when I brought him his mug filled up with milk to his study, and he asked me about mine. "I hate milk and I have never liked it. Never in my life", said I. "Oh, I see. Because you have never been taken to Kolyma", said Karol. Then he told me a story about his first day at a hospital in Kolyma.

"The hospital was a simple building made from logs covered with moss, but it was clean with beds and blankets. And when I regained consciousness, I thought, for a moment, I was in heaven. I was proven right when I was given, whiter than the Kolyma snow, milk to drink. A very seriously ill, very hungry, and very weak prisoner could wish for no better welcome. I looked and looked at it and could not believe my own eyes! It smelled pleasantly and tasted delicious. I had forgotten about the blisters, pneumonia, painfu;l gums, and nothing since tasted so heavenly as that milk."

"I was just lifting a mug to my mouth when suddenly I noticed an old Russian. He was standing in front of me, by my bed. His very sad eyes seemed to be saying; 'Give me your mug'. During a long period of time I saw a lot of dead men, and many very lean prisoners, but I had never seen any so tiny as he was. I could not look at him but I did. I could give him some milk but I did not. I pitied him but I could not help him The reasons for my behaviour were, that, firstly, I was sure he had got some milk too, and secondly, I wanted to get well and to be alive. When two or three days later I received some milk again I knew much more about the Kolyma's hospitals. The only reason for looking after my health was, that I was young and strong enough to be a miner soon. That was why they fed me much better than the old patients."

"This paradise ended after 3 weeks and I was transferred to the convalescent barrack, where life was quite easy, not for very long though. For that very short period I had to work in the hospital kitchen and it was my best time in Kolyma. Then I was sent to a different gulag with increased rigour."

"It was the end of June. The Soviets were at war with Germany and the 'yellow metal' (gold) was in great demand. The mine was surrounded by armed guards, and barbed wire. The dogs were growling viciously, non-stop. But what for? No one could escape from here, as we were being guarded by the tundra. No one could tell the way."

Continuous demands for more production - clouds of blood sucking insects, mosquitoes, reduced food rations - in order to support the victorious Red Army; the inhuman treatment of the slaves was taking its toll and more corpses were dragged away.

It was on the 7th of September 1941, when the pink flakes of snow were falling like birds feathers from the clouds. The short summer was over. The pink colour of snow seemed a good presage.

"In August 1941 the war between Russia and Germany was in its full ferocity. After the 20th of September we were informed about an 'amnesty' for Polish political prisoners, and although we knew about the General Wiadyslaw Sikorski - Josef Stalin agreement, the date of possible release to join the Polish Army was kept from us A few days later some lists were made and a very few Poles left the camp, accompanied by jealous glances. Eventually I was released, and with other Poles sent to Magadan for the necessary documents that we needed as free people. In Magadan camp, and the next one, we had to work. There are no words to say how happy I was when I found myself on board ship, and after a few days I reached the port of Vladivostok. We were free but we had no idea where to go to find Polish Army camps. After a very long journey through the Soviet Union and many difficult situations, eventually I reached the Uzbekistan Republic, Shachriziabs town,and the army camp. After 3 months I finished military coilege and soon we left the Soviet Union for Iran, Iraq, and Palestine."

A year later Karol arrived in England, and joined the Air Force. He was demobbed on the 16th January 1949, and remained in England for the rest of his life.

It was many years after the 2nd World War that Karol wanted to take a trip to Kolyma, to erect a cross in the Memory of his Russian Daddy,Batushka, and thousands of Poles. An embassy official (a very young Russian) had a long conversation with Karol, and had a chance to learn about prisons, deportations, gulags, hard labour camps, Katyn and of the consequences of the Soviet Red Army's invasion of the eastern regions of Poland. He admitted to Karol that he had no idea of these happings. The visa was naturely refused, but Karol felt contented.

Although visiting Kolyma was unrealistic and just a dream, Karol could never forget the inhuman land, especially in the last years of his life, for he could not break free from his memories, particularly when he was depressed. He would listen to a recording of a song of the young gold digger who escaped in a fisherman's boat. It was the same song which he had heard in Kolyma. Batushka's song! Karol was deeply moved by it.

After his second open heart operation he became very easily depressed and I did try my best to direct our conversations to different subjects, but I was fighting a losing battle. Kolyma and all its horrors was now a part of our life.

In Karol's short notes I found the following information: "While digging for gold I worked with judge Gruda, engineer Marian Lobos, Tadeusz Wilk. Tadeusz was murdered by Soviet soldiers, it happened in the gold mine.", "Oh, the gold in Kolyma was bloodstained!", " I could not manage more than 40 wheelbarrows a day. It was less than half required (120 wheelbarrows).", "In gulags 'Frolcz' and 'Bolshevik' were more than 12 thousand prisoners.", "While waiting for release and arrival of the ship "Dziurma" I worked in the Magadan-Nagajevo Port unloading boats, digging trenches, chopping wood. The wood was needed for the baths. The wood was also chopped by an 86-year-old Russian. The only reason to arrest him was that he was a priest.", "In Magadan and later in Vladivostok I met Mieczyslaw Freundenbeger who in Kolyma lost his eye. He was warned that he will be prevented from deparr:ing as the army took only fit men."

The next note explained the everlasting cold in the dark isolation cell: "They were built only in the winter months. Into the hole was poured water and lumps of ice, and when frozen solid the icy floor was covered with a layer of concrete on top of the ice, ensured that no warmth of any sort reached into the already damp and cold cell. The bed ( if there was any) of boards was so rough that no one could lie on it."

Karol had a marvellous way of underlining his Polish nationality: "I am from the land of Copernicus, Kosciuszko (the hero of USA), Chopin, Mickiewicz ( the poet and professor in Lozanna,Colege de France),Mary Sklodowska-Curie,Sienniewicz (novelist, Nobel Prize winner), Reymont ( novelist, Nobel Prize winner), J.Conrad, etc."

At our home, among the tape recordings, there are some radio programmes prepared by Karol for BBC Radio Nottingham.A series on Thursday's "Welcome to Nottingham", presented Poland, its history,traditions, great Poles etc.The Thursday evenings in 1968 and 1969, were for Karol very satisfactory. They gave him the feeling of a well executed duty to the community of immigrants, and to Poland. He considered his work to be an important brick in constructing Poland in exile, since his homeland was given to the Soviet Union and depended on its eastern neighbour. In these programmes were interviews, some historical information, artistic exhibitions, about Warsaw, Cracow, and, of course, Lvov.

Karol believed to his dying day that, dearest to his heart, Lvov would be again part of Poland. He had lost a great deal but he always preserved the everlasting love for the region of Lvov; and he used to say: "Never cloudy, the beautifull and precious youth of a student". Karol had never lost the characteristic Lvovian accent He was often singing Lvovian songs, and he liked to speak or read about Lvov and Drohobycz. He left his university city, and the town where he was born, many years ago but remained always faithful to them.

My great Lvovian could never sit still, inactivity was not in his nature. Whatever he undertook he always put his heart and soul into it one of his friends commented:"Karol died because he was too great a patriot"

"Can there be a more beautifull fault?", I asked. I felt so proud of my husband "He was not like many others", I thought. And now he is far away.The only things that are left are a pain in my heart and a very sweet memory.

Karol has established in Nottingham "The Lvovians' Circle" and organized an unforgettable exhibition "Lvov In My Memory" and a very succesfill show "Evening By The Microphone". He invited lecturers, encouraged discussions and encouraged Lvovians to work for the "Circle". All this activity gave him immense satisfaction. Nothing would restrain him from taking part in patriotic involvements, and I still remember the astonishment of the doctor, when my husband insisted on a later date for an examination, as he had to go to London for the ceremony of placing a wreath by the "Monument of Katyn". The ceremony could not wait, the hospital... could. When Karol initiated "The Kolymians-Siberians Association", he lived for this organisation. His biggest wish was to prepare a book of statements and memories of all who managed to escape from slavery in the Soviet Union.

Before his second open heart surgery,on the 30th of March 1992, Karol was fully aware of the great risk and for the first time he asked me to fufil his anibitions, "if.." I promised, but I believed in the success of the operation and I would not have to keep my word. Both of us wished for him to get back home, to study, to his desk and work.

Not until the third day after the operation was I allowed a visit When I came in to his hospital room I was taken aback by his appearance and behaviour. He seemed to be more imposing, much younger, jolly, and talkative I shall always remember his face with a smile when I put on his bed many flowers of red and white. We were so happy.

And suddenly my hero asked me a question and enquired about his correspondence. I could not believe that 3 days after a very serious operation he wanted his letters from the union members ! I was surprised. Then he started to talk: "I am alive, and with my second valve, and with your help, I can carry on my work and plans. We have to make more contacts, to get many more documents. I want to see the book published. So I have no time for illness. You have to remember what is the most important thing to me. I need your help, but do not try to stop me."

Because of complications after his operation, problems with his stomach etc., all of the following year was full of unhappiness. Karol spent more and more days in hospital and even our home became like one. He was eager to carry on his work, but tired easily and felt depressed. He liked me to read to him and to take dictation. Material was collected and increasing daily, but his "Kolyma ulcers" proved to be stronger than his will to live.

In the evening of March 9th my husband was very weak, but wanted to talk. I tried to assure him that he did more than was expected of him and that he would get stronger and finish his task, but Karol replied that it was too late: "Too late.. .too late.. everything too late. And even you came into my life too late. I was very happy with you but for a short time. Could have been happy for much longer.. .We were so well matched, two Polish patriots, but now it is too late. Years and years too late..."

In his separate hospital room we felt solemn, and warm, in our hearts full of pain. Karol was calm, and with a very warm smile he said that he had miscalculated.. he had run out of time.. but he had me to finish his undertaking.- "You must take my place and carry on my work." That evening I promised him, for a second time, to finish his book.

It was on the 10th March1993 that the tragedy struck - heart attack.. internal bleeding... about seven more hours of..... and a useless fight with death.

I do not know who greeted my dearest husband on the other side, for he was smiling to someone on his departure. Perhaps it was his father or his mother who greeted him' or maybe his brother Jan ,or his first wife Sybil, or could it have been Kolymians who went before him, or the old Russian "Batushka - Daddy" who was forever in Karol's memory.

Karol was never one for wanting or expecting any compliments. It was in the end of February 1993 when a letter, full of compliments, arrived for him. He just smiled at the praises, and remarked: "Perhaps they will come to my funeral I presume...?"

On the 18th of March the Polish church in Nottgham was packed with our friends, aquaintances and unknown persons from all over the country, Poles and English. On both sides of the coffin were banners with flags. The last speech over his grave was delivered by his friend from Drohobycz, Mr. Tadeusz Hobler from Croydon. The coffin was draped in flowers of red and white. Many beautifull wreaths, countless from friends and organizations, were made from flowers of red and white, the colours of the Polish flag.

In one of his articles in the "Polish Daily" Karol wrote:

"There is no everlasting monument, even made from the hardest rock, but only words about people and their experiences, would give them immortality", "Many years after the end of the 2nd World War, and after a long period of acclimatization in England, the memories of battles with the German occupiers will still be clear and natural. We were young and strong soldiers and we were defending this the most precious strip of land on earth, Poland. But even centuries past will never soften the pain, returning constantly by mentioning one word "K 0 L Y M A'~. It is with great diliculty that I can accept and believe"the hell" in which work was above, and in excess of thoughts, when hunger and frost, inhumane treatment, pictures of dying inmates, all of this was killing off the will to fight for one's own life. So only death could being freedom, and meeting it was of no importance. What difference does it make if one should be killed by a bullet, or die during slavery in the mine, or on a rotting bed-deprived of human dignity.

Death the rescuer. would shorten the sufferings and the hopelessness of our position. But in spite of this. and even against our wishes. the greatest gift of life did not end.. Kolyma became my obsession and my tormentor and I will never be free of it...'

I shall alwavs remember the night at the end of January 1993. The preface, the title page, and some of the chapters of the book were finished. Karol was very happy when I put them on the carpet to show him all of our collection. Then suddenly he became very quiet and looked tired and ill with pain. I asked him if he wanted his medication and I took it in my hand. "No, I dont need it."was his reply. ~~What is hurting you?~ I asked with increasing fears. This hurts ~ said Karol and pointed to tbe carpet, covered with sheets. Look at it. Isn't it ,carpet ,beautiful and rich". "Russia could be colourful, beautifull and rich, too. But Soviets... if the human blood and fear could run from those pages, what would become of the carpet?.'. That was what Lenin and Stalin and BoIsheviks did with Russia. There is no part of it where fear and blood of the innocent did not soak the ground.

In writing "The Memories of my husband" and talking about our relationship I did not intend to diminish the full picture of the man. Thanks to him 'The words about people and their experiences of truth, through the most appalling situations... extend their existence among the living and give testimony to the truth