On the 2nd October 1943 the German government in what remained of Poland, known simply as the ‘General Government’ issued a new decree directed against ordinary Poles. Given the murderous nature of the occupying regime this seemed little different from what had gone before:
Non-Germans who violate laws, decrees, official regulations or orders with the intention of hampering or interfering with German construction work in the Government General will be punished by death.
This was an attempt by the Governor, Hans Frank, to put a legal imprint on a new assault on the Polish population. In practice it meant a step change in methods used to subdue the population, now there would be hardly any attempt to engage in a legal process before executing people. Poles were randomly selected for public execution.
The lawyer Stefan Korbonski provided evidence after the war of what this actually meant:
Soon after the publication of this decree and quite apart from the increasing number of executions performed by the Germans in secret in what used to be the Warsaw Ghetto, in the Warsaw jail, which was called ‘Pavwiac,’ the Germans began to introduce public executions, that is, shooting of whole groups of Poles of from 20 to 200 persons.
These public executions were carried out in various districts of the city, in streets usually open to normal traffic, which were surrounded by the Gestapo guards immediately before the actual executions, so that the Polish population caught within the surrounding district would have to watch the executions either in the streets, or from the windows of the houses situated right behind the backs of the Gestapo men.
During these executions the Germans shot either people from the ‘Pavwiac’ where they were confined after their arrest during raids in the streets, or people caught immediately before the actual execution. The number of these public executions, as well as the number of persons executed each time, kept increasing until 200 persons were shot each time. These executions continued until the very beginning of the Warsaw insurrection.
At first the Germans transported the Poles to the place of execution in covered trucks. They were clad in civilian clothes, and sometimes their hands were tied behind their backs. However, as the victims thus brought to the place of execution usually shouted ‘Down with Hitler’, ‘Long Live Poland’, ‘Down with the Germans’, and similar things, the Germans took steps to prevent the possibility of any such disturbances and began to fill their mouths with cement, or seal their lips with adhesive tape. The victims were brought from the ‘Pavwiac’ clad in shirts, or in clothes made out of paper.
I often received information from our underground organisation, through our agents who were working in the Pavwiac jail, that shortly before the execution the Germans usually performed operations on the condemned. They bled them and injected various chemical substances to cause physical weakness, thus preventing any attempts at escape or at resistance.
This was the reason why the condemned were brought to the place of execution pale, weak and apathetic, and barely able to stand on their feet. But even so, they acted as heroes and never begged for mercy.
The bodies of those who were shot were loaded into trucks by other prisoners and were taken to what used to be a Ghetto, where they were usually burned. The prisoners whose duty it was to transport and to bum the corpses were mostly those confined in the Pavwiac prison, it was their regular assignment.
The Polish population immediately covered with flowers the blood spots which remained on the ground. Lighted candles were placed where the corpses had been and crosses and ikons, were hung on the surrounding walls. During the night members of the underground or resistance organisations would put an inscription in lacquer on the walls, such as ‘Glory to Heroes’, ‘Glory to those who Perished for the Fatherland’, and so forth.
When the Germans noticed these inscriptions they arrested all those who happened to be on the spot and led them to the Pavwiac prison. Sometimes the Germans shot at groups of people kneeling and praying at the execution spots. Such an incident took place in Senator Street where several people were shot and quite a number were wounded.
After each public execution the Germans would put on the walls of houses lists of the names of those who had just been killed, and the names of hostages who would be shot in case the German regulations were not obeyed were given below.
In Warsaw alone the Germans shot several thousand Poles in these public executions. This does not include the victims who were shot in other towns. In the Cracow District several thousand men were similarly shot.
Finally the Allies were able to break out of the Salerno bridgehead and make progress northwards. The Kings Dragoon Guards entered the city on the morning of the 1st October, closely followed by substantial Allied forces, including General Mark Clark, later in the day.
The Germans had withdrawn to a better defence line, but not before they had destroyed what they could of the great city. They attacked not just the harbour area that would facilitate the Allied advance but municipal facilities that served the general population. The main aqueduct bringing water to the city was blown up and explosives were dropped into over forty main sewer lines. It did not take long for disease to take hold.
Every vessel in the harbour had been sunk, along with the entire fishing fleet. Almost every factory had been looted and then gutted. Alongside this were the libraries and art collections that were gratuitously burnt to the ground. It was a foretaste of what was to come for the rest of Italy.
Amongst those arriving that day was the journalist Alan Moorehead:
As we drove over the Sorrento peninsula and caught sight of the city for the first time it appeared that nothing had changed. The black cone of Vesuvius smoking gracefully on the right. The island of Capri serenely floating beyond the mouth of the bay. The crenellated city spilled along the shore, and that same mesmerizing blueness in the water. Sunshine and orange groves. Brilliant creepers on the tumbling walls. The enervating atmosphere of a long lazy summer’s afternoon.
Driving through Castellamare and Pompeii the crowd thickened steadily along the road. On the outskirts of Naples itself it was one tumultuous mob of screaming, hysterical people, and this continued all the way into the centre of the city. They had been cruelly bombed. There had been spasmodic street fighting for a week. And now they stood on the pavement and leaned out of their balcony windows screaming at the Allied soldiers and the passing trucks.
They screamed in relief and in pure hysteria. In tens of thousands the dirty ragged children kept crying for biscuits and sweets. When we stopped the jeep we were immediately surrounded and overwhelmed. Thrusting hands plucked at our clothing. Pane. Biscotti. Sigarette. In every direction there was a wall of emaciated, hungry, dirty faces.
I had had the notion that the people would be hostile, or
resentful, or perhaps reserved. I had expected that they would indicate in some way the feelings they had had as enemies in the past three years.
But there was no question of war or enmity here. Hunger governed all. There were some who in their need fawned and grovelled. They thrust their dribbling children forward to whine and plead. VVhen a soldier threw out a handful of sweets there was a mad rush to the pavement, and women and men and children beat at each other as they scrabbled on the cobblestones.
It had not needed the Allied invasion to throw the social economy of the country out of gear; it was steadily decaying of its own accord. And yet this was an Axis partner, not a country beaten and occupied by the Germans. For three years Mussolini had been on the winning side. He was lord of the Balkans. He even occupied part of France.
Italy had every reason to fare better than any country in Europe save Germany. Its government had been in office for two decades. And now here was Naples broken and half-starving. In addition, something more precious than buildings and bridges was gone; the spirit of the people themselves. They had no will any more. They were reduced to the final humiliation of begging from the people they had tried to kill.
For anyone who loved Italy it was a bitter experience to come to Naples. The traditional talents of the people, their charm and generosity, seemed for a little to have vanished in the savage and abject struggle for existence. I met quite a number of distinguished and honourable Italians in Naples, good haters of Fascism for many years, and the thing that they saw clearly at last was this: ‘We failed to revolt. Everything had derived from that. Nothing we could have suffered in a revolt against Fascism would have been as bad as this.’
When the Germans had arrived there were some who had welcomed them in place of the communists. The welcome did not last long – they quickly learnt that the Nazi view of the ‘subhuman’ slavs was that they were little more than slaves who could be exploited at will.
The Red Army was rolling back over towns and cities that had been shattered by the war. They soon discovered that they were also liberating a people who had been equally shattered by the occupation. Journalist Vassily Grossman, travelling with the Soviet Army, put a human face on what they now discovered:
Old men, when they hear Russian words, run to meet the troops and weep silently, unable to utter a word. Old peasant women say with a quiet surprise: ‘We thought we would sing and laugh when we saw our army, but there’s so much grief in our hearts, that tears are falling.’
When our troops enter a village, and the cannonade shakes the air, geese take off and, flapping their wings, fly heavily over the roofs. People emerge from the forest, from tall weeds, from marshes overgrown with tall bullrushes.
Every soldier, every officer and every general of the Red Army who had seen the Ukraine in blood and fire, who had heard the true story of what had been happening in the Ukraine during the two years of German rule, understands to the bottom of their souls that there are only two sacred words left to us. One of them is ‘love’ the other one is ‘revenge’.
In these villages, the Germans used to relieve themselves in the halls and on the doorsteps, in the front gardens, in front of the windows of houses. They were not ashamed of girls and old women.
While eating, they disturbed the peace, laughing loudly. They put their hands into dishes they were sharing with their comrades, and tore boiled meat with their fingers. They walked naked around the houses, unashamed in front of the peasants, and they quarrelled and fought about petty things. Their gluttony, their ability to eat twenty eggs in one go, or a kilo of honey, a huge bowl of smetana, provoked contempt in the peasants …
Germans who had been withdrawn to the rear villages were searching for food from morning till night. They ate, drank alcohol and played cards. According to what prisoners said and [what was written in] letters found on dead German soldiers, the Germans considered themselves the representatives of a higher race forced to live in savage villages. They thought that in the wild eastern steppes one could throw culture aside.
‘Oh, that’s real culture,’ I heard dozens of people say. ‘And they used to say that Germans were cultivated people.’
On a windy and overcast morning, we met a boy on the edge of the village of Tarasevichi, by the Dnepr. He looked about thirteen to fourteen years old. The boy was extremely thin, his sallow skin was tight on his cheekbones, large bumps protruded on his skull. His lips were dirty, pale, like a dead man’s who had fallen face flat on the ground.
His eyes were looking in a tired way, there was neither joy nor sadness in them. They are so frightening, these old, tired, lifeless eyes of children. ‘Where is your father?’ ‘Killed,’ he answered. ‘And mother?’ ‘She died.’ ‘Have you got brothers or sisters?’ ‘A sister. They took her to Germany.’ ‘Have you got any relatives?’ ‘No, they were all burned in a partisan village.’
And he walked into a potato field, his feet bare and black from the mud, straightening the rags of his torn shirt.
But as the re-occupation of the Ukraine and the rest of Soviet Russia continued even worse stories would emerge.
The Italian surrender had not come as a complete surprise to the Germans and they moved swiftly to neutralise the Italian armed forces wherever possible. These were awkward and uncertain days for the Italians and particularly for their armed forces. At best they were disarmed and humiliated, at worst some units were massacred at the hands of the Germans.
For the Italian population in general the Germans were now revealed as an army of occupation with a complete disregard for their former hosts, capable of the most brutal action against those who did not co-operate with them. It was to be a long and bitter episode in Italian history. The signs were there right from the start.
Don Whitehead was amongst a group of US journalists who distinguished themselves by operating as close as possible to the front lines:
Salerno , Italy , September 10
German soldiers rode through the streets of Salerno machine gunning civilians and Italian soldiers as well before they were finally driven out of the city this afternoon in the second day of bitter fighting on this northernmost sector of the Allied invasion front.
Against desperate opposition, the Allied troops slowly deepened their invasion bridgehead.
Weeping women, who said the Germans robbed them of all of their food two days ago, gave our troops the same sort of riotous welcome they received when they entered the towns of Sicily. Even while machine guns rattled at the edge of the city and shells burst nearby, people came from their houses to greet the troops.
The mayor, Fascist leaders and wealthier people fled when the Allies began the invasion. Those who greeted us were the poor people who had no means of transport or money with which to get out of the danger zone.
So they stayed in shelters while the Germans stripped their homes of silver, linen, food, wine, and anything else of value they could find. The people cheered the troops as their liberators and they were bitter toward their former Allies. Unarmed Italian soldiers wandered about the streets or gathered to talk with British Tommies and exchange souvenirs.
I entered the city this afternoon from the flagship of the American rear admiral commanding the naval task force …
[Don Whitehead accompanied U.S. members of the Allied Military Government, including Captain Augustine Riolo from New York, who began to establish a civilian administration]
The people lived in terror the last two days as the Germans looted homes and stores, dynamited water mains, stole all the food, and confiscated all ve- hicles and gasoline.
“The Germans machine gunned civilians walking down the streets.” Capt. Riolo said, “and they cleaned out the town. These people haven’t eaten for two days, and they are looking to us to take care of them.”
An Italian colonel said the situation in Naples was desperate with the Germans pillaging the city and threatening destruction of Italian troops whose ammunition is running low. The civil authority has broken down completely, and Naples has become a virtual battlefield.
With the armistice, Italian naval and army officers with a few minor exceptions appeared to be giving full co-operation to the Allies and willingly turning against their one-time ally.
In some cases it was reported the Germans were forcing Italian units to continue the fight, machine gunning them if they resisted. Capt. Riolo said, “They expected us to land in this area because of the heavy bombings and said they were ready to fight with us, but if they were ready to fight they could do nothing after the Germans took their guns and ammunition.” The senior Italian naval officer in charge of Salerno port conferred with the American vice admiral and gave him valuable information on the naval situation including charts of minefields along the coast.
The Danish people had attempted to maintain a policy of neutrality and non co-operation since the Nazis had occupied Denmark in April 1940. For a long time they had just managed to evade the worst of the German rule that was felt all around Europe. They were allowed to retain their elected government, even permitted to hold free elections in which the pro Nazi parties won a tiny percentage of the vote.
Yet as the war turned against the Germans and they sought to become increasingly authoritarian, the passive resistance of non cooperation was becoming increasingly open and active. There were strikes and street demonstrations during the summer of 1943.
On the night of 28th August German troopships arrived in Copenhagen. In the early hours of the 29th the German military authorities declared they were taking over the country:
The past events have shown that the Danish government is unable to maintain order in Denmark. Enemy agents have caused unrest directed against the German Wehrmacht. I proclaim therefore an …. Immediate emergency in Denmark.
With immediate effect I have ordered the following ….
Every strike is prohibited. Invitation to strike at the expense of the German Wehrmacht promotes the enemy and will be punished usually by death. Violation of the above rules will be punished by the German state courts.
Against any violence, the gathering of crowds etc. ruthless use will be made of weapons ….
However their actions were to some extent anticipated, the Danish Navy ordered the scuttling of their ships to prevent them falling into the hands of the Germans. It was not as dramatic the damage to the French Fleet at Toulon, but a symbolic demonstration of which side the Danes stood.
The passive resistance was to have important consequences. As the Germans attempted to enforce their laws they sought to round up the small Jewish population in Denmark. A lack of co-operation from the remaining Danish authorities and, significantly, from the general population meant that only a few hundred were detained out of a population of around 7,800. The remainder were spirited away across the water to neutral Sweden. The Jewish population of Denmark was to survive better than in any other country under Nazi domination.
The German oppression of the Polish people was all pervasive, dictated as a matter of Nazi policy that wanted Poland wiped from the map. There was no opportunity for Poles to sit on the sidelines even if they had wanted to, they were under direct assault. As the war situation worsened ‘anti-partisan measures’ were intensified, resulting in more and more people taking up arms against the occupying forces. It involved people of all ages.
Julian Eugeniusz Kulski was only thirteen when he was arrested by the Gestapo in Warsaw. They had strong suspicions that he was working for the Polish resistance. Kulski denied any knowledge of any such organisation during two weeks of detention and interrogation. The German had continuing suspicions but because of his youth decided to release him. It was almost unprecedented for anyone to be released in these circumstances.
Tuesday (July 13, 1943) morning, I was sitting in my cell in total despair, thinking about my parents whom I was now sure I would never see again. But the ‘Kapo,’ the criminal trustee, suddenly called to me, ‘You are being set free.’
He gave me my release card. I just could not believe it!
But I was the only one who was silent. From the gloomy corners of the cell, sad jealous eyes looked at me and I heard everyone saying that I was lucky. The rule of the Pawiak prison is that the innocent go to Auschwitz, the guilty before a firing squad. Being released is almost unheard of.
Half an hour later I was sitting in the prison van on the way to Szucha Avenue.
Three pretty girls, their heads erect, were sitting by me in the van. Their quiet dignity caught my attention. I started to share my joy with them, but they told me that they were to be executed. The Germans had found out that they belonged to the Underground Army. They were Krystyna (16), Barbara (17) and Irena (20).
They told me about their fate so simply and openly that I did not know how to reply. Finally, I shook hands with each of them, and in this way paid tribute to their bravery. As a good-bye, they asked me to say a prayer for them in church.
Back at Szucha Avenue, I was put into the ‘sanitorium’ waiting room again. A man sitting near me had a face which one could call neither human nor animal. His jaw and cheekbones were all out of place and covered with coagulated blood. In place of his right eye was a raw wound. I could only wonder how he was still alive.
A lady of about thirty years of age was sitting on the next chair, quietly discussing with a companion the tortures she had gone through. She was talking about them in a strangely matter-of-fact way, her arms crossed over bandages where her breasts used to be. She said she had been told that she would be put on the rack sometime the next day, and implied that she hoped everything would end at last.
These people who, for their country or their faith, were suffering torture and death so bravely made a deep impression on me, and I could not help wondering if I would be so brave if it happened to me.
Julian Kulski left Warsaw for a period to lie low but he remained active in the underground resistance and was back in Warsaw by the time of the uprising the following summer.
The world of undercover life in France during the Nazi occupation was full of threats. Both members of the French Resistance and the agents of the Special Operations Executive who sought to support them faced the most fearsome torture if they fell into the hands of the Gestapo. The Germans were hunting them down and there was treachery within the ranks from some members who had been compromised by the Nazis.
The French Resistance had been formed from many different groups with many different political allegiances and objectives. One man who played a critical role in uniting them into a disciplined force was Jean Moulin. After imprisonment by the Nazis he had fled to Britain where he had met de Gaulle. He then parachuted back into France and spent 1942 meeting the different affiliations and bringing them together. After another visit to Britain he was back in France in the spring of 1943 to redouble his efforts:
The Resistance was gaining in strength; fugitives from the forced labour draft would soon be taking to the maquis. The Gestapo was growing stronger too, and the Milice were everywhere. It was a time when, out in the countryside, we listened tensely to the barking of dogs in the depths of the night; a time when multi-coloured parachutes, laden with weapons and cigarettes, fell from the sky by the light of flares burning in forest clearings or on windswept plateaus; a time of cellars, and the desperate cries of the torture victims, their voices like those of children… The great battle in the darkness had begun.
On 27 May 1943, the first meeting of the National Council of the Resistance was held in Paris, in the rue du Four.
Jean Moulin restated the aims of Free France: “to prosecute the war; to restore freedom of expression to the French people; to re-establish republican freedoms in a state which incorporates social justice and which possesses a sense of greatness; to work with the Allies on establishing real international collaboration, both economic and social, in a world in which France has regained her prestige.”
Then he read out a message from General de Gaulle, assigning the first Council of the Resistance its primary goal: to maintain the unity of the Resistance it represented.
Each of its members went in daily peril of his life. On 9 June, General Delestraint, commander of the secret army, unified at last, was taken prisoner in Paris.
There was no obvious successor, as so often happens in the secret world. Before the arrival of Serreules, Jean Moulin said on many occasions, “Had I been captured, I would not even have had time to brief a deputy…”. He wanted the appointment of a successor to be made with the agreement of the Resistance movements, particularly those in the south. He was to meet their representatives on 21 June, in Caluire.
They were waiting for him.
So, too, was the Gestapo.
Treason played its part – as did destiny, which made the normally punctual Jean Moulin three quarters of an hour late, only to be matched by the tardiness of the German police. Soon enough, they learned that they had captured the head of the Resistance.
Little good it did them. In the Montluc fort in Lyons, on the day that the Gestapo agent handed him writing materials because torture had left him unable to speak, Jean Moulin sketched a caricature of his torturer. As for what followed, let us turn to the stark words of his sister: “His part was played, and his ordeal began. Jeered at, savagely beaten, his head bleeding, his internal organs ruptured, he attained the limits of human suffering without betraying a single secret, he who knew everything.”
Let us be quite clear that, for the days in which he was still able to speak or write, the fate of the whole Resistance hung on the courage of this one man. As Mademoiselle Moulin put it, he knew everything.
From the memorial speech by André Malraux on the occasion of the Transfer of Jean Moulin’s ashes to the Panthéon
French Resistance has a detailed account of the events of 21 June 1943 and the subsequent interrogations. There remains considerable controversy about who betrayed Moulin and the group.
ALSO IN JUNE 1943 – AN SOE AGENT IN PARIS
This excerpt describes the experience of SOE Agent John Goldsmith, who was living undercover in Paris in mid 1943:
As the list of arrests and ‘blown’ circuits grew, I redoubled my precautions.
Sometimes danger threatened from the quarter where it was least expected. One night in the early summer I was travelling by train near Clermont-Ferrand when an air-raid or some trouble on the line forced it to stop. It halted in open country for more than an hour and, as it had been made quite plain that it would be some time before it got moving again, I got out to stretch my legs. All sorts of people, German and French, were climbing down and doing the same.
Unbelievably I bumped into someone in the gloom and recognized Brian Rafferty, a dare-devil young Irishman whom I had met in England. He was working a sabotage group in the area and operated under the code-name Dominique. Without thinking he laughed and said in English, ‘Fancy meeting you here … ’, and he continued to talk in English. In heated French I told him to shut up and stop playing the bloody fool, walked away and made sure that I was nowhere near him when we set off again.
Not long afterwards Rafferty was picked up in Clermont-Ferrand because, it was reported, he had been too casual about a conversation (this time in French) in a café. One report said he had been heard to say he was looking forward to a moonlight operation. Whatever the reason was, Rafferty paid with his life. He spent two years in concentration camps before being shot a couple of months before the war ended.
Being a secret agent could be terribly boring at times. You might spend six weeks hanging about, trying to be inconspicuous, just for the sake of an hour’s work which, if it went according to plan, was not very exciting in any case. You had to be on the right spot at the right time, available and in contact with your superiors up to the moment of action.
In between times there was the simple question to be faced of making yourself scarce. You had to eat somewhere, sleep somewhere and occasionally you felt a desperate need to talk to someone, even though you were aware that to do so could be dangerous, if not fatal. Boredom was, in fact, a menace that no one was taught to contend with at the training school. Boredom was something individuals had to deal with themselves, and it cost quite a few men and women their lives when they came up with the wrong solution.
The most insidious thing about it was that it induced a sense of security at just the moment when one should have been alert for surprise moves by the enemy. I learned this to my cost during a gloriously sunny spell in Paris in June 1943.
Having contacted Lejeune I was obliged to wait for a courier to pass on a message to Lyons that I would be somewhat later in returning than I had anticipated — there were some minor snags I had to iron out – and that meant kicking my heels for a while.
It was strange and irritating being an outcast in the place of my birth, a Paris that was far from what I was used to, a city almost deserted. For a start there was hardly any traffic. If you saw a petrol-driven car it contained either Germans, or collaborators, or some essential user like a doctor.
The ordinary Frenchmen chugged about the boulevards from time to time in weird contraptions with small furnaces at the rear which supplied wood gas to a balloon-like container on the roof. The top-speed of these gazogénes was claimed to be about 30 m.p.h. going downhill with the wind behind them, but even that was an exaggeration.
Anyway, the appearance of even these monstrosities was rare and it was possible to cross the road to the Arc de Triomphe in complete safety. If you were going to be knocked down by anything it was more likely to be a cyclist or a taxi velo. The latter was a primitive substitute for the ordinary cab and consisted of a hefty two-wheel bicycle towing a wickerwork seat for two people. There was no shortage of fares for them, as long as it wasn’t raining, and it was quite customary for couples to make their way even to night-clubs in the velos.
The velo drivers developed leg-muscles as hard as billiard balls. A man has to be pretty fit to cycle all the way up the Champs Elysees towing, perhaps, twenty stone behind him.
Gone with the peace-time traffic jams were the crowds. The café tables which would have been packed on a normal summer’s day had a forlorn look about them. If they boasted more than a handful of people it was wise to avoid them; almost certainly they were patronized by Germans or their sympathizers.
But rationing was the main cause for the empty tables. The French who could afford to spend their money on black market food took it home to cook. They could see no point in allowing a restaurateur to add his charges to the already exorbitant price of food and vegetables.
I confined myself to eating only once or twice a week in a black-market restaurant even though I had no problem with money. It was just a question of not drawing attention to yourself. Big restaurants were places to be avoided. So were hotels.
The Gestapo, and indeed the French police, had a nasty habit of inspecting registers in the early hours of the morning. To a knock on the door an Englishman dreaming of home might easily reply in his own language ‘Yes?’ or ‘Who is it?’ That was not all. If they didn’t like your writing, or if you had an unusual name, you heard a knock on your bedroom door at 6 a.m. and had to answer a lot of questions about what you were doing in Paris and who your friends were. A visit to the local police station followed if you were unable to answer the questions satisfactorily.
Much safer places to spend an undisturbed night were the maisons de passe. One thing the Germans had not closed down were the brothels and they put the maisons de passe more or less on the same level. These were generally crumbling, rather scruffy hotels where a man could take girl for a couple of hours at any time of the day or night with no questions asked.
It was an old French custom and to have instituted systematic searches would have been very impractical, as there were literally hundreds of these establishments. Furthermore, there was no question of the owners of the maisons de passe asking his visitors to sign in. And so you were safe, or as safe as anything could be for an agent. You could book a room, say you were expecting mademoiselle, and as there was a constant ﬂow of females no one had any reason to disbelieve you, and put up your feet for a few hours.
John Goldsmith’s wartime exploits are all the more remarkable considering that at first his services were consistently refused due to his being over 30. Not easily deterred he eventually became a tank driving instructor in the ranks. In 1942 accidental circumstances saw his recruitment into Buckmaster’s F Section of the Special Operations Executive. His faultless French and upbringing in Paris were to prove invaluable.
Commissioned overnight and after intensive training he was parachuted into France for the first of his three missions. His adventures included crossing the Pyrenees, sabotage, forming his own circuits, being captured by the Gestapo, a daring escape and black-marketeering. In 1944, now a Major, he was advisor to the Maquis in the Mont Ventoux area where they fought the Germans in pitched battles and won.
Although this refreshingly modest account does not admit to it, Goldsmith’s extraordinary war is best summed up by his DSO, MC, three Croix de Guerre and Legion d’honneur. Accidental Agent is as thrilling an account of war behind enemy lines as has ever been written.The author’s descriptions of his experiences and the many colourful characters he came across are a joy to read.
Quite apart from the Nazi organised mass murder of the Jews in Poland, the ordinary Polish citizen was subjected to widespread casual persecution which often proved fatal. Poland was erased from the map, the western part absorbed in ‘Greater Germany’, the easternmost part forming part of the ‘Eastern territories’. What remained was simply known as the ‘General Government area’. As many as 3 million Poles would die at the hands of the Nazis.
In eastern Poland Zygmunt Klukowski, a doctor at the local hospital, was keeping a diary recording the various measures taken against the local population. He had already seen the Jews hunted down and either shot locally or deported on trains.
Now increasingly restrictive measure were being taken against the local population. The shortage of manpower in Germany meant that thousands of Poles were being rounded up to be sent to work in armaments and construction. To make way for ‘German settlers’ – ethnic Germans from the former Soviet Union – whole villages were being ‘evacuated’ so that they could have new homes closer to Germany.
Bands of people were wandering around the countryside trying to avoid the Germans. More and more Poles were moving to the forests to join the Partisans. There was little room for women and children who sooner or later were rounded up and sent off to Germany. Klukowski knew that families who moved into the forests lived in desperate conditions and that many children would not survive the harsh winter.
The more active the partisans became the more brutal the the retaliatory action from the German occupying powers.
For the last two days the Germans were attempting to catch young people here. Firemen are being used for this dirty work. The firemen go from house to house checking everyone’s ID, looking for people with labor bureau cards. So far about 50 people have been detained, but the quota is 250, so they still have far to go to fulfill it.
Today there was a raid against Pawlowski and Dawid in Brody. At the same time the German teacher was attacked. Increased Gestapo action is a direct result of these incidents.
Today soldiers began evacuating the villages of Ploski and Zawada, and they finished Wielacz.
People here are in a panic. They move from place to place, sleep completely clothed, and wait for the gendarmes to come. In Szczebrzeszyn the only topic of discussion is future evacuation.
A new announcement was posted in town regarding the sabotage of railroads. The railroad lines were divided into sectors. Each sector was given to a nearby village for security. If any sabotage takes place, the villages in charge of guarding that sector will be punished. In other words, several hostages will be executed.
Anyone who comes to our region must report to the police station no longer than twelve hours after arriving.