Still in a daze, Wladek grabbed his coat and followed him. The crowd booed and jeered, throwing things at him as he departed, and the swordsman quickly put the next prisoner's hand on the block and with his first blow only managed te remove a thumb.

This seemed to pacify the mob.

The Englishman moved swifty through the hustling crowd out of the square where he was joined by his companion.

'What's happening, Edward?'

'The boy says he is a Pole and that he escaped from Russia. I told the official in charge that he was English, so now he is our responsibility.

Let's get him to the embassy and find out if the boy's story bears any resemblance to the truth.'

Wladek ran between the two men as they hurried on through the bazaar and into the Street of Seven Kings. He could still faintly hear the mob behind him screaming their approval every time the executioner brought down his sword.

The two Englishmen walked over a pebbled courtyard towards a lar,ge grey building and beckoned Wladek to follow them. On the door were the welcoming words, British Embassy. Once inside the building Wladek began to feel safe for the first time. He walked a pace behind the two men down a long hall with walls filled with paintings of strangely clad soldiers and sailors. At the far end was a magnificent portrait of an old man in a blue naval uniform liberally adoined with medals. His fine beard reminded Wladek of the Baron. A soldier appe;ired from nowhere and saluted.

'Take this boy, Corporal Smithers, and see that he gets a bath. Then feed him in the kitchens. When he has eaten and smells a little less like a walking pigsty, bring him to my office.'

'Yes, sir," said the corporal and saluted.

'Come with me, my lad.' The soldier marched away. Wladek followed him obediently, having to run to keep up with his walking pace. He was taken to the basement of the embassy and left in a little room; this time it had a window. The corporal told him to get undressed and then left him on his own. He returned a few minutes later to find Wladek still sitting on the edge of the bed fully dressed, dazedly twisting the silver band around and around his wrist.

'Hurry up, lad; you're not on a rest cure.'

'Sorry, sir,' Wladek said.

'Don't call me sir, lad. I am Corporal Smithers. You call me corporal.'

'I am Wladek Koskiewicz. You call me Wladek.'

'Don't be funny with me, lad. We've govenough funny people in the British army without you wishing to join their ranks.'

Wladek did not understand what the soldier meant. He undressed quickly.

'Follow me at the double!

Another marvellous bath with hot water and soap. WIadek thought of his Russian protectress, and of the son he might have become to her but for her husband. A new set of clothes, strange but clean and fresh - smelling.

Whose son had they belonged to? The soldier was back at the door.

Corporal Smithers took Wladek to the kitchen and left him with a fat, pink - faced cook, with the warmest face he had seen since leaving Poland.

She reminded him of niania. Whidek could not help wondering what would happen to her waistline after a few weeks in camp 201.

'Hello,' she said with a beaming smile. 'What's your name, then?'

Wladek told her.

'Well, laddie, it looks as though you could do with a good British meal inside of you - none of this Turkish muck will suffice. We'll start with some hot soup and beef. You'll need something substantial if you're to face Mr. Prendergast.' She laughed. 'Just remember, his bite's not as bad as his bark. Although he is an Englishman, his heart's in the right place.'

'You are not an English, Mrs. Cook?' asked Wladek, surprised.

'Good Lord no, laddie, I'm Scottish. There's a world of difference. We hate the English mor ' e than the Germans do,' she said, laughing. She set a dish of steaming soup, thick with meat and vegetables, in front of Wladek. He had entirely forgotten that food could smell and taste so appetising. He ate the meal slowly for fear it might not happen again for a very long time.

The corporal reappeared. 'Have you had enough to eat, my lad?'

'Yes, thank you, Mr. Corporal!

The corporal gave Wladek a suspicious look, but he saw no trace of cheek in the boy's expression. 'Good, then let's be moving. Can't be late on parade for Mr. Prendergast!

The corporal disappeared through the kitchen door, and Wadek stared at the cook. He hated always having to say goodbye to someone he'd just met, especially when they had been so kind.

'Off you go, laddie, if you know what's good for you.'

'Thank you, Mrs. Cook,' said Wladek. 'four food is best I can ever remember.'