James Wlodzimierz Russocki

The following story has been adapted from James’ memoirs, courtesy of his family . © Russocki family archives.

The Good Life

James Wlodzimierz Russocki was born on 29 May 1929 to Count Zygmund Russocki and Countess Irena Russocka. He was my mother’s 1st cousin. His early childhood was characterized by privilege and structure, typical of the Polish nobility of the interwar period. Among his fondest memories was visiting Philip's Café in Warsaw, where the gravel underfoot crunched as patrons dined outdoors. There, he enjoyed more freedom than at home, where strict etiquette was enforced—his parents even made him place books under his arms at the dining table to ensure proper posture.

Summers were spent on the family estate near Lwów, a region that would later be annexed by the Soviet Union in 1945. The estate was a refuge from the ever-present watch of his governess, who he viewed as overly protective, though he found amusement in secretly observing her bedtime routines. Time was also spent with his maternal grandfather, Paweł Rothenberg. Paweł was Jewish (unknown to his grandson), and owned a lumber mill. He was a man of wisdom, engaging his grandson with stories and gifts of wooden toys crafted by his workers. Rothenberg’s quiet indulgence in a morning vodka—intended to be unnoticed—was imitated by young James, leading to a regrettable first experience with alcohol - it burned all the way down to his toes!

Not all childhood experiences were idyllic. A close encounter with a Doberman on the estate nearly cost him his life when the protective mother dog attacked, leaving him with a lasting scar but no fear of dogs. His aunt Helena and her husband, Senator Stanisław Lis, also featured prominently in his early years. Visits to Lis’s office often led to mischief, including an infamous incident in which young James accidentally doused himself in ink, to the amusement of all but himself.

Despite the pervasive anti-Semitism of the era, his father instilled in him the belief that Polish Jews were equal citizens, deserving of the same rights and respect as any other Poles. This perspective was rare among the Polish nobility at the time, but Count Zygmund Russocki had fallen in love with and married a Jewish woman (Irena had converted).

Education proved to be a challenge. Sent to a boarding school, which he bitterly referred to as “Devil’s Island,” he quickly developed a reputation for defiance and mischief. Attempts at discipline, including withholding drinking water at meals, did little to curb his rebellious spirit. Determined to be expelled, he orchestrated a series of pranks, culminating in an incident where he drove a knife through a classmate’s hand. This act of desperation succeeded—he was sent home immediately, relieved to be rid of the school.

War and Flight

James’s first clear memories of major historical events begin in August 1939, just before the German invasion of Poland. His father was called up to serve in the Polish Army, a moment that filled James with pride but also sadness. Like many Warsaw residents, James participated in digging trenches in preparation for air raids. The government assured the population that Poland would quickly repel the German forces, even spreading propaganda that the enemy’s tanks were made of plywood. In reality, Poland was overrun in just weeks.

The outbreak of war on 1 September 1939 marked the beginning of a tumultuous period. With the German Army advancing, James, his mother, and family friends fled eastward in their black Citroën. At first, the journey felt like an adventure to a ten-year-old, but the illusion was shattered when bullets narrowly missed them as they searched for food in a small town. His father, meanwhile, had gone off to fight. For years, the family believed he had been killed in action—an assumption that later proved false.

The family sought refuge in Lwów, a city near the Soviet border. Initially, they lived comfortably in a hotel, unaware that Hitler and Stalin had secretly agreed to divide Poland. When Soviet forces entered Lwów, they began mass arrests and deportations of the nobility and intellectual class. Realising they faced almost certain deportation to Siberia, James’s mother made the perilous decision to flee back to German-occupied Warsaw, believing the Germans to be the lesser of two evils.

Their escape was arduous. With their car confiscated by the Soviets, they relied on smugglers, who demanded payment in gold, to guide them through the treacherous borderlands. The journey took them through snow-covered forests, hiding from Soviet patrols and enduring freezing temperatures. When they finally reached German lines, Wehrmacht soldiers, deceived by Irena’s flawless German and aristocratic manner, treated them with unexpected courtesy, even offering them chocolate liqueur to warm up.

Back in Warsaw, they returned to their apartment, only to find life under German rule increasingly oppressive. To obtain ration books, they needed identification papers issued by the German authorities. An SS officer, decieved into believing James was of German heritage through his maternal grandmother Franceszka Probst, attempted to recruit the family as Volksdeutsche—ethnic Germans who would receive preferential treatment. Irena refused, a decision that immediately marked them as outsiders. The rejection earned James his first direct encounter with Nazi brutality when the officer kicked him out of his office.

During this period, the Russockis reconnected with old acquaintances, including a new neighbour, Mr. Szober, who was active in the Polish underground resistance. As Nazi control tightened, everyday life became increasingly dangerous. James was enrolled in various schools, though he struggled with authority, ultimately being expelled from both a Catholic and a Jesuit institution for acts of defiance against his teachers. He eventually settled in a public school, where he managed to avoid further trouble.

Loss of Freedom

By early 1942, resistance against the German occupation had become deeply entrenched in Warsaw and like many others, Twelve-year-old James joined the Polish Underground Army. His mother was already active in the resistance, though the exact nature of her work remained unknown to him. He served as a runner, delivering messages between cells. Identities were kept hidden—even among comrades—to prevent betrayals under interrogation. The underground was well-organized, involving people of all ages. Children, often overlooked by the Germans, played a crucial role. Some stole weapons from the coats of enemy officers in restaurant cloakrooms. Others sabotaged German vehicles by scattering makeshift caltrops—nails welded together to puncture tyres. Propaganda leaflets, nailed to trees and lamp posts near German quarters, warned of impending retribution. The risks were enormous—arrest meant torture and likely execution—but for many, resistance was the only option.

Despite the dangers, life still unfolded in ordinary ways. James, balancing school with resistance activities, experienced his first love—a girl named Basia Lepicka, who lived across the street. At twelve, he received his first kiss, an experience he treasured amid the chaos of war.

A Child in Hiding

In late summer or early autumn of 1942, a frail, ragged boy appeared on the streets near James and Irena’s home. He was no older than six or seven, starving and exhausted. It soon became clear that he had escaped from the Warsaw Ghetto. James brought him home and Irena took him in without hesitation. James had no idea that he was Jewish himself.

His mother immediately bathed him, burning his lice-infested clothing. The family knew the consequences of sheltering a Jewish child: immediate execution. Nevertheless, they resolved to keep him safe. Plans were made to smuggle him out of the city to join partisans in the countryside, but leaving Warsaw was nearly impossible. Every road was patrolled, and every exit was monitored. Until a solution could be found, he would remain in the apartment.

A hiding place was constructed in the pantry, concealed behind a false wall. Outside, he was rarely seen. If anyone asked, he was Piotr, a Polish child. But in private, James called him Moishe. If known at all, his real surname was soon lost—perhaps intentionally, for safety. Moshe stayed with the family for seven months.

Betrayal and Arrest

On 7 March 1943, Irena sent Moshe to buy cigarettes, a short errand, just a few blocks away. Moments later, the Gestapo arrived. Someone had reported them. James and his Irena were arrested and taken to the Gestapo headquarters in Warsaw. It was the last time he saw his mother until after the war. Moshe vanished. Whether he was caught, executed, or somehow survived remains unknown.

Survival at Any Cost

The interrogation at the hands of the Gestapo was brutal, designed not just to extract information but to break the spirit of the prisoner. James Russocki, still a child, endured the same merciless treatment as countless others who fell into Nazi hands. The beatings came first—violent blows to the face and body, followed by relentless kicks when he collapsed. The goal was clear: to "soften" him up before the questioning began. His refusal—or inability—to provide information only escalated their cruelty.

After the initial torture, he was thrown into a cell that had once been a lavatory. The sink and toilet were gone, leaving only a hole in the floor. The tiles, cold and unforgiving, offered no comfort. His swollen face left him half-blind, his ribs ached with every breath, and his right ear rang from repeated blows, later resulting in permanent hearing loss. Alone in the dark, he curled up on the floor, shivering from cold, pain, and fear. But even in that moment of suffering, he made a vow: he would survive, at any cost, for revenge.

When daylight returned, so did his tormentors. The second interrogation was worse. They wanted names—of resistance members, of the Jewish boy, of anyone connected to him. But the training of the underground had worked. He knew nothing of value, nothing that could be used against others. His silence earned him another savage beating, three Gestapo agents taking turns until he lost consciousness.

Deportation

James awoke to find himself being thrown onto the back of a truck. He was not alone. A fellow prisoner helped him sit up, preventing him from choking on his own blood. His mouth and nose were bleeding, his ribs felt shattered, and his entire body was a mass of bruises. The truck joined others heading towards the railway station in Warsaw, where crowds of prisoners—Poles, Jews, Soviet soldiers, even some captured Germans—were being herded into freight cars.

The journey into the unknown began. The train was packed so tightly that there was barely room to sit. There was no water, no food, no toilet. The stench of human waste and unwashed bodies filled the air as people collapsed from exhaustion, dehydration, or despair. Women wept, others moaned in pain, but James felt only numbness. Humiliation mixed with agony; his beaten body had betrayed him, and now he sat in filth, unable to move. Every moment felt endless.

Rumours spread among the prisoners. Some believed they were being taken to a concentration camp. Others whispered of mass executions in the countryside. No one knew the truth. All they knew was that survival was uncertain.

Arbeitslager Oberlanzendorf

At dawn, the train reached its destination: Arbeitslager Oberlanzendorf, a forced labour camp near Vienna. Unlike a concentration camp, which was designed primarily for extermination, a labour camp sought to extract as much work from prisoners as possible before they perished from exhaustion or maltreatment.

James, like all Polish prisoners, was marked with a yellow triangle and a black "P" on his clothing—denoting his nationality and status as a forced labourer. Unlike concentration camp inmates, he was not tattooed, but he was given a number: 2186, handwritten on a piece of cardboard stamped HAFT A.E.L. Oberlanzendorf. Losing it meant starvation; without proof of registration, no rations would be provided.

That piece of cardboard, flimsy yet essential, became his identity. It was the difference between life and death. And somehow, against all odds, he held onto it.

The labour camp into which James Russocki was sent was, by comparison to a concentration camp, a place of survival rather than immediate extermination. The prisoners were considered valuable only insofar as they could work, and so their suffering was measured and prolonged, rather than abruptly ended in the gas chambers or by mass shootings. The camp administration sought to extract the maximum amount of labour from inmates while providing them with the bare minimum sustenance necessary to keep them alive.

Upon arrival in the bitter cold of March, Russocki and the other prisoners were forced to strip naked in front of the guards, a routine humiliation designed to break their spirit. Women who attempted to shield their modesty were beaten. Every man was inspected, and those who were circumcised were immediately separated, sent to their deaths in the concentration camps. Although James had been raised a Catholic with no knowledge of his Jewish heritage, he understood the brutal logic of the selection process and knew that he had narrowly avoided a worse fate. He remained in the labour camp.

The barracks in which James and the other inmates were housed offered little protection against the elements. Constructed of wooden planks with wide gaps between them, the wind howled through day and night. The bunks were crude wooden shelves stacked four high, with a handful of straw serving as bedding if one was fortunate enough to secure it.

Among the prisoners were the KAPOs, inmates who had been elevated to positions of authority in exchange for enforcing the SS’s will. Many of them were Jewish, chosen perhaps because they spoke German, but they had no loyalty to their fellow inmates. The KAPOs were granted extra rations, better clothing, and the ability to wield power over others. They carried sticks, which they used liberally to enforce order through violence. For Russocki, there was a grim irony in the fact that he, who had risked his life to protect a Jewish child, now found himself at the mercy of KAPOs who beat him without hesitation.

James assigned sleeping space was in the uppermost bunk, where he shared a cramped area with four other men. One of them, Mirek, was a fellow Pole who had been in the camp longer and had secured a job in the camp office due to his ability to type and speak German. This connection would prove invaluable. Mirek was permitted to take scraps of food left behind by the German guards, which he shared with him. The camp rations were utterly insufficient for survival. Breakfast consisted of a piece of black bread and a dark liquid that barely resembled coffee. The evening meal was a watery soup with unidentifiable floating scraps, occasionally potato skins. Prisoners often fought, stole, and even killed for food. There were no consequences for murder in the camp; bodies were simply discarded, covered in lime, and forgotten.

Separated from the women’s section by a barbed-wire fence, the men occasionally bribed KAPOs with their meagre rations for the chance to cross into the women’s barracks for brief moments of human connection. The SS guards, amused by the desperate exchanges, looked on and laughed. The cruelty of the camp extended beyond mere survival; it thrived on humiliation and the perverse spectacle of suffering.

James work assignment spared him from the backbreaking toil of the quarries or the endless construction projects. He was assigned to clean the area outside the camp office, planting flowers and sweeping the pathways. The SS officers used him as an outlet for their frustration, frequently kicking or beating him as they passed. The only acceptable response was to say, “Thank you, sir.” Any sign of defiance, even a look of anger, could result in immediate execution.

One small silver lining in this grim existence was the discarded cigarette butts he found while cleaning. Stripping the remnants of tobacco, he and Mirek rolled new cigarettes from the scraps, which they smoked and traded for extra food or clothing. In a world where everything had been taken from them, even the ability to barter for a crust of bread or an extra layer of fabric meant the difference between life and death.

James’ survival hinged on his ability to suppress emotion. He never cried—not when he was first taken, not throughout his suffering, and not even at his mother’s funeral decades later. It was only through the love and patience of his wife, Holly, that he was finally able to confront the emotions he had buried. Many years later during a trip to Brighton, England, driving aimlessly through the countryside with Holly he finally allowed himself to feel. For the first time since his capture, he shed tears—not of weakness, but of release. He had locked away his suffering for so long, and in Holly, he found someone who cared enough to listen, to hold him as he finally allowed himself to grieve.

Even as he recalled the torment of the camp, James understood that his survival was a combination of chance, resilience, and the few moments of kindness he encountered. The cruelty of the KAPOs, the arbitrary beatings, the endless hunger—all of it was part of a system designed to dehumanise. But in the smallest acts of defiance, whether in the sharing of a crust of bread or the rolling of a cigarette from discarded butts, there was also an assertion of humanity. And that, perhaps, was the greatest victory of all.

Escape

In the late months of 1944, as the war raged on and the collapse of Nazi Germany loomed closer, James faced an agonising choice: to either remain in captivity and face almost certain death or risk everything in a daring escape. Fueled by a deep-seated need for survival and revenge, he confided his plans to Mirek. Mirek, possessing the crucial ability to forge documents, eagerly embraced the plan. Over the course of several weeks, he painstakingly created birth certificates falsely stating their age as eighteen, along with identity papers and passes that, if scrutinised, might just pass as legitimate. The most dangerous part of the forgery process was obtaining the SS rubber stamp—a task that placed Mirek in grave danger. Had the camp authorities discovered his efforts, both of their lives would have been forfeited in an instant.

The decision to escape came abruptly. Under cover of darkness, they made their way to a small body of water on the least guarded side of the camp, the absence of barbed wire marking it as their best chance for escape. Timing their movements with the guard patrols and searchlights, they entered the freezing water, holding their outer garments above their heads. Neither of them knew how to swim, and James nearly drowned, silenced by sheer terror and the cold that gripped his body. His teeth chattered so violently he feared the noise would alert the guards.

As they reached the far bank, a German guard shouted an alarm, having heard the splashing. Shots rang out in the night, forcing the two fugitives to abandon anything that might slow them down. Naked and shivering, they sprinted into the undergrowth, where they quickly dressed in their meagre rags before heading west, their ultimate goal: Italy and freedom.

Travelling by night, they followed the road at a distance to avoid getting lost. As dawn approached, they sought shelter beneath a large pine tree, covering themselves with pine needles to stave off the cold. Their bodies were wracked with hunger and exhaustion, but rest brought little solace, their dreams haunted by visions of food—white bread dripping with butter, tantalisingly close yet completely out of reach. The filth from the camp that covered them offered some protection from the bitter cold and relentless lice infestations.

On the second night of their journey, they stumbled upon a small village. Knowing they needed supplies to survive, they approached a darkened house, throwing stones at the door to check for occupants. Luck was on their side—the house was empty, and the door unlocked. Inside, they found a pair of oversized boots, two shirts, and a meagre stash of food: raw potatoes and stale dark bread. In the days that followed, they continued their strategy of discreet theft, taking clothing from the backs of cupboards and ensuring they left no obvious signs of intrusion. Their survival depended on secrecy; if the missing items were noticed too soon, the authorities might be alerted to their presence.

As winter tightened its grip, the landscape became even more treacherous. Snow blanketed the ground, making travel arduous. In one house, they managed to steal a blanket, two bed sheets, and a pair of kitchen knives. They cut the blanket into strips to wrap around their feet and hands for warmth, while the sheets—modified with holes to slip over their heads—provided makeshift camouflage in the snow. Finding food remained their greatest challenge. At times, they scavenged from dog bowls left outside houses, eating whatever scraps had been abandoned. Hunger had reduced them to a state where even half-eaten dog food tasted like a feast.

Eventually, they reached a railway station, where they were able to gather crucial information from a map on the wall. Here, they also experienced their first proper meal in years—a woman operating a food stand took pity on them, offering each a plate of potatoes and half a hot dog. Speaking passable German, they thanked her before pressing on.

Their route would take them through Austria and across the treacherous Brenner Pass, a 5,000-foot-high Alpine crossing. The freezing temperatures and deep snow posed as much of a threat as the German patrols. They scavenged whatever food they could find, collecting stale bread and discarded potatoes from rubbish bins. By day, they hid, wrapping themselves tightly in stolen blankets and sheets for warmth; by night, they trudged ever forward, their strength diminishing with each step. Occasionally, they risked venturing near roads to read signposts, ensuring they were still heading in the right direction. The higher they climbed, the more brutal the conditions became, yet they pushed on, driven by sheer determination.

By Christmas Day, they found themselves deep in the Austrian wilderness, with Italy just within sight. That night, they finally crossed into Italian territory. Yet, their ordeal was far from over. Neither of them spoke Italian, making every encounter a potential danger. If stopped by Italian police or military patrols, they planned to pose as Germans. If intercepted by a German patrol, they would have nothing but luck and prayer to rely on.

Their fortunes changed when they came across an Italian army truck. Its driver, a sergeant, was asleep beneath the vehicle. After cautiously checking for weapons and an easy escape route, they woke him and, in a mixture of German, Polish, English, and gestures, explained that they were Polish refugees fleeing the Germans. The sergeant, who harboured a deep dislike for the Nazis, agreed to help. He allowed them to ride in the back of his truck, sharing his food with them as they travelled south. At night, they slept under the vehicle, while in villages, locals—eager to hear their story—offered them scraps of food and even sips of wine.

After four days, the sergeant dropped them off near Loreto, south of Ancona. From there, they resumed their journey on foot, staying off the main roads to avoid trouble. Eventually, somewhere north of Fermo, they heard the distant thunder of artillery—the unmistakable sound of the Allied front.

They pushed forward as far as they dared before finding a secluded area covered in dense undergrowth, where they decided to wait. The yellow triangles sewn onto their ragged shirts—the symbol marking them as forced labourers—were now their best hope.

Liberation and the Polish II Corps

In early February 1945, liberation came. British troops overran the area, and their ordeal was finally over. Overcome with relief, they wept, embraced, and clung to the soldiers who had saved them. A British officer took them in, trying to piece together their story through a mix of broken English, German, and sign language. Soon, they were handed over to a Polish unit, where they underwent interrogation. Despite their youth—James was just fourteen—they insisted on enlisting in the Polish II Corps, part of the British Expeditionary Force.. Their forged birth certificates, crafted by Mirek before their escape, declared them to be eighteen. The Polish officer examining the documents likely saw through the deception but chose to overlook it. They were accepted. He and Mirek were not alone. Many Poles had made their way to Italy with similar intentions, and they all found themselves enlisted in the army. After approximately two weeks of training, primarily focused on familiarising themselves with weapons, James was assigned to a rapid response infantry team. The team consisted of a sergeant, three soldiers, and a Jeep with a mounted 50-caliber machine gun. Mirek, was immediately sent to supply. Despite James's advice to keep his typing skills a secret, Mirek didn't listen. As they parted ways, they tried to hold back their tears, trying to appear like grown men and soldiers, but their bond, forged through shared experiences, made the separation almost unbearable.

In late March, James saw his first combat near Ancona. Initially, they faced an Italian infantry unit that surrendered without a fight, eager to give up. The German garrison, however, resisted, and James welcomed it. He knew the Germans understood that Polish units never took German prisoners. The choice was clear: fight and die, or surrender to the British or U.S. forces. For James, it was an opportunity for vengeance for the atrocities the Nazis had inflicted upon him, his family, and his country. The act of aiming and pulling the trigger felt easy, with no regrets or emotions. His unit became feared, and more often than not, German forces would retreat rather than face them.

By May 3, 1945, James and his unit were fighting in the foothills of the Brennan Pass. The Germans, in dire straits, faced the might of the Allied forces and were further harassed by Italian partisans. James couldn't help but feel satisfaction at their misfortune. The next day, U.S. troops advanced through the Pass and into Austria, and the war ended on May 7, 1945. His unit was then transferred to Bari to guard a German prisoner-of-war camp. After about three months, they moved to Ancona, where the British camp commander accused the Polish troops of inhumanity toward the German prisoners. James couldn't help but feel the commander didn't truly understand the meaning of inhumanity. In Ancona, James met Sergeant Mirek, who was managing the NCO club. They shared a drink, recounting their unbelievable experiences, amazed at how they'd survived with little physical harm—though, of course, the psychological scars remained, even if they weren't yet fully aware of them.

James's main priority, however, was to find his mother, Irena. Through the International Red Cross, he learned that she had survived Dachau concentration camp and was now in Vienna, working for the British Red Cross. He decided to visit her. He and Mirek initially planned to visit the "summer camp" where they had spent some time, but the painful memories proved too much to face. They also met U.S. Army Lieutenant Sieminski, who was stationed in Vienna and had been assigned to work for the United Nations. Sieminski mentioned he might need help managing the German mechanics, and James volunteered. A couple of weeks later, James found himself driving Lieutenant Sieminski to Vienna, while Mirek opted to stay behind in Ancona.

Reunion

James wrote movingly of his reunion with Irena in Vienna, describing it as a ‘moment beyond words’, but at no time throughout their lives did he or his mother ever discuss their wartime experiences. It left him wondering if she had ever been able to talk about what had happened to her, later understanding how important it was to unburden oneself.

James was then stationed in Vienna as part of the occupation forces, working with the United Nations Relief and Rehabilitation Administration. He found himself overseeing a group of German (Austrian) mechanics who, in their desperation, were overly polite, offering to do anything for a couple of cigarettes. He found some enjoyment in the sense of superiority he held over them. This arrangement didn't last long, and in early 1946, James was ordered to join his company in Rosenheim, Germany. He and Lieutenant Sieminski had become close friends, and James promised to visit him one day in America. Eventually, after emigrating to the U.S., James discovered that Sieminski had become a congressman.

After his time in Rosenheim, James's unit was transferred to England, stationed at Ulton Camp near Chester. He came to love the town and its people, spending every free night and weekend there. During his time in England, James travelled across the British Isles, including to Jersey. It was a good chapter in his life, filled with good memories. While there, he found his aunt Helena, who was stationed outside Edinburgh. She had divorced his uncle and was living with a new partner. In early 1947, James was discharged from the Polish Army. He was offered the chance to join a British unit but declined. Mirek, on the other hand, enlisted in the British Army and was soon sent to Singapore. The next time James saw him was in early 1951, after Mirek's discharge, when he was planning to move to Australia.

A New Start in Life

James’ new start in life began when he decided to immigrate to the United States with his mother. At that time, in 1950, the waiting period for an immigration visa was about five years, due to the country's immigration quota, which allocated a certain number of entrance visas to each nation annually. However, in 1951, Congress passed a Bill admitting former members of the Polish Army II Corps outside the usual quota, allowing James and his mother to bypass the waiting period.

On December 27, 1951, they arrived in New York after a six-day crossing of the Atlantic aboard the Queen Elizabeth. The crossing was eventful, and James recalled that they spent Christmas on board. He made friends with a couple of wonderful women and a doctor from Elizabeth, NJ. Most of the passengers, however, suffered from seasickness due to the rough sea, which delayed their journey by an extra day. The ship was unable to enter New York harbour on December 26, so it anchored in view of Boston and waited for the dawn of December 27 to make its way into New York. James and a few others stayed on deck, admiring the lights of the city as the ship approached.

As the sun began to rise, James watched the ship sail up the Hudson River toward New York Harbour. The sight of the New York skyline, so magnificent, along with the Statue of Liberty, filled him with emotion. For James, this crossing symbolised the end of his time in Europe and the beginning of a new chapter in the New World, offering a sense of closure on the past that had been so filled with hardship. Yet, he had little idea that the past would follow him, carried in the form of emotional baggage that would prove difficult to shed. During the crossing, as he thought about the uncertain future awaiting him in this foreign land, fear would occasionally take hold.

Arriving in New York Harbour had an overwhelming effect on James. Although he could not cry at the time, he felt his emotions welling up inside him. Now, as he wrote about that moment, the memory was so vivid that he could still feel those emotions as though it were happening all over again. This time, as he relived that experience, his eyes brimmed with tears.

In 1952, he enlisted in the U.S. Air Force, where he was assigned to secret missions for intelligence agencies including the CIA. receiving the Purple Heart for his service in Korea. After leaving the military, James became an investigator for the Internal Revenue Service, where he supervised many investigations and received numerous awards.

He stayed in close contact with his beloved Aunt Helena in London, taking both his daughters to visit her. Family was everything to him, and according to his daughters, had he known of his first cousin, Elizabeth Lis, he would have done everything in his power to find her.

Sadly, he died in 2002, twelve years before I began to search, but in 2014, his family was finally reunited.

Adapted from the memoirs of James Russocki (courtesy of his family)

For further information please contact jenniemilne67@gmail.com