The Economist.
On the edge of Poland, in a city called Gdynia, the port opens up into a grey sea and giant sky.
Cranes loom over the harbour.
Tourists shelter under umbrellas, taking photos.
Close to where I'm standing now, on Friday the 25th of August 1939,
a 10-year-old boy looked through thick round glasses at a vast cargo ship, the SS Warszawa,
that normally makes its run to London carrying eggs.
That day, the freighter is also fragile.
It will ferry around 70 children.
The boy's father has come to see him off, and he's crying.
The boy though is more anxious about travelling on the Sabbath than about leaving his parents.
As the ship cuts its way around enemy waters, he sees warships circling.
On his fifth day at sea, the 10-year-old watches in awe as the arms of Tower Bridge open to let the ship pass.
And at London Docks today, a reminder of the turmoil that is already Europe.
It's Tuesday, August the 29th, 1939.
George Landsbury, chairman of the Polish Refugee Fund,
boarded the steamer Warszawa to welcome 70 youngsters age from 3 to 16, Polish Jews, expelled from Germany.
Three days later, Hitler marches into Poland and the route that carried this boy to safety is cut off.
That was the last boatload of children.
Dear Uncle and dear Aunt, on Tuesday at 11:00, I arrived in London and only at 4:00 did I alight from my ship.