Roman Turski was born in Poland, the country at the heart of the World War II conflict. In 1939, Nazi Germany and the Soviet Union invaded the region from either side, causing the United Kingdom and France to declare war on Germany.

A tense atmosphere built up to the war. Anti-Semitic demonstrations took place in Warsaw, the capital city. In spite of his father’s objections, Turski took part in these violent activities.

“I often heaved stones at windows of stores owned by Jews. I had no qualms about my actions, and later it took months of hardship and persecution – and a Jew – to show me how to abide by the Biblical injunction: ‘Love thy neighbour as thyself’”.

When Hitler annexed Austria and war was imminent, Turski left his job as a pilot instructor in France and started his journey back to Poland. On his way, the plane had engine trouble so he stopped overnight in Vienna for repairs.

The following morning, just as he stepped out of his hotel to buy a few souvenirs, a man dashing past bumped into him and sent his reeling. Outraged, Turski grabbed him, about to give him a piece of his mind but stopped short when he saw the man’s face white with fear.

“Gestapo, Gestapo!” the man panted heavily, pulling hard to get free. Turski didn’t know much German but he understood instantly that the man was running from the dreaded German secret police. The Gestapo was a brutal force; everyone feared them. They were everywhere, or so it was believed. They hunted anyone considered a threat to the Nazi regime, especially Jews. They were authorised to arrest, imprison and kill anyone.

Without hesitation, Turski jostled the panicked man into the hotel lobby and upstairs to his room. Pointing to the foot of his bed, Turski motioned the stranger to lie down. He covered the jackknifed body with artfully draped blankets so the tousled bed looked empty. To look as if he had just woken up, Turski pulled off his jacket, tie and collar and waited to see if the Gestapo came. In a few minutes, they did.

“They examined my passport, returned it and shouted questions, to which I replied: “Ich verstehe es nicht – I don’t understand it,” a phrase I knew by heart. They left without searching the room.”

As soon as the police had gone and the blankets were lifted, the man let out a stream of rapid German. Turski didn’t understand it but could see how grateful the man was. Turski got out his flight chart and using gestures and drawing pictures in the margin showed that he had a plane and could take the man with him out of Austria. The man pointed to Warsaw in Poland but Turski shook his head and tried to explain he had to land for fuel in Cracow.

“I drew pictures of police and prison bars to illustrate that he would be arrested upon arrival at any airport, and made it clear that we would land in some meadow just over the Polish border and he would get off. He nodded with satisfaction, and his narrow face and dark eyes again conveyed deep thanks.”

The immigration officers at the airport waved the two men through and soon they crossed Czechoslovakia and approached the Vistula River and the city of Cracow. They landed in a large field near a country railroad station.

“I showed my companion where we were on the map, gave him most of my money and wished him luck. He took my hand and looked at me wordlessly, then walked rapidly into the woods.”

When Turski arrived at Cracow Airport there was a detachment of police waiting beside the immigration inspector. One officer said, “We have a warrant to search your plane –you have helped a man escape from Vienna.”

“Go ahead and search it. Incidentally, what was the man wanted for?” asked Turski.

“He was a Jew.”

They searched the plane, of course found no evidence and had to release Turski.

The war came. Turski served as a fighter pilot in the Polish Air Force in the bloody struggle against the Germans. Fighting for freedom, he crossed the border to Romania but was one of thousands to be caught and sent to concentration camps. Somehow he escaped and joined the French Air Force but after France collapsed, he went to England and fought in the Battle of Britain in 1940.

In June of the following year Turski was wounded by a German fighter aircraft over Boulogne. As he started for home, he rammed a Me-109* but was hit by a piece of its tail.

“I was half-blinded with blood. My squadron covered my withdrawal across the channel, but I was unconscious when my Spitfire crash-landed in England.”

Turski’s skull had been fractured and he was so near death that the head surgeon of the hospital thought it hopeless to operate.

When Turski returned to consciousness, he found himself looking back at a face that felt strangely familiarity. “Remember me? You saved my life in Vienna.” The man spoke with a trace of a German accent.”

“How did you find me? Do you work here?” asked Turski.

“It’s a long story,” the man replied. “After you dropped me off I made my way to Warsaw, where an old friend aided me. Just before the war I escaped and reached safety in Scotland. When one of your Polish squadrons distinguished itself in the Battle of Britain, I thought you might be in it, so I wrote to the Air Ministry and found you were.”

“How did you know my name?” asked Turski.

“It was written on the margin of your map. I remembered it. Yesterday I read a story in the newspapers about a Polish hero shooting down five enemy planes in one day and then crash-landing near this hospital. It said your condition was considered hopeless. I immediately asked the Royal Air Force at Edinburgh to fly me here.”

“Why?” asked Turski.

“I thought that at last I could do something to show my gratitude. You see, I am a brain surgeon – I operated on you this morning.”

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*Me 109 was a German World War II fighter aircraft, the Messerschmitt Bf 109.

**There is much discussion of the authenticity of this story because the name Roman Turski apparently does not appear on the Roll of Honour for fighter pilots who flew for the British in the Battle of Britain. Also – there are various versions of the story floating about. Some have verified that the original story appeared in the January, 1953 issue of Reader’s Digest and was the first time the story was published. The article reportedly included a brief annotation indicating that, to protect the identity of the pilot (which was apparently necessary in 1953) the pseudonym “Roman Turski” was used.
Whatever the situation, it is at best a story of courage, moral strength and good karma or at worst an urban legend.

***All dialogue is lifted from the original source and is unedited.

***For your reference – the first person account by Roman Turski
I was born in Poland, where before the last war religious intolerance was not uncommon. In spite of my father’s objection to my participation in anti-Semitic demonstrations in Warsaw, I often heaved stones at windows of stores owned by Jews. I had no qualms about my actions, and later it took months of hardship and persecution-and a Jew- to show me how to abide by the Biblical injunction: “Love thy neighbor as thyself”.
When Hitler annexed Austria and war seemed imminent, I quit my job as instructor of a flying club in Lyons, France, and started for home. My plane developed engine trouble and I had to land at Vienna and stay there overnight to have it repaired.
The following morning, just as I stepped out of my hotel to buy a few souvenirs before checking out, a man who came running past the door bumped into me and sent me reeling. Outraged, I grabbed him and was about to give him a piece of my mind when I saw his face was white with fear. Panting heavily, he tried to wrench himself from my grip and said, “Gestapo—Gestapo!” I know only a little German but understood he was running from the dreaded German secret police.
I rushed him into the lobby and upstairs to my room, pointed to the foot of my bed and motioned him to lie down. I covered his slender, jackknifed body with artfully draped blankets so that the tousled bed looked empty. Then I pulled off my jacket, tie and collar so I could pretend I’d just got up if the Gestapo men came. In a few minutes, they did. They examined my passport, returned it and shouted questions, to which I replied: “Ich verstehe es nicht-I don’t understand it,” a phrase I knew by heart. They left without searching the room.
As soon as they had gone I lifted the blankets. The poor man let out a stream of rapid German. It was not necessary to understand a word to comprehend his gratitude.
I got out my flight chart and, by gesturing and drawing pictures on the margin of the map, explained that I had a plane and could take him out of Austria. He pointed to Warsaw, and his expressive hands asked: “Would you take me there?” I shook my head and made him understand that I had to land for fuel in Cracow. I drew pictures of police and prison bars to illustrate that he would be arrested upon arrival at any airport, and made it clear that we would land in some meadow just over the Polish border and he would get off. He nodded with satisfaction, and his narrow face and dark eyes again conveyed deep thanks.
The customs and immigration men at the airport waved us through when I told them my friend wanted to see me off. My plane was warmed up and ready for flight. We quickly climbed into it and took off. We crossed Czechoslovakia and soon saw the thin ribbon of the Vistula River and the city of Cracow. Landing in a large field by a wood near a country railroad station, I showed my companion where we were on the map, gave him most of my money and wished him luck. He took my hand and looked at me wordlessly, then walked rapidly into the woods.
When I arrived at Cracow airport there was a detachment of police waiting beside the immigration inspector. One of the police said, “We have a warrant to search your plane—you have helped a man escape from Vienna.”
“Go ahead and search it. Incidentally, what was the man wanted for?”
“He was a Jew.”
They searched my plane, and of course had to let me go for lack of evidence.
The war came, and after Poland’s short and bloody struggle against the Germans, in which I served as a fighter pilot in the Polish Air Force, I joined the thousands of my countrymen who wanted to carry on the fight for freedom. We crossed the border into Rumania and were promptly caught and sent to concentration camps. I finally managed to escape and joined the French Air Force. After France collapsed I went to England and fought in the Battle of Britain. The following June I was wounded while on a fighter sweep across the English Channel, when the Luftwaffe hit us over Boulogne. In those early offensive missions we were always outnumbered and outperformed by the Luftwaffe, and our only superiority was morale.
As we started for home I rammed an Me-109 and was hit by a piece of it’s sheared off tail. I was half blinded with blood. My squadron covered my withdrawal across the channel, but I was unconscious when my Spitfire crash-landed in England. (I later learned that my skull had been fractured, and that I was so near death that the head surgeon of the hospital to which I was taken believed it would be almost useless to operate on me.)
When I returned to consciousness, I gradually realized that a narrow face with large brown eyes was looking down at me. “Remember me?” their owner said. “You saved my life in Vienna.” He spoke with a trace of a German accent.
His words ended my confusion. I recalled a sensitive face and managed to say, “How did you find me?” I noticed his white smock. “Do you work here?”
“It’s a long story,” he replied. “After you dropped me off I made my way to Warsaw, where an old friend aided me. Just before the war I escaped and reached safety in Scotland. When one of your Polish squadrons distinguished itself in the Battle of Britain, I thought you might be in it, so I wrote to the Air Ministry and found you were.”
“How did you know my name?”
“It was written on the margin of your map. I remembered it.” His long fingers felt cool on my wrist. “Yesterday I read a story in the newspapers about a Polish hero shooting down five enemy planes in one day and then crash-landing near this hospital. It said your condition was considered hopeless. I immediately asked the Royal Air Force at Edinburgh to fly me here.”
“Why?”
“I thought that at last I could do something to show my gratitude. You see, I am a brain surgeon—I operated on you this morning.”