CURLEY WOLFINBARGER phoned me from the Budapester-
strasse on Sunday afternoon, September 14.

"Can you come over right away?" he asked. "Some of the sur-
vivors of the Zamzam sinking are here."

When I arrived, Curley took me to the second-floor living-
room. There were sixteen women not much different in
appearance from the first sixteen you might meet if you wan-
dered out on the street anywhere in Canada or the United
States. Some were in their early twenties, some were elderly.
Several were smartly dressed. One, with her eleven-year-old-
daughter beside her, was a Negro. An attractive woman in a
tailored suit, Mrs. Isabel Guernsey, of Vancouver, was the
spokesman.

"We've just arrived from the women's prison at Liebenau,"
she told me. "I understand that we have been set free. We
haven't heard just what the situation is yet. All we know is that
the inspector from Stuttgart, one of the Gestapo, a man named
Tomma, came in and told us we were to leave on a train for
Berlin. And here we are."

Mrs. Guernsey told me how most of the women--all English
prisoners of war--were from Canada and South Africa, many

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