Whilst doing some research on my family tree, just before Christmas, I came across some information that showed that my maternal grandfather had been captured during the war (WWII) and was held in Stalag VIII-B in Poland.

To be fair, this was information that I had already uncovered, so it wasn’t new to me.

What was new, however, was the discovery that documents regarding his captivity were now held in the National Archives. When the Germans surrendered, all the records held in the camp, detailing English POWs, were boxed up and taken to the UK.

So, a couple of weeks ago – having made arrangments to visit – I took a drive down to Richmond.  Having never been to the NA before, I found it a fascinating place to visit.

There were lots of people there, sitting at computers and sifting through documents, but I was told that due to the sensitivity of wartime documents, I had to view mine in the Invigilators Room – a room where I could be monitored and with no egress for me until I pressed the bell and then someone would come and let me out.  I was also not allowed to wear my coat, as that would make it easy should I wish to surrepticiously steal the documents.

In the room, I was handed a plastic box with a single white envelope in it, with my grandfathers name written in pencil.

I’ll admit to being somewhat nervous as I opened it, indeed, I noticed my hands shaking slightly as I did so.

I tipped the contents out onto the desk and emotion immediately got the better of me as an A5 sized, buff-coloured card plopped onto the desk, alongside several smaller pink cards.  There, in the bottom left-hand corner of the large card was a small black & white photo of a young man (only 25 at the time), standing against a wall like a convict, holding a small piece of blackboard in front of him, on which was chalked his POW number and the name of the camp, his inky thumbprint beside him only adding to the palpability of his incarceration.

It was undoubtably my grandfather. I felt a small tear well up as I looked at him – a photo that I – nor anyone else in the family – had ever seen before.  His face looked relaxed, but his eyes conveyed concern: I daresay, having only just been recently captured, he and his comrades had little idea of what fate had in store for them.

I took photos of everything, put the cards back in the envelope and then back in to the plastic box and I rang the bell for my release… something my grandfather couldn’t do.

He saw out the rest of the war as a prisoner and, in later life, it was something he rarely talked about… unless we managed to get enough Long Life Pale Ale into him.

I’d always known it was a difficult time for him, and now, after seeing that photo. I feel that I have a better understanding as to why.