“On the deathmarch, we were spending the night in a barn, packed as tight as sardines in a can. Around midnight I heard Anka cry out in pain. I crawled to her on all four across the sleeping girls.

“What now?” I wondered when I got to her. The barn was pitch black, I couldn’t even see my hands. But I had to act. Using threats I pried a bottle of vodka from someone and washed my hands. Somehow a pair of rusty scissors surfaced, a blanket, then one girl took off her shirt and gave it to us.

By dawn, I told Anka to start pressing. Once, and I could see the head. Twice, and.. I grabbed the baby by its armpits and pulled it out. We had no water so we just wiped the little boy off and wrapped it in the shirt.

I kissed him and handed him to Anka. We were both crying. Little Tomas – that’s the name we gave him on the spot – is a grandfather himself, in America.”