I stood on the deck of that rusted ship, watching the harbor lights of Bombay fade in the distance as we were turned away for the fifth time. My name is Maria Kowalski. I’m twelve years old. And I was watching 739 other children slowly die around me.
“Sister, I’m thirsty,” my brother Piotr whispered, his lips cracked and bleeding. He was six. He hadn’t eaten in two days. None of us had.
I had nothing to give him. The ship’s water was nearly gone. The food ran out yesterday. And every port we approached—Karachi, Bombay, Colombo—they all said the same thing: “No room. No resources. Not our problem.”
We were Polish orphans who’d survived Soviet labor camps in Siberia. We’d watched our parents die in the snow, their bodies frozen beside the railroad tracks. We’d been rescued by the Red Cross and evacuated through Iran, crammed onto this dying ship with a promise: “Someone will take you in.”
That promise was a lie.
The British Empire—the most powerful force on Earth—had sent telegrams to every port under their control: “Do not allow disembarkation. These refugees are not Britain’s responsibility.”
So we drifted. Day after day. Watching children collapse from dehydration. Listening to the weak ones crying for mothers who would never come. I held Piotr every night and hummed our mother’s lullaby, the one she sang before the soldiers took her away.
This morning, little Anna died. She was seven. Her body was wrapped in a sheet and committed to the sea while the rest of us stood silent. We’d already cried ourselves dry.
The captain told us yesterday that we had enough fuel to reach one more port: Nawanagar, a tiny princely state in Gujarat. “But don’t get your hopes up,” he said. “They’re under British control. They’ll turn us away like everyone else.”
I didn’t tell Piotr. What was the point?
But then—three hours ago—a telegram arrived. The radio operator’s hands were shaking when he brought it to the deck. The captain read it aloud, his voice cracking:
“You are welcome here. Bring the children to Nawanagar. I will meet them personally. —Jam Sahib Digvijay Singhji”
The adults started crying. Some fell to their knees. I just stared at those words, afraid to believe them. Afraid that if I hoped again, it would destroy me when it was taken away.
Now we’re approaching the harbor. I can see the shore. I can see people waiting. And standing at the front—dressed in white, surrounded by his staff—is a man they say is the Maharaja himself.
Piotr tugged my sleeve. “Maria, is it real? Are they really going to let us stay?”
I squeezed his hand. “I think so, Piotruś. I think we’re finally home.”
The Journey That Should Have Killed Us
To understand what that moment meant, you need to know where we came from. You need to know what we survived.
It started in 1939, when the Soviets invaded eastern Poland. I was nine years old. Piotr was three. We lived in a small village near Wilno—my father was a teacher, my mother a seamstress. We had a garden, a cow, and a life we thought would last forever.
Then the soldiers came at midnight.
They gave us twenty minutes to pack. One suitcase per family. My mother grabbed warm clothes, some bread, a photograph of her wedding day. My father tried to argue, and they hit him with a rifle butt. I can still hear the sound his head made against the floor.
They loaded us into cattle cars—sixty people crammed into a space meant for animals. No toilets. No heat. No food for the first three days. People died standing up because there was no room to fall down.
We rode that train for three weeks, across the frozen wilderness of Siberia, until we reached a labor camp near the Arctic Circle. It wasn’t a prison. They didn’t call it that. It was a “special settlement” where we would “contribute to the Soviet economy.”
My father died in the first winter. Pneumonia. They buried him in a mass grave with forty others.
My mother lasted until the following spring. She gave her food rations to Piotr and me, pretending she’d already eaten. By March, she weighed less than 80 pounds. When she died, she made me promise two things: “Take care of your brother. And never forget you are Polish.”
After Hitler invaded the Soviet Union in 1941, something changed. Stalin suddenly needed allies. He signed an agreement allowing Polish prisoners to leave the camps and form an army under British command. But there were thousands of us—women, children, orphans—who couldn’t join the military.
The evacuation routes led through Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, eventually to Persia. We walked for months. Children died along the way—from typhus, malaria, starvation. Piotr nearly died in Uzbekistan. I carried him on my back for eleven days until we reached a Red Cross station.
By the time we arrived in Tehran, there were 740 of us children left. No parents. No families. Just each other.
The Red Cross arranged for a ship. They said we’d be taken to India, where arrangements would be made for our care. We believed them because we had no choice.
The Ports That Turned Us Away
The first rejection came at Karachi. British officials came aboard, inspected the ship, and declared we posed a “health risk” and a “logistical impossibility.” The captain begged. The Red Cross representative pleaded. They were unmoved.
“Britain is at war,” the port master said. “We cannot divert resources to foreign children when our own citizens are in danger.”
We moved on.
At Bombay, it was worse. They wouldn’t even let us anchor. A gunboat escorted us away from the harbor. Through binoculars, I could see the city—buildings, cars, people going about their lives. And here we were, children literally dying on the deck, being turned away like garbage.
Colombo refused us without even sending an official. Just a radio message: “Denied.”
By the time we approached Nawanagar, nine children had died at sea. We’d started holding funerals without ceremony—just a prayer in Polish and a body dropped into the water. We’d stopped crying. We’d stopped hoping.
The adults on board—the few teachers and Red Cross workers who’d stayed with us—were discussing what to do if this final port rejected us. Turn back to Iran? Risk the open ocean with no fuel? Or drift until we all died?
I remember sitting on the deck that last night, holding Piotr while he slept. The stars were incredible—millions of them, brighter than I’d ever seen. I thought about my mother, wondered if she could see us from wherever she was, wondered if she regretted making me promise to survive.
Then the telegram came.
The Man Who Said Yes
Jam Sahib Digvijay Singhji was not a powerful man by global standards. Nawanagar was a tiny princely state under British oversight. He couldn’t make foreign policy. He couldn’t declare war or peace. He was, in many ways, a figurehead—a local ruler allowed to maintain traditional authority while the British controlled everything that mattered.
But he had one thing the British didn’t: a conscience that couldn’t be bureaucratized.
When his advisers brought him news of the ship, they presented it as a British problem. “The Colonial Office has refused the refugees at multiple ports. It’s not our jurisdiction.”
According to what I learned later—from the letters and documents that survived—the Maharaja asked one question: “Are they children?”
“Yes, Your Highness. Polish orphans.”
He was silent for a long moment. Then: “How many?”
“Seven hundred and forty.”
Another silence.
His senior adviser spoke carefully: “Your Highness, if you defy the British directive—”
“The British,” the Maharaja interrupted, “can direct their own ports. But Nawanagar is my responsibility. And I will not turn away children who have nowhere else to go.”
“But the costs—the logistics—the political ramifications—”
“Send the telegram. Tell them they are welcome. Tell them I will meet them personally.”
His staff tried to change his mind. They presented financial projections. They warned of British retaliation. They reminded him that his own people were suffering under wartime rationing.
He listened patiently. Then he said something that would change 740 lives forever:
“If we have enough for ourselves, we have enough to share. Send the telegram.”
The Day We Arrived
August 6th, 1942. The ship entered Nawanagar harbor under a blazing sun. We children lined up on deck, too weak to do much more than stand. Many had to be supported by others. Piotr clung to my waist.
The pier was crowded. Hundreds of local people had come to see us arrive. But standing at the very front, exactly as promised, was the Maharaja.
He was dressed in simple white clothes—not the jeweled robes I’d imagined a prince would wear. He was in his early fifties, with a gentle face and eyes that seemed impossibly kind.
As we stumbled down the gangplank—some children carried by sailors—the Maharaja did something I’ll never forget.
He knelt down.
This prince, this ruler, this man who could have sent servants to handle the dirty work of receiving refugees—he knelt on the pier so he could meet us at eye level.
The first child to reach him was a boy named Jerzy, maybe eight years old, rail-thin and covered in sores. Jerzy stopped, uncertain, afraid perhaps that this was another trick, another rejection.
The Maharaja smiled and held out his hand. “Welcome home,” he said in careful, practiced Polish.
Jerzy collapsed into his arms, sobbing.
One by one, we came down that gangplank. And one by one, the Maharaja greeted us. He touched our heads. He spoke to us. Not in the distant way adults usually spoke to children, but as if we were guests of honor.
When Piotr and I reached him, my brother was too shy to speak. The Maharaja knelt before him and said, “You’ve been very brave. Your journey is over now. You’re safe.”
Piotr whispered, “Are we really allowed to stay?”
“You’re not just allowed,” the Maharaja replied. “You’re wanted. This is your home now.”
That’s when I finally cried. After everything—the camps, the deaths, the rejections, the ocean—I cried because someone had finally said we were wanted.
The Camp That Became a Home
The Maharaja didn’t just give us a place to stay. He gave us a life.
He set up a camp called Valivade, about 20 miles from Nawanagar. It wasn’t a refugee facility in the way you’d imagine—rows of tents and rationed food. He built actual cottages. He hired teachers. He brought in doctors and nurses. He ensured we had clothing, books, sports equipment, musical instruments.
He visited us regularly—not for photographs or publicity, but to check on us personally. He’d sit with the younger children and listen to their stories. He’d watch our school plays and football matches. He’d join us for meals in the dining hall.
When some of us got sick—malaria was common in that region—he brought in the best doctors from Bombay. When we needed dental work, he arranged it. When we wanted to learn cricket, he sent coaches.
He treated us like we mattered.
The local people of Nawanagar welcomed us too. They invited us to festivals. They taught us Gujarati. They shared their food during holidays even though they themselves were rationing because of the war.
I remember Diwali 1942—our first autumn in India. The village women came to the camp and taught us girls how to make rangoli patterns with colored powder. They dressed us in bright clothes and took us to the temple. That night, the entire camp was lit with oil lamps, and we ate sweets until our stomachs hurt.
Piotr learned to play cricket. He became obsessed with it, practicing every day with the local boys. The Maharaja once joked that he’d create an all-Polish cricket team for Nawanagar.
The Education of Displaced Children
But the Maharaja understood something crucial: we weren’t just children who needed food and shelter. We were children who’d lost everything—our parents, our country, our identity. He knew that if we were going to survive, we needed more than physical care. We needed to remember who we were.
He hired Polish teachers who’d fled the war. They taught us Polish history, language, and literature. Every morning, we raised the Polish flag and sang the national anthem. The Maharaja himself attended these ceremonies sometimes, standing respectfully with his hand over his heart while we sang of a country that technically didn’t exist anymore.
He brought in priests so we could practice our Catholic faith. He ensured we celebrated Polish holidays—Constitution Day, Independence Day, Christmas in the Polish tradition. He never asked us to assimilate, never suggested we should become anything other than what we were.
“You are guests in India,” he told us once. “But you are Polish in your hearts. Never forget where you come from. One day, you will go home and rebuild your country. And when you do, I hope you will remember that you were loved here.”
Some of us called him “the Polish Maharaja.” He laughed when he heard that, but I think he was touched.
The Years We Spent in Paradise
We stayed in Nawanagar for five years. Five years that felt like a lifetime when you’re a child.
I grew from twelve to seventeen. I learned English and Gujarati. I studied mathematics and science. I performed in school plays—once as Juliet in a production of Romeo and Juliet that the Maharaja attended. He gave me a standing ovation.
Piotr grew from six to eleven. He lost his memories of Poland, of our parents. Sometimes that made me sad—he’d never remember Mama’s voice or Papa’s laugh. But he was happy in India. He had friends, he had cricket, he had a childhood that should have been impossible.
Many of us fell in love with India. Some wanted to stay forever. Others dreamed of returning to Poland. We argued about it late at night in the dormitories—whether we belonged to the past or the future, whether home was a place or a memory.
The Maharaja never pressured us either way. “You will know where you belong,” he said. “And wherever you go, you will carry India with you. Just as you will carry Poland.”
In 1947, the war ended and Poland’s borders were redrawn. A communist government took power under Soviet influence. The Polish government-in-exile arranged for our repatriation, but many of us were reluctant to leave.
How do you say goodbye to the place that saved your life? How do you thank the man who gave you back your childhood?
The Farewell That Broke Our Hearts
The day we left Nawanagar, the entire village came to see us off. Thousands of people lined the roads, throwing flowers, crying, waving goodbye. Local musicians played traditional songs. Children ran alongside our buses.
The Maharaja stood at the train station, shaking hands with each of us as we boarded. When I reached him, I couldn’t speak. I just hugged him, this man who’d been like a father to 740 children.
“You were never a burden,” he said quietly. “You were a blessing. Thank you for trusting us with your lives.”
Piotr gave him a drawing he’d made—a cricket player with a crown. The Maharaja laughed and promised to frame it.
As the train pulled away, we pressed against the windows, waving until we couldn’t see him anymore. Many of us were crying. We were going “home” to a Poland we didn’t remember, to a country now under communist rule, to an uncertain future.
But we were alive. We were educated. We were loved. And that was because one man had said “yes” when the entire world said “no.”
The Legacy Nobody Talks About
Here’s what they don’t teach in history books: The Maharaja received no international recognition for what he did. No awards from Britain. No medals from the UN (which didn’t exist yet). No global celebration.
He spent a considerable portion of Nawanagar’s treasury on our care—money that could have been used for his own people during wartime. He faced criticism from British officials who thought he was overstepping. He dealt with logistical nightmares and political complications.
And he never once complained. He never once asked for credit.
Most of the world never knew about the 740 Polish children of Nawanagar. The story was buried under the larger narratives of World War II, lost in the millions of other tragedies and triumphs.
But we remembered.
After I settled in England in the 1950s, I started writing letters—to newspapers, to historians, to anyone who would listen. I told them about Jam Sahib Digvijay Singhji. I told them about Nawanagar. I told them about the camp where 740 condemned children were given life.
Slowly, the story began to spread. Some of us returned to India years later to thank him again. In 1965, a group of former campers erected a memorial in Nawanagar. The Maharaja attended the ceremony, now an old man, and gave a brief speech.
“I did nothing extraordinary,” he said. “I simply did what any decent person would do when faced with suffering children. If the world finds that remarkable, then we must ask ourselves what kind of world we’ve built.”
He died in 1966. Thousands attended his funeral—not just from Nawanagar, but from across India and several former campers who traveled from Europe.
What He Taught Us About Humanity
I’m 96 years old now. Piotr died five years ago—peacefully, surrounded by grandchildren who carry both Polish and Indian names. Of the original 740 children, fewer than fifty of us are still alive.
But the lesson survives.
When people ask me what I learned from the Maharaja, I tell them this: He taught us that borders are imaginary, but suffering is real. He taught us that paperwork and politics should never matter more than human life. He taught us that one person with the courage to say “yes” can change the world for hundreds.
The British Empire had all the power, all the resources, all the authority. But they said “no.”
One small ruler with limited power said “yes.” And that made all the difference.
I think about that often now, watching the news, seeing new refugees, new crises, new children floating on boats toward ports that will turn them away. The names change. The oceans change. But the story remains the same: children condemned to die because the powerful find it inconvenient to save them.
And I wonder: Where are the Jam Sahibs of our time? Where are the people willing to defy the bureaucrats and say “you are welcome here”?
Because they exist. I have to believe they exist. Somewhere, someone is reading about a crisis and deciding to act. Somewhere, someone is opening their door when everyone else is closing theirs.
The Maharaja proved that heroism isn’t about grand gestures or military might. It’s about looking at suffering and refusing to look away. It’s about having the resources to help and choosing to use them. It’s about seeing children as children, not as problems or statistics or political complications.
A Message Across Decades
If you’re reading this and you have power—any power, even small power—remember us. Remember the 740 children who were condemned to die until one man said “no.”
Remember that paperwork can be fixed. Budgets can be adjusted. Politics can be navigated. But children who die at sea stay dead forever.
The Maharaja wasn’t a saint. He wasn’t perfect. He was just a man who, when faced with a choice between convenience and compassion, chose compassion.
That choice saved my life. It saved Piotr’s life. It saved 738 other lives.
And those lives went on to have children, who had children, who had children. I have five grandchildren now. Piotr had seven. Between the 740 of us, thousands of people exist today who wouldn’t exist if the Maharaja had said “no.”
Think about that. Thousands of lives—teachers, doctors, artists, parents, friends—all because one man did the right thing when it wasn’t easy, when it wasn’t profitable, when it wasn’t politically convenient.
That’s the power of saying “yes.”
That’s the power of seeing suffering and refusing to turn away.
That’s the legacy of Jam Sahib Digvijay Singhji, the Maharaja who saved 740 children the world had condemned to die.
And that’s why, 84 years later, I’m still telling this story. Because as long as there are children suffering somewhere in the world—and there always are—this story matters.
It reminds us that heroes don’t need armies. They don’t need empires. They don’t need permission.
They just need courage.
And humanity.
And the simple, profound willingness to say: “You are welcome here.”
