that he was no hero. Heroes faced danger; he never had. They put their lives on the line; he had just worked at home in Hampstead, after a day being a stockbroker in the city. They avoided bullets and the secret police; he wrote letters, made telephone calls, and composed lists.

　　The fact that he had rescued 669 children from Czechoslovakia just as the Nazis invaded did not, in his mind, constitute heroism. He hadn't gone out there in 1938 with any burning urge to do good; just for a holiday, in fact. Nor had he gone looking for children to rescue. Instead they and their parents had come to him, as soon as word got round that he might be able to help them leave Prague and get to the West. From 6:00 a.m. the knocks would come at the door of his room in the Europa Hotel, and he would open it to find some shivering, starving, desperate figure.

　　When faced with a problem, his instinct was to solve it. So he made lists of the children, took their photographs, got them Home Office entry permits, found them foster families and organised their departure on trains, via the Netherlands, to Liverpool Street. After just three weeks in Prague, he went back to Britain and carried on the work there.

　　The British Committee for Refugees from Czechoslovakia gave him almost no help, so he took sole charge himself. The Home Office was slow with entry permits, so he copied some illegally. In search of foster-parents for the children he put their photos in Picture Post; in the hope of farther havens for them he wrote to governors and senators in America and even to President Roosevelt, to no avail. He could have rescued at least 2,000 more, he said later, if America had been willing to take any.

A hero might have got involved in the stress and distress of individual cases. He avoided that by treating them like a commercial transaction: like the world he knew, in fact. A market was created, takers were sought and any likely bidder would do. Siblings were separated, if necessary. Jewish children-they were almost all Jewish-were often placed with Gentile families. Mr Winton did not care and he just had to get the children out alive and fast. When they arrived, exhausted, at Liverpool Street he seldom greeted them himself, preferring to stay calmly at a distance. Only one event traumatised him: the disappearance of 250 children on the last transport of