It's Halloween. A time when the curtains that separate life and death are thrown open, allowing movement between the worlds. It is an easy transition, and one that Johnny took this morning at 10:30am, GMT. He was 80.

Johnny was a charming old fellow, always quick with a joke, smoking his pipe by the gas fireplace. He wasn't very mobile, and he was often tired, but he never turned a visitor away, instead entertaining them while Mary made the tea.

He was a decorated WWII soldier who kept his medals framed with a pride of accomplishment - not a pride in the regime that awarded him.

At 15, Johnny came home from his part-time job in a mill in southern Poland, to find his sisters hysterical, and his parents missing. Within three days the news came: His parents were being held in a military camp called Aushwitz, and they would be released as soon as Johnny and his older brother "volunteered" for the army. Needless to say they were in uniform in very short order. True to their word, the Germans released Johnny's parents, but it was too late to save his mother. She had contracted TB at Aushwitz, and would die within two months.

Johnny hated his situation, but made the best of it. He was the type of person who always strove to be the best, no matter what he was doing. He was a decorated member of the 7th German Airborne Division when his unit was captured by the Allies, and he was turned over to the Polish Armed Forces. He was moved to a base in Scotland, where he met Mary. They have been married since 1947. Mary was by his side this morning.

Johnny leaves behind Mary, his three daughters and two sons, and his 13 grandchildren - my husband among them. He also leaves behind 8 great-grandchildren. And a granddaughter-in-law who loved him very much, and will miss him terribly.