It belongs to my father-in-law, Leon. His mother took it from the Polish farm where he was born. The pot went with them on their journey of survival from Poland to Siberia; to Persia and to Africa during the course of the second world war. He parted with his mother and sister, at the age of fifteen, in Persia to join the Polish Free Army. He survived the North African campaign, the Sicily landings and Monte Cassino (not without being wounded several times). The pot travelled to Africa with his mother and sister who also coped with extreme hardship. Eventually with the help of The Red Cross they were all reunited in London and settled in Scotland. He is the only surviver now. He cannot speak about the war without breaking down, but one story he told about combating starvation in Persia was that they collected desert turtle eggs and when they cooked them the whites of the eggs stayed transparent. They could only eat the yoke. The pot looks so basic an item. I have been heating milk for cofee in it for many years without any thought for it. One day he said that it came with them from Poland. It then took on a meaning and evokes a history with associated emotions difficult to describe.