Based on an interview with my Grandmother.
As a young girl growing up in pre-war Germany, little did I
dream that my idyllic childhood was soon to come to an abrupt
halt.
I was born in Germany in 1929, and by the time I was nine, my
country had become a very dangerous place for Jews to live.
The situation rapidly deteriorated and emigration was on
everybody's minds.
My parents had taken in a young cousin whose parents had
already left the country, and since she was given my bed, I
slept on the floor in my parent's bedroom.
Lying there in the dark, night after night, my little ears
would hear the frantic discussions from the adjoining living
room.
"Where can we go? Which countries are still allowing Jews
in?" South America, Israel and England were among some of the
suggestions.
We finally left our beloved home, not knowing if we would
ever see it again! My parents had planned to travel to the
only place a Jew can really call home — Israel. First
we would go to Holland, where we had some relatives, then on
to England, and finally to our longed-for destination.
We packed accordingly. Apart from a trunk containing the day-
to-day things we would require on our journey, we also packed
for our (hopefully) short stay in England. The rest of our
belongings were neatly arranged into a lift heading for
Israel. We never did get there, though, and this was the last
time we were to see our possessions.
My parents, younger sister and I, arrived in England on May
1st 1939. My mother spoke a barely passable English, but the
rest of us couldn't speak a word of it. Children learn new
languages quickly, and by November of that year, I was able
to pass my 11+.
We settled in a one-room flat in Golders Green, London, and
from there we went on to stay in three or four different
places, as we could only stay a short while in each one.
In the fourth one, in Cricklewood, we were bombed out one
night. We fearfully hurried down to the shelter but when we
returned in the morning, we were in for a shock.
"You are NOT staying in my house any more!" The landlady
shrieked. "It's your fault the house was bombed! You
signalled to the Germans and told them where to bomb, so get
out NOW!"
"What nonsense," retorted my mother. "This is absolutely
preposterous!"
"Stop arguing with me. You've got two hours to pack, and I'm
not going to let you stay a moment longer!"
We were left stranded once again. What were we to do now?
Fortunately we had a relative who lived in West Hampstead, so
we took a bus over to her house.
A couple of weeks later, there was an ominous knock at the
door. The Police had come to arrest my father, since he was a
German citizen. I grabbed my father's hand and burst out
crying.
"Why are you crying, little girl?" asked the stony-faced
policeman.
"Because you are taking my Daddy away!" I sobbed, as memories
of fears experienced in Germany re-surfaced. My beloved
father was sent to the Isle of Man where he was interned for
nine long months.
After that my mother decided to go ahead with our plans to
leave London and head for the countryside. It was becoming
increasingly difficult to stay in the city, as London was
undergoing the infamous Blitzkrieg. Well do I remember those
long nights, huddled in the relative safety of the dreary
bomb shelters, listening to the shrieks and crashes all
around us.
Don't ask me how, but my wonderful mother managed to procure
a cottage for us in a tiny village in Symonds Yat, which lay
near the river Wye. We went to the nearest town, Ross-on-
Wye, once a week for our shopping. Any larger supplies had to
be obtained from the next town, Hereford.
After living there for a few weeks, we moved to a nearby
village, Sellack. The cottage was called Lawless Cottage, and
it stood alone in the middle of a large field. It was a good
fifteen-minute walk to the front gate, where the postman
would leave the occasional letter for us.
As the cottage used to be a school, it consisted of a room
with a long table and chairs around it — the
schoolroom. There were also numerous small rooms with two
bunk beds in each. This was the entire cottage. No kitchen or
bathroom. We had no electricity, gas, toilet or running
water.
We used candles and oil-lamps for light, and a coal fire for
warmth. My mother purchased a small oil-stove on which she
cooked all our food, including the vegetables that we planted
in front of the cottage. For the toilet, we used a bucket in
the garden which had to be regularly emptied! Water was
obtained from the well outside, and in the winter, when it
would freeze over, the ice needed smashing with a hammer to
be able to pump water.
Life wasn't easy, especially without Father, but with
optimism and faith, both of which our mother had in
abundance, we managed. Our landlady, a tall aristocratic
woman, was known in the village as 'The Lady of the Manor,'
because she was the richest woman in Sellack, and owned a
(relatively) enormous mansion! We paid her rent of 1 pound
Sterling per month.
The great day arrived when Father was finally free to join us
again. How wonderful life was now! Mother had meanwhile found
a school in Ross-on-Wye for my sister and me to attend. It
had evacuated from London, and although small, was run very
properly. There were only seventeen girls, two teachers and a
Headmistress. We had a uniform, plenty of homework every day,
and discipline was strictly enforced. The War was not going
to stand in the way of continuing our education!
Since there was a half-hour walk to the bus stop, we had to
leave our house at 6.40 each morning to catch the 7.20 bus.
The walk was followed by an hour-long drive. Our father was
the one who walked us every morning to the bus, and in the
dark winter mornings, he would teach us about the stars as we
trekked through the fields. A daily astronomy lesson!
Life continued on like this until the end of 1942, when we
finally left Sellack. We settled in Wimbledon, outside
London, where my sister and I attended Wimbledon County
Grammar School.
Four years later we moved back to London.
"With thanks to Mrs. J. H. for help with this story."
