I was born in 1931 in Bytom, in the Upper Silesia region, which was then part of Germany. My immediate family consisted of my parents, an older and younger brother, and myself. I no longer remember when my parents first told us that we were going to England, but one day, a small English book with German translation appeared and my older brother and I, with the help and encouragement of our parents, tried to read from it.
Soon I was taken to a dressmaker’s, where I was fitted with a new coat and dress. We were each given a shiny black suitcase with a tan binding, in which the few things we were to take with us were packed. We were withdrawn from school, but before we left Bytom, I was taken back once more to say goodbye to my teacher and my classmates. We spent three happy days in Berlin with family of my mother’s, in whose home I had spent many pleasant holidays.
And then, suddenly, my family and I were at the station. We waited in a large hall filled with other parents and children until our names were called. When my turn came, my parents gave me a hug and a gentle push, and reminded me to obey the people in charge. That was the last I saw of them. It was May 1939.
My recollection of the trip is sketchy. I was not in the same carriage as my brothers, but I later discovered them in the boy’s section of the train. That evening, I was aggravated by a severe toothache and cried a great deal, feeling miserable and lonely. Sometime during the night, we left the train to board a ship. I recall being told to undress and set into bed by my roommate, a kindly older refugee girl, but I remember nothing of the journey from the Hague to Harwich, England, where we boarded a waiting train. Once inside, we were each given a packet of sandwiches. I marvelled at the whiteness of the bread and at its strange, though not unpleasant, taste.
Later in the day, I vaguely recall standing in a room full of people. My name was called, and when I came forward, someone handed me over to a lady who led me away. It was a traumatic moment. Until then, I had been together with other children in the same situation as I, who spoke the same language. Now I was cut off from everything familiar and my parents were far away. I felt a lump in my throat, but I was ashamed to cry. This was something I would experience time and again, whenever I moved and found myself in unfamiliar surroundings, even as an adult with children of my own.
The first family to give me shelter in England was far more affluent than mine and the size of their house amazed me. The head of the household was a doctor. There was one child, a boy, who was two or three years older than I. I think my foster parents must have been rather socially active, for they were often out and I was, for the most part, taken care of by their live-in maid.
In September 1939, war broke out and my foster parents, possibly tired of the responsibility (I was not an easy child), had me transferred to a refugee school in Folkstone. The school was headed by Dr. G., an exceptionally kind and intelligent woman. She was an experienced teacher and principal, having run her own very successful school in Berlin. Unfortunately, the town of Folkstone was on the southeast coast of England, over which German bombers passed on their way to London and other cities. In June 1940, our school had to close and we, as well as many other Folkstone children, were evacuated.
Our next destination was South Wales and my group ended up in the small village of Caerwent. We were taken to the local school, where families, who had volunteered to house and feed one or more children, came to pick up their charges. The warm-hearted family that took me in also took another girl from the school. After about three weeks, we were transferred to the nearby village of Tintern, where Dr. G. was staying and could keep an eye on us. We were temporarily billeted with an elderly couple until, after several days, I was taken to the house of the H.’s, who offered to look after me. I was surprised to find out that Mr. H. was Jewish, although his wife and daughter, a girl my age, were both practising Catholics.
I lived quite contentedly with the H.’s from July 1940 until January 1942, when the B’nai B’rith committee that was responsible for refugee children arranged for me to be moved to a more Jewish environment in the city of Newport, which is around 65 kilometres from Tintern. Mrs. H. drove me to my new home – a hostel for 12 girls aged 10 (like myself) to 16. It was not a very happy experience: the hostel was run by a matron and a cook, two singularly unpleasant women. The food was insufficient and the discipline rough.
To our relief, in November 1942, the place was closed and the girls dispersed to different homes and hostels. Two of the younger girls and myself were sent temporarily to London, where we were given a room in a hostel for older refugee boys, most of whom were already working. It was a glorious holiday, during which we were thoroughly spoiled by the staff and the young men. Unsupervised, we patronized the local cinemas without hindrance.
I had been there for about three weeks when Mrs. H., hearing that I was in London, came to take me back to Tintern until a home could be found for me in a safer area. I was more than happy to go with her, for I had come to regard the H. family almost as my own. In January 1943, the H.’s were advised that a place was available in a hostel for evacuees in Surrey. For the umpteenth time, I packed my little black suitcase with its tan binding and prepared to leave for a new home late one January afternoon.
I said goodbye to Mrs. H., who had accompanied me, and followed a young woman upstairs to a bedroom with four bunk beds and two dressers. I was shown the bed I was to occupy and the drawer where I could keep my clothes, and then I was left alone. The familiar lump arose in my throat as I surveyed the unfamiliar surroundings. A little while later, the young woman returned and took me to the dining room, where I was introduced and given a seat at one of the four tables. So began two and a half of the happiest years I spent in England.
The hostel was run by a dedicated staff of young people – all under the age of 30 – headed by a rabbi and his wife who were members of the Jewish Orthodox youth movement B’nai Akiva, and were staunchly Zionist. We attended the local school and after classes, were given Hebrew lessons by the competent and knowledgeable staff. There were about 30 children aged six to 13, most of whom were evacuees from London.
The war ended in May 1945 and bit by bit, the hostels emptied, as children returned to their families in London. In July, the Rowledge hostel closed and I was sent – again temporarily – to another hostel in Ascot, from where, in September, I was finally transferred to a girl’s hostel in northwest London. We were 18 young women between the ages of 14 and 22; all but two of us were already working. We were the children whose parents had perished in the Holocaust and we had, henceforth, to start our own lives without the benefit of the experience and love of those parents.
I am profoundly grateful to all the selfless people who took me into their homes and made me feel wanted; to my friend L., herself a refugee, without whose love and kindness life in London would have been grim; and to the H.’s, whose genuine concern for my welfare I can never adequately repay. To the staff of the Rowledge hostel, I owe an extra measure of gratitude for their patience and devotion, their high standard of care and their effort to instill in us the moral and ethical values appropriate to our ages and an appreciation of our Jewish culture and religious heritage, which gave me firm roots in a turbulent postwar world. But my deepest love and gratitude go to my parents, whose courage and foresight saved our lives. Their sacrifice is vindicated by the survival of their children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren.