My auntie Edith passed away last week. She was a very special lady for all sorts of reasons but I would like to share with you a story about her early years. I wrote the story from the facts I gleaned from her over the years.
Flight
from Nazi Germany
At
the time I felt forsaken by my parents, yet excited at the prospect of seeing
the sea and travelling by boat for the first time at 11 years old. How could I have known what would come to
pass although, with hindsight, all the clues were there?
Life
as we knew it changed from the time my uncle from Frankfurt came to live with
us after losing his job for being Jewish.
Home was a farm in a small village where we ran a little shop selling
sugar, flour and suchlike, which supported my extended family. From the radio we learnt what was happening
further afield and so did the other villagers, who no longer frequented our
shop. The harvest workers, who had previously
enjoyed hearty meals in our kitchen, failed to turn up that year. The other handful of Jewish families moved
away from the village after Kristallnacht when the contents of our synagogue
were brought out and set on fire. My
younger sister and I were no longer allowed to attend the local school, so we
would amuse ourselves on the farm or playing hide and seek among the
gravestones in the Jewish and Christian cemeteries which are side by side.
After
my father and uncle were taken in for questioning by the Gestapo, the future
looked bleak. The elderly relatives who
lived with us could not be moved so my mother contacted the Jewish refugee
association to find a family in England to take in my sister and me.
Two
families who lived next door to each other in Leeds agreed to takes us. Arrangements were made; we were allowed to
take a small suitcase between us. Our
mother told us to hide our rings and necklaces from view during the journey and
that we should behave ourselves and be helpful to our host families. We promised her faithfully that we would be
good.
At
the railway station, we were put in the charge of a couple of older girls. Our anxiety increased when the relatives on
the platform began to wail and sob. We
were too small to look out of the crowded window to wave goodbye, but we never
thought it would be forever. Just as the
train started to move, a lady opened the door of the compartment and pushed in a
carrycot which contained a baby girl.
The
journey began. The Gestapo entered the
train before it crossed the border but, apart from confiscating a few bracelets
and rings from the older girls, left us alone.
At a station in Holland, some women gave us food and drink and then we
crossed by boat to England. It was cold
and dark and my first experience of the sea wasn’t a good one.
It has been 74
years since the Kindertransport brought me to England. My parents were transported to the Camp de
Gurs in 1940 and then to Auschwitz-Birkenau, where according to the carefully
kept records, they were exterminated in 1942.
I have been fortunate; a wonderful foster family, a long marriage,
children and grandchildren. I felt it
was my duty to embrace life and I am sure it was what my parents would have
wanted for me.
Very rarely do
I fall asleep without thinking about playing with my sister among the
gravestones in my village of Teschenmoschel then being welcomed home with open
arms by my parents. I also wonder about
the fate of that baby girl whose mother gave her the gift of life.
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Jewish Burial Ground at Teschenmoschel |
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Auntie Edith and Uncle Jack |