boarded in Vienna. Suddenly Lutz stopped as he saw someone he knew inside one of the carriages – it was Liesl Beck from the sports club; he turned to his parents and pointed her out to them. Having found a friend he reassured them that he would be all right. Liesl’s parents were standing beside the carriage window, and Lutz was relieved when they engaged in conversation with his parents, providing a welcome distraction from the emotional tension. Lutz wanted to get through the parting as quickly and as painlessly as possible, so giving his parents each a hug, he jumped up into the carriage beside Liesl, hoisting up his one suitcase beside him. He expected that they would meet again in England or in the United States of America, never imagining that this could be their last embrace. Liesl was equally pleased to see him and gave up her position by the window so that he could hear what his mother was shouting at him from the other side of the glass.
They weren’t at the station long before the train began to pull out, gradually increasing momentum. It was 10.30 a.m. Their parents, waving frantically, increased their pace as they tried to keep up with the moving train. Looking back towards the platform all Lutz could see was a sea of hands waving loving farewells to their vulnerable offspring. Lutz leaned out of the carriage window and yelled out encouraging final words to his parents who were gradually left behind as the train gathered steam and pulled out, away from their reach forever. The memory of this traumatic separation would haunt Lutz for the rest of his life.
The children’s carriages were attached to German trains and there were some German troops on the train as war was expected to be declared soon. Neither Lutz nor Liesl remember anyone being in charge, but all the younger children wore labels around their necks; they must have been the most precious cargo on board. Their eventual destination would be London, first travelling to the Hague on the Dutch coast.
Liesl remembers that she was wearing a tweed coat of blue-green wool dots and a hat with a turned-up brim; also that Lutz was wearing a beige ‘sports club’ windcheater. They both carried a small bag of possessions with one change of clothing – that was all they were permitted to take with them. In addition each child could take a maximum amount equivalent to ten shillings out of the country.
Liesl and Lutz negotiated with others in the carriage to sit opposite each other at the window where they practised their English on the way and talked about what England would be like. Liesl remembers that much of the landscape on the way to Holland was flat and open country. They tried opening the window but it was a steam train and soot blew in through the window, the grit irritating their eyes. When they ran out of enthusiasm for speech they both peered out of the grey wash of glass at the golden fields and rural scenes scrolling benignly past the window. They were apprehensive about what might happen at Emmerick, the German/Dutch border; whether they would be sent back or allowed to continue on their journey. They stopped at Mainz and Cologne before eventually reaching Emmerick. At the border uniformed Nazi officers entered the carriage and examined their passports. They shrank back into their seats as if trying to become invisible. The German officials searched through their bags and checked some of the children for money sewn into the seams of their clothing and hems of dresses. Some children were detained and sent back for reasons that neither Lutz nor Liesl could understand; perhaps their papers weren’t in order.
The train journey was long, tiring and hot, relieved only by sharing the refreshments that Lutz’s mother had packed for him. They didn’t see any adults on the train, but there were many on the platforms of the stations that they stopped at. Liesl noticed some of them staring at them, whispering to each other while glancing in their direction.
Lutz and Liesl travelled in the same carriage all the way to The Hague where they were checked off the train and herded onto a flat-bottomed ferry that crossed the North Sea to Harwich in England. They travelled by train from Harwich to Liverpool Street Station in London, where Lutz was met by his second cousin Hans Scherbel while Liesl sat for hours in a disused wooden hut waiting to be collected by her solicitor host family. She worked for them as a maid throughout the early war years, eventually settling in Nottingham (North England) in 1942, maintaining contact with Lutz throughout the ensuing years whenever possible.
Refuge in England
Hans Scherbel was Lutz’s elder by some ten or fifteen years. He was tall, dark-haired and bespectacled, working as a dentist in his own surgery in London, opposite St Paul’s Cathedral. He also had a surgery at home where he practised in the evenings and at weekends. Hans’ mother, Bertha, was a short woman with thick grey hair, her face traced with wrinkles and creased in perpetual consternation. She wore brown ribbed stockings beneath a tweed skirt, always donning an appropriate hat when she left the house. At home she wore a clean apron tied around her waist, exuding a practical but humourless demeanour.
Lutz had met his great-aunt Bertha and Hans a couple of times previously during the time they lived in Nuremberg but he wouldn’t have recognised them if he had bumped into them in the street. Due to their obligation as relatives, Lutz went to live with them at 10 Ditton Court Road in their single-storey house in Westcliff-on-Sea and was treated most unsympathetically (particularly considering his plight and his youth). His uncle was somewhat more receptive to Lutz’s presence in their home than great-aunt Bertha, who made it very clear from the beginning that she resented his appearance in their lives. Hans demonstrated great fondness for his mother and gladly accepted the responsibility of caring and providing for her. Mother and son preferred to keep to themselves and, except for Hans’ patients, people rarely came to the house.
The house wasn’t far from the beach, and Lutz regularly took himself off for walks to avoid the oppressive atmosphere inside the house. Hans and Bertha preferred to speak German to him, although they had already lived in England for quite a few years; speaking English would have been Lutz’s preference, if only to help him adjust more quickly to his new environment. They rarely addressed Lutz directly and then only if there was an essential domestic matter to discuss. This was disappointing for Lutz, who was used to being asked about his day and his progress. As an only child he was accustomed to being the focus of his family’s attention.
One day, not long after his arrival, his large cabin trunk arrived; it had been sent out by his parents just after he had left Germany. The trunk, which was mainly full of clothes (that Lutz was expected to eventually grow into), was about as high as the coffee table and approximately one by two metres in the other dimensions; there were shelves or layers constructed inside the trunk which was fabricated from some type of brown, wooden fibre – the lid fastened by means of two locks and latches. For some reason Lutz was never able to fathom, his great-aunt was furious with him at its unexpected arrival and insisted it be placed against the kitchen wall next to the dining table. He was expected to sit on the trunk during mealtimes when he would frequently turn his head to look out of the window to the leafy garden, at the rough and twisted branches of the apple tree, for some relief from the cheerless atmosphere inside. He missed his own family all the more for the coldness of this reception.
The night following the arrival of the large cabin trunk, Lutz was alone with his dejected ponderings as he reflected over the happenings of the last few days …
From the moment I arrived I was clearly not welcome in their home – I was an intruder. My great-aunt and Hans shared an exclusive bond, mother and son, not inviting or requiring any intrusion into their well-established domestic intimacy. She only had eyes for one man, her son. My coming had dramatically upset their daily routine. Maybe their established place in the small Westcliff community was threatened by my arrival. I wondered how many other Westcliff families would be harbouring innocent and harmless German refugees. Hans was a dentist and practised for the local population so presumably they would have enjoyed considerable respect and the benefits of some standing in this small seaside town.
Their intolerance towards my presence and their indifference to my physical and emotional wellbeing was totally unexpected, after all they were my relations. I had anticipated a
