Читать книгу Not Welcome - Sue Everett - Страница 12

The following is based on Lutz Eichbaum’s diary entries.

It was 23 May 1940 when we arrived at Huyton by army transport and I was immediately confronted with seething swarms of people in what appeared to be army barracks, a large field full of tents surrounded by barbed wire. We clambered out of the bus and were ordered into single file by a formidable-looking officer who informed us of our enemy alien status and read out the camp regulations. Other officers were simultaneously barking orders over the bewildering hubbub. We then queued up for blankets, a tin plate and pannikin.

I, with the other younger men under 25, were separated from the rest and herded towards a designated tent where we were each allocated a camp bed. In the process my uncle and I were separated and I was never to have the opportunity of seeing him again. I was not particularly sad to leave him but I did feel a sudden shock at being separated from the only person I knew. I was told that there were more than 3000 internees in this camp – presumably mostly German-Jewish refugees, many of them German-British citizens or residents, all of whom had been caught up in the ‘threat to the nation’ net and were now imprisoned behind barbed wire. I was quite overcome with the chaos and confusion but once I knew where I was to sleep felt a little more settled. My next concern was food. The sergeant’s quarters had been converted into a mess hut and we queued up there for a long time but there was not much on offer – a very limited choice of food and not enough of it.

I heard that there were some well known people detained in the camp, such as Professor Weissenberg, an inventor/scientist who was arrested while working as a guest lecturer at Southampton University; he was soon to be elected our camp leader. There were also a few notables: the Crown Prince Frederic of Prussia, Captain Von Rintelen, a German naval intelligence officer and Hans May, a Viennese composer and music director much renowned for his popular songs and his work with film and theatre. In fact, there was so much academic talent that a camp school was set up within a few days of our arrival, with a whole variety of subjects on offer. I was particularly interested in the English classes, as I wanted to take every opportunity to improve my spoken as well as written language skills. At that time there was a blackout on news both in and out of the camp, which meant no newspapers, also no letters could be written.

Just as things seemed to start running smoothly and I got used to a routine of sorts, beginning with roll calls at 7.30 a.m. and 9 p.m., lights out at 10.15, inspection at 10.45 a.m. and meals in between, two-thirds of the camp were transferred to the Isle of Man. Meanwhile 300 Italians had arrived, also rounded up for their perceived threat to the nation, but they left again after two weeks. For a while there were less people in the camp and the food was more plentiful and much improved. However by 1 July about 1500 people arrived from Kempton Park and Lingfield (where they had been detained at the respective racecourses further south) and sleeping and dining facilities became very crowded; I had to give up my bed to someone older and more in need of comfort than my younger, more resilient body.

During the next few days there were rumours about us being transported overseas (some people said Canada, or maybe South Africa) and on 2 July there was an announcement that 500 of us would leave for an unknown destination. I was surprised as I thought I would remain in England for the duration of the war. We were all asked to fill in forms and it was preferred if we volunteered to go but I never did – there was no real choice in the matter (anyway perhaps it wouldn’t be worse than staying at Huyton and there may even be the opportunity for freedom). An official read out our names in alphabetical order and we were placed in four lines, supposedly dividing us into various countries willing to receive us – maybe one or two lines for Canada, perhaps one line for South Africa or hopefully to the USA.

As I was perusing the other lines, listening for useful snippets of gossip and information about possible future destinations, I noticed a young man way back in the next line with a rather vague and lost look in his eyes. I hadn’t seen that look in Franz’s eyes before, but I easily recognised him as my best friend from our school-days. I knew that Franz had left Germany before me but I had no idea that he was still in England, I thought he was already in the United States of America with his parents and sister, Bella. I tried to catch his eye, waved and called out his name. Other men relayed his name down the line and he eventually acknowledged me, his expression lighting up immediately. We tried to communicate cryptically through a mime of gestures and I saw Franz pointing to someone further back in my own line. This person stepped out to one side and I saw that it was his father. I couldn’t understand why they were not in the same line. It was obvious what I must do if Franz and his father were not to be separated. By swapping places with Franz it wouldn’t affect the numbers and hopefully we would all be processed before the exchange was realised, if at all. Discreetly gesticulating, I indicated the idea to my friend who quickly caught on, in turn conveying the plan to his father and we made the swap without incident, exchanging places, different futures. Shortly afterwards Franz and his father went through for processing and left the camp.

A few days later we heard the dreadful news about the Arandora Star being torpedoed and sunk by a German U-boat off the coast of Ireland on its way to Canada; there had been only 444 survivors out of a total of more than 1200 German and Italian internees. Following this horrific loss of life, the survivors from the Arandora Star arrived at Huyton camp a few days later. The evening they arrived, a moving and dignified service was organised in memory of the unfortunate men who had drowned. Everyone attended to pay their respects to their compatriots and the highly charged emotional atmosphere was too much for some men who sobbed openly, no doubt thinking that the same fate might be awaiting themselves in the next few days. None of us had a lot of confidence for the safety of our own journey overseas. Some people started to panic and those few who had volunteered now had reservations but were unable to reverse their decision even if they’d wanted to. As for myself, I hadn’t volunteered for deportation, but found my name included on a compulsory list and, although apprehensive, resolved not to dwell on the matter, as there was nothing I could do to change my fate. Little did we realise that only seven days after the sinking of the Arandora Star and with extreme lack of sensitivity, the authorities would re-embark the survivors onto HMT Dunera from the same wharf from which the Arandora Star had sailed.

To take our minds off these worrying events a variety show was put on which temporarily gave us something to smile about, and I found it very entertaining. It was held in a large marquee where real artists took part, such as Landauer of ‘Ravitz and Landauer’ fame, a duo ensemble who played light music on two pianos and who had apparently often appeared on the BBC (English broad-casting network); I heard that they were sponsored by the Duke of Windsor to come to England after he had heard them both play in Vienna. Unfortunately Ravitz was in a different camp so Landauer played solo.

On 8 July we heard we were to leave camp two days later, on Wednesday. I was keen for any action to break the monotony of the camp, but apprehensive, having no idea whether I would reach my destination, never mind where it would be; Canada I thought. As if sensing the inner turmoil felt by many, that same evening Mr Stadlen, a talented and renowned Austrian pianist, gave a soothing piano recital which provided welcome respite from our fears; he played ‘both ancient and modern music ranging from Mozart to Bartok’ (I read this on the program pinned up on the announcement board on the way into the marquee).

We left Huyton on 10 July. It was raining hard and it was announced that we would de-camp after lunch. We were taken out onto the parade ground and lined up into groups of fifty. We departed at 1 p.m. marching in step through the busy village to the train station. I carefully took in the distinguishing features of my surroundings thinking I might not see England again – the high street characterised by three pubs and a market square, the local school and sports ground. The townspeople had taken time out from their daily business to stop and stare, only the children didn’t look at us suspiciously and some of them smiled and waved. In so short a time things had changed from friendly acceptance to barely disguised hostility. Hopefully we would find a better reception where we were heading.

We reached the terminal and boarded the train that was waiting there for us. It pulled out of the little station at 2.30 p.m. and took us the relatively short distance to Liverpool Riverside station. We were then marched to the landing stage at Princess Dock where the troop liner HMT Dunera awaited us, ominously lurking under a heavily laden sky. We gave up our gas masks, as presumably we wouldn’t need them where we were going, although I still had no idea of our destination; then at 4 p.m. we were ordered on board.

My parents were hoping to receive their US visas in the next six weeks and to soon be on their own journey; hopefully I would easily be able to make arrangements to join them there. The general view was that we were going to Canada. Once there, if all went according to plan, I didn’t think there would be too much difficulty in finding my way to meet my parents in New York. Apart from my concerns about the safety of the voyage I had every reason to expect reasonable treatment from the British soldiers in charge of us aboard HMT Dunera; after all, Britain had given me refuge from the same oppression she feared for herself. I was to be entirely mistaken in this assumption. My optimistic, but perhaps naïve, faith in the British military and Government was dashed even before I stepped aboard.