All language subtitles for Into.the.Arms.of.Strangers.Stories.of.the.Kindertransport.2000.1080p.WEBRip.x264-RARBG

WOMAN: I still have dreams,
and certain things come back.

I don't know what age I am,
but life is quite normal.

Whatever we're doing
is an everyday happening.

And this is when I wake up.

And as old as I am,
I'm still sobbing.

[Children singing
"Alle V gel Sind Schon Da"]

NARRATOR: In 1933,
few of the Jewish families

who lived in Germany,
Austria, and Czechoslovakia

foresaw how much their lives
were about to change.

None of their children realized

how soon their childhood
was about to end.

WOMAN: I was a very happy
little girl growing up.

My father absolutely
adored me.

I mean, there was
never anything

that I could have
possibly done wrong.

My father used to
go out with me shopping.

And I always used to
admire this one suit,

which was for ladies.
I was only a kid.

And I always said, "Oh, daddy,
I would love to wear that
suit."

So one day, he said,
"Should we go in there?"

And I said, "That's for
big ladies. I--I can't--"

"Well, let's go in there."

And he went in there
and they took my measurements,

and that suit was made for me.

And I came home,
and my mother was devastated.

"What are you buying this
little girl all this stuff
for?

She doesn't need that."

And my father said,
"She is my pride and joy,

and she needs everything
I can get for her."

[Vienna Boys Choir singing]

MAN: my parents were sort of
middle-class people,

and my father was
a middle level bank manager

and my mother,
a lady of leisure.

And I was a very much
desired first child.

Uh, they were both
around 30 or so.

We had one of these very nice
apartments in Vienna

with a high ceiling,

lots of light, as I remember it,
big windows,

and I guess I was spoiled.
I mean, in addition to them,

there was of course
the inevitable maid,

nursemaid in the house,
in those days.

Uh, my grandmother looked
in
often and lived nearby.

And it was, in many ways,
a rather idyllic life.

And I was indeed sort of
the center of the universe.

[Choir singing
"Ja Do Lesa Nepojedu"]

WOMAN: we had mother,
father, and my sister,

who was 4 years
younger than I was.

We had a very happy childhood,
carefree childhood.

My father was always
busy during the week,

but when he was home,
he often took me for walks

by the river, mostly,
and talked about everything.

And that brought us
probably closer.

I always felt father and I

were protecting my mother
and my sister.

I don't know what we were
protecting them from.

Heil! Heil!

Heil! Heil!

WOMAN: I was about
just under 8 years old

when, when uh,
Hitler came to power.

I'd got some school friends,
and my mother always tried

to make a birthday party for us.

The table was set.

We were--I was sort of
very excited.

Nobody came.

Not a single child came
to this birthday party.

And, uh, that was the first
terrible blow to me.

I know it sounds trivial,

but it was the first
sort of
comprehension for a
child

to understand that
you are ostracized,

that there's something
different about you.

[Singing]

NARRATOR: For Jewish children,
life under Hitler

became increasingly
isolated and threatening.

While the Nazis stripped
their parents

of their jobs and citizenship,

the children were gradually
barred from schools, parks,

theatres, swimming pools.

WOMAN: I was over-protected

because of the Hitler
dangers outside the home,

but very much loved in the home.

My mother sitting on
my father for a cuddle

was an everyday occurrence.

I had to join in,
because otherwise

I would have been jealous.

So he had to have both of us
on his lap.

My father used to say,
"I'm too old to start again."

Although he spoke
perfect English,

he felt he was just
not young enough

to start in a new country.

And the other sentence,
which was because

his father and
grandfather and so on,

uh, were born in Germany,

that this has got to change,
that this madman, Hitler,

can't possibly last.

MAN: I feared every day.

I just was, uh, most unhappy
going to school.

I was walking on the street.

6 or 7 boys came,
called me "Jew bastard,"

and then attacked me
and threw me

through the plate-glass window.

I was cut severely,

and I had to go to the
hospital for stitching,

and I didn't want to go to
school there any more either.

I-I just felt that I was
threatened constantly.

NARRATOR: As Hitler
strengthened his control,

he began looking
for opportunities

to extend Germany's power
beyond its borders.

In March 1938,

German troops entered Austria

and, without firing
a single shot,

annexed the country
to the Reich.

WOMAN: The first thing that
happens when a disaster
strikes,

nothing changes.

You think there's going
to be some great drama,

and you go to bed,
put your nightgown on,

and you say the shema to your
mother, and then you go to bed.

and you think, oh,
this isn't so terrible.

But the next morning,

my parents took me downstairs
into the street.

The streets were full of
new uniforms I'd never seen.

And the young people wore
the red bands around their arms

with the swastika, and I
didn't know what that meant.

And they were stretching out
their arms in the Hitler
salute.

And there were flags everywhere,
these new red flags,

with the white circle
and the black swastika.

My main sense of
something wrong was the haste

with which my parents got me
back into the house.

FUCHEL: Suddenly, I couldn't go
to my normal school any more.

And I was sent off
to a makeshift school

at the end of the tram line.

And I did it alone,
even at age 7,

and went to the end of the line,

and then I would just walk on
till I came to this house.

Word got back to my parents
that while on the tram,

I was a very
talkative little boy.

I told them all the bad things
that Herr Hitler was doing.

I thought that Herr was
his first name, of course.

And, uh, and the word got back
to my parents that maybe,

um, they should--
I shouldn't be travelling alone.

And my father then came with me.

And he didn't say much,
but he hardly ever did,

but he, you know,
let it be known

that it's not wise to go around

saying bad things
about Herr Hitler.

NARRATOR: In the weeks following
the annexation of Austria,

Nazi authorities had
enacted
all the anti-Jewish laws

it had taken Hitler 5 years
to put into place in Germany.

MAN: Anyone coming from Vienna,
it was very dramatic.

The reality of it struck me
when my parents talked about

giving up the apartment,
that we have to leave.

And that was something,
you know,

that just--the bottom falls.

I mean, everything
falls out of you.

I mean,
this is all I knew.

And we had to give it up,
we had to leave.

And that probably was
the biggest blow I had.

I mean, just the idea that
it'll all end the way it is.

My mother was an activist,

and she knew something
had to be done.

And the decision was
to go to England

to be hired as a domestic

because the English would
take young women

who would not interfere
with the labor market.

The plan was,
she would go ahead,

she would try and get me out,
and my father.

SEGAL: This is the time
when I remember.

There was no conversation
among the grownups

except how to get out of Vienna.

It's interesting because
we are now asked,

"How come you didn't leave?"

And when I think of
what it meant to leave,

what--it--
how impossible it was to
leave.

First of all, you had
to have a sponsor

in the country you were going
to
who would promise that one

would not become a burden
on the government.

You would have to get a visa

from the State Department or
the government to be allowed
in.

Then you had to get
an exit permit from the Nazis.

All these things
had to come together,

and they had a time span
in which they would expire,

and you had to collect
all these things together

so that they would all be ready.

And it usually didn't happen.

The hardest thing was, though,
to find a country to go to.

The countries that were under
discussion were Argentina,

Uruguay, Paraguay,
Venezuela, Shanghai, Cuba,

the Dominican Republic.

I remember going with my father
to the American consulate.

There was a queue
around the block,

up the stairs, around the room.

We are now in the late summer
of 1938.

I got to the United States
in May 1, 1951.

It was a 13-year quota for us.

NARRATOR: German troops
had barely entered Austria

when Hitler demanded
the annexation of Sudetenland

in Czechoslovakia.

He insisted that the province,

which was home to over
3 million ethnic Germans,

be allowed to secede
and join the Reich.

On October 1,
with international agreement,

German troops marched
into Sudetenland,

adding 1/5 of Czechoslovakia
to the Reich,

and opening the way for
further
dismemberment of the country.

HAYMAN: From then on,
people were wondering

what's going to happen next.

Father was an optimist

because he did business
with people in France

who wrote and said,
"It's going to be bad. Get out."

But for father, no, things
like that wouldn't happen.

He had a greater faith
in mankind.

He always used to say
that he would

rather trust people
and be disappointed

than go through life
not trusting anybody.

NARRATOR: Less than
half a year later,

Hitler would destroy
the Czech state.

But now the Nazis continued
their persecution of the Jews.

In November, they orchestrated
a vicious pogrom,

which they later
called "Kristallnacht",

the night of broken glass.

ROSENFELD: I had had
a strange dream in the night

that my father
was being arrested.

Our evening meal that evening,

that was the last meal I ever
remember having with my father.

I looked at him, and I thought,

well, I hadn't really seen
his features properly.

And you know how you look
at somebody intensely.

And something told me, you know,

I must imprint that image
of him on my mind.

WOMAN: Before
I went to bed,

my father,
in a rather stern voice,

said to me,
"if you hear any

"strange noises
during the night,

"immediately get out of bed

and go into that wardrobe
in the hallway."

And I said,
"I don't understand."

And, quite differently
than my father

would normally
answer my questions,

he said, "Don't ask
any questions.

Just do as you're told."

ALLARD: I was woken up
at 2.00 in the morning,

with terrible banging
on the door.

and there were two Nazis
at the door, shouting,

"You're all under arrest.

Put some clothes on
and come with us."

I remember it was a very cold,
very dark night,

and we all went off
to an assembly point,

which was like a big square.

And there were just
thousands of other Jews.

And I mean thousands.

And there were people I
knew
and people I didn't know,

and people getting beaten up,
and people crying.

I think everybody was petrified.

I remember, I think,
also very vividly,

that they were
beating up the rabbi,

and they had fetched the Torahs
out of the synagogue.

And I think they were
trampling on them.

[Glass breaking]

HELLMAN: I took my bicycle
and went to school as always.

There was no Jewish
business that I passed

that wasn't broken into.

The merchandise was either on
the street or looted
completely.

As I got closer to school,

I saw huge pillars of smoke
coming from the sections

where the two big synagogues
in Frankfurt were.

And I saw that
they were on fire.

ROSENFELD: Our school
happened to be

just opposite on the street
where the synagogue was.

I was dragged out with
the stream of children.

Everybody went to the playground
to watch these flames.

And suddenly, somebody said,
"Oh, there's a Jew.

Let's throw her
on the fire as well."

I don't know how I got home.

I still don't know today
how I got home.

And when I got home, my mother
was absolutely shocked.

My father had been arrested.

My father was quite
an outspoken person,

and so when they came
to Buchenwald

and they took away all
the men's braces and shoelaces,

he protested and said,

"You can't treat these
old people like this."

So they made an example of him,

and they beat him to death
in front of everybody

in order to instill
terror and obedience.

They offered us my father's
ashes in return for money,

and eventually the urn came.

And we buried it
in the Jewish cemetery.

But, of course, whether it was
his ashes, one never knows.

EPSTEIN: We heard loud banging
on the door downstairs,

and so my aunt, my mother,
and I ran up into the attic,

and we were hiding
in an old wardrobe up there.

And I do remember the feeling

as though I had spent my entire
life in that wardrobe.

And I also remember
whispering to my mother,

"I want to get out of here, and
not just out of this wardrobe.

I want to get out of Germany."

NARRATOR: World revulsion
was swift,

yet Britain was the only country

willing to relax
its immigration controls,

and then only for children
who would not threaten

British jobs or public funds.

Days after the Nazi pogrom,

Anglo-Jewish leaders met with
Prime Minister Chamberlain

and urged him to let into the
country unaccompanied children,

Christian as well as Jewish,
up to the age of 17.

6 days later,
Quakers joined Jewish leaders

to present the government
a concrete rescue plan

to be funded by refugee
and religious organizations.

That night, the House of Commons
debated the issue

and approved the plan.

MAN: My youth leader said,
"Call Otto Hirsch.

There is a job for you
to be done."

So I went and saw him,
and he said,

"Listen. I have a request.

"We have been informed
that the British government--

"the House of Commons--

"had discussed the destiny
of children in Germany

"after all this publicity,

"and they are disgusted.

"They came to the conclusion

"to accept children
for a certain time.

"We have an office
for the operations.

See what you can do."

NARRATOR: As the transports
got under way

in Germany and Austria,

thousands of
Sudetenland refugees

continued to flee to Prague.

English stockbroker
Nicholas Winton

was summoned by a friend to view
the situation for himself.

He toured refugee camps
with Doreen Warriner,

a representative of
the British Committee

for Refugees
from Czechoslovakia.

WINTON:
We did have the feeling

that the position
was much more urgent

than anybody in London thought.

Doreen Warriner said to me,

"I don't know what we're going
to do about the children."

And almost spontaneously I said,

"Well, if when I get back
to England

"I find that the Home Office
will allow them in,

we'll try and get some of them
into England,"

And when I went
to the Home Office,

they said,
"Under certain conditions,

you can bring in
as many children as you like."

We had to produce
somebody who'd guarantee

£50 against their reemigration,

which I suppose
is about £1,000 today--

it was quite a lot of money--
and then I had to find a
family

who'd take each
individual child.

It certainly wasn't easy,
but it wasn't that
difficult.

I mean, it's more easy
to get somebody to take a child

than to take a grownup.

I tried to get America involved

and wrote to a lot
of the senators

and got a lot of answers
saying how concerned they were

and all the various reasons
why they couldn't do anything.

NARRATOR: In the United States,
a congressional bill

to admit 20,000 child refugees
died in committee.

One of the arguments
against the bill

was that accepting children
without their parents

was contrary to the laws of God.

SEGAL: My father said,

"Mummy and I cannot leave,
but you're going to leave."

I said, "What do you mean,
I'm going to leave?"

"You're going to England,"
he said.

"When?"

"Thursday," he said.

I knew that she ought--

that I ought to want
to send her away,

but I couldn't imagine to give
permission for her to go.

My husband said, "She must go,"

and he didn't listen to me.

He just arranged
everything for her,

and I had to give in,

and I saw in the end
that he was right,

but the hurt is unbelievable.

That cannot be described.

[Girl singing in German]

MAN: My father died
when I was 3 years old,

and my mother, she had to
go out to work,

so I wound up in the orphanage.

When Polish Jews were arrested
all over Germany,

I'd found out
that my mother was deported,

so I was on my own.
I had nobody, no one, nothing.

I went to the Gemeinde,

and there was this
wonderful woman.

She knew me, and she said,
"Ah, Pascha,

what are you doing here?
Where's your mother?"

And so I said,
"My mother has been deported,"

And she said to me,

"You know, there's something
happening now.

I think you should get onto
it."
It was the Kindertransport.

She said, "You better
register immediately

"because you're all by
yourself.
What are you going to do?"

So I said,
"Okay. I'll go to England,"

Just like matter-of-fact,
as if it was nothing.

ROSENFELD: In hindsight,

I think my sister and I,
we owe my father's death

that we have survived

because they selected children
who had problems--

uh, who'd lost parents
or whose parents

could no longer
look after them--

uh, to go on the
Kindertransport.

HAYMAN: Mother came home
and said that she enrolled us,

and about a fortnight later,

my parents were told
that I can go,

and a week or two after that,

they had the thing
to say that my sister can go.

So, now both of us would go,

and that must have been
very hard.

That would have been hard
to decide that we both go.

We had about a fortnight
before we left,

and into that fortnight,
both mother and father

were trying to give the
instructions and the guidance

that they hoped to have
their whole life to give.

HELLMAN: My Bar Mitzvah
was a month after Crystal Night,

and it was held in an attic.

My father was not there.

My father was still
in a concentration camp,

and it was just my mother.

I felt terrible.

There was no celebration
afterwards.

There was nothing.

You read your part
from the Torah,

and you did your Haftarah,
and you were finished,

and we were lucky that a minyan
showed up altogether.

I certainly felt,
the sooner that we could

get out of Germany,
the better off it would be.

My house mother wrote
to Baron James de Rothschild,

would he take 24 of her boys,
her husband, herself,

and her two daughters?

And he wrote back in January
that he would.

WOMAN: We thought of England
as a land of lords and ladies

because of the king and queen,

and the two little princesses
appealed to us very much.

We saw those pictures
in the newspapers--

The coronation with
their ermine clothes

and their crowns
on their heads--

and we really thought,
in England,

that is how people got dressed--

perhaps not every day,
but sometimes on Sundays.

So that was our expectation
of England.

ALLARD: I was told this was
the
best thing that could happen,

and I was so lucky because
everybody around me

was trying to find places
for their children,

and suddenly out of the blue,

I had a chance
to come to England.

How lucky can I be?

EPSTEIN: My parents said
that I would be able

to go back to school,
I will learn another language,

I will live in London, I will
be
able to travel on the subway,

and painted a wonderful,
beautiful picture

and added again and again,

"And we'll follow soon."

However, a few days or so
before I was to leave,

I um, accused my parents
of trying to get rid of me.

I said to my parents,
"I'm really a gypsy child,

"and you're now trying
to get rid of me.

You adopted me, and now
you no longer want me."

I must have really deeply,
deeply hurt my parents.

NARRATOR: Since German
policy in 1938

was to force Jewish emigration,

the Nazis willingly
let the children leave

as long as they did not
take any valuables with them.

Each child was allowed
one suitcase,

one piece of hand luggage,

and 10 Reichmark.

ALLARD: We had 4 days
to pack and go.

And they were just
so busy getting ready

the things I was going to take

that I don't think that
they or I had time to think

about what was happening.

ROSENFELD: My mother prepared
all our clothes,

lovingly embroidered our names
in every piece of clothing,

even every handkerchief,
every sock, everything.

CAHN: I think
I took my teddy bear.

and my mother always slept on

a little pillow on
top of her big pillow.

And I asked her whether
I could take that with me.

So she said, "Sure."

HAYMAN: Mother had new clothes
made for both of us.

We had a dressmaker at home
who did all the sewing.

And some she bought.

Otherwise, around my neck,
because we were baptized,

hoping that would be
of some help,

I had a little cross,

and I had a little elephant,

and I had sort of, um,
it wasn't a Jewish star,

but it was a little angel,
which--I put them all together

because I thought
the Almighty can choose

which religion
he would like me to belong to.

Those are the things I remember.

SEGAL: I remember
that last evening,

all the cousins and all
the aunts came to say good-bye.

And there was one aunt
who had twins,

who was extremely angry
with my parents

for getting me
onto this transport

and for not having managed
to get her twins

onto the transport.

There was grief and panic
and fury in that room.

And there was a moment, uh,

that my father took me
between his knees,

and he said, "Now, when you
get to England,

"you have to talk to
all the English people you meet,

"and you have to ask them
to get your mother and me out,

and your grandparents."

And because this aunt was there

and had been
so unhappy and so angry,

he said,
"And aunt so-and-so's twins."

Before long, I had a list of
people, whom I, at 10 years
old,

had promised to save
from Hitler.

NARRATOR: The transports
began in December,

barely 3 weeks
after the Nazi pogrom.

Although a few children
travelled by plane,

the majority departed by train.

Some trains left during the day,

many others
in the dead of night.

SEGAL: Each child
was given a number.

My number, and I still have it,
was 152.

And this was a number
every child put around its neck.

And a similar number was
attached to our suitcases.

And there we stood, uh, in our
groups of 50, I think it was.

And there was my mother
and my father,

and my mother kept up
a conversation with me

as if this was an ordinary
and interesting thing

that was happening.

But I remember that she wore
a pony fur with a fox collar,

and her face was
inside the fox collar,

and I remember that
although her speech was as if

everything was ordinary,
her face, I remember, was hot.

It was-It was red and hot.

LEVERTON: Every parent
promised their child,

"We will soon come and follow."

How otherwise did the parents
get the little children

onto the trains?

"Give us a few weeks
when things--

"either they'll blow over
and you'll come back again,

or we will come and join you."

That was a promise every parent
made to their child.

WOLLHEIM: There came
the time to say to the parents,

"Listen, you cannot
go to the platform.

"The police will not allow it.

We have to say good-bye here."

So I ascended the chair there.
I addressed the people.

Where I took the courage
to do that, I don't know.

But I told the parents,
"Now it's your last good-bye."

LEVERTON: They didn't want
the German public to know

what was going on
because they had experiences

of parents weeping and fainting
at the platform.

So we had to say good-bye.

Groups had to say good-bye
in an anteroom.

And the scenes were
pretty horrendous.

WOMAN: When my sister
and brother left,

all the other parents
were crying bitterly.

And I was so afraid.

I didn't want
my mother to cry

because she was
a very strong person,

and I thought,
if she cries,

then terrible things
will happen.

And I kept on looking at her,
and I said,

"Don't cry. Don't cry.
You won't cry."

And she didn't.

GORDON: I got to the station,
which was crowded with people.

All the children had
their parents with them,

and I was sitting there
all by myself.

I had no parents, nobody.

I was just standing there
with a suitcase.

There was nobody's shoulder
I could cry on.

All I know is I was going away.
I was going to England.

Whatever would happen
would happen.

CAHN: My father--
every day he said,

"Pupela, I don't want you to go,

but I want you to go
because it'll be good for you."

The day came, and we went.

My mother and dad went
with me inside the train

and um, put my suitcase up.

My seat was right at the window,

and the German trains
had great big windows,

and my father pulled that
all the way down,

so I could be leaning out
of the window,

and he hugged me and kissed me.

And I could see my father's
face
getting whiter and whiter,

and I thought, I only hope

nothing is going to happen
to my father

because he looked so terribly,
terribly pale.

And my poor mother was getting
worse and worse,

and I couldn't wait
for the train to go

because I--I didn't want
to remember that.

And the guy came,
and he waved the signal.

When the train started to go,
my father says,

"Pupela, let me
hold your hands."

and I held my hands, and I said,
"I have to let go!

I have to let go!"

"No, no, no, no.
I don't want you to go!

I don't want you to go!"
And we were already--

my father couldn't walk fast
because he walked on a cane,

and we went already a little bit
and a little bit more.

And he took me by my hands and
he pulled me out of the window.

And I fell. I could have
fallen in between,

between the platform
and the train.

It was like about
that much of a space.

I didn't, but I got hurt
and I was bleeding,

and I was devastated,
absolutely devastated.

And my father
was in seventh heaven

that he had his little Pupela,
his little girl, back.

ROSENFELD: The parting
was terrible.

That's the one thing I've
never forgotten in all my
life.

And she had been so controlled.

She'd always been
a sort of solid support to us,

and suddenly
she showed her feelings.

And it was terrifying.
Really terrifying.

You saw this face that showed
all the hurt and agony

she'd been through.

And I can still see my father
at that mealtime.

But I would have liked
to have had

a happier image of my mother.

That's the only image
with this contorted face.

Full of agony...
it's very sad.

HAYMAN: And I remember
standing by the window

and waving good-bye
and just trying very hard

to believe that we really
will come back,

that it won't be for very long.

But when the train moved
and they disappeared from sight,

you know, both Vera and I
cried to each other.

EPSTEIN: My parents ran along
the train on the platform.

And I still remember,
sort of in my head,

I heard that refrain,

"You're leaving, you're
leaving, you're leaving."

And I watched their faces,

and tears were streaming down
their face, down their cheeks.

And I knew then,
these people really love me.

This is why
they're sending me away.

And I immediately started
to write to my parents,

and I apologized
for what I had said to them,

that they were trying
to get rid of me.

GROSSMAN: In no time,
the suitcase was gone,

the child was gone,
the other children were gone--

just emptiness.

Then we turned around
and went home.

I did not talk.

It was awful.

WOLLHEIM: The children
went with the hope

that the parents would follow

or that one day
they could come back,

and they would see them again.

I did not realize,
and I could never realize,

that only 1 1/2 years later,
from the same railway station,

trains would go
in the other directions

to Hitler's slaughterhouses.

[Child singing in German]

SEGAL: I remember that
all that day we sang songs,

we ate the things
what our mothers had given us.

When we got to the border,
it got very frightening

because the train stopped at
the last station before
Holland.

The big girls were very
frightened, and they scared us.

They said, "Don't move."

You know what happens when
you sit and you don't move?

You begin to tremble if--if
you tense yourself enough.

I remember that--sitting there
so tense that I was vibrating.

ROSENFELD: The Nazi border
guard
very officiously came around,

made some of the children
open their suitcases.

They shouted at us
and threw their weight about.

They were looking for new
things
people had, children had,

new clothes and this,
and they didn't like that.

They gave the children
a tough time.

Children kept crying and crying.

And we were there quite a
while,
and they took their time,

and they--they enjoyed doing
what they were doing to us.

Then, suddenly,
we were in Holland.

Everyone was cheering,

"Those damn Nazis, they should
drop dead. Now we are free."

SEGAL: There was a howling, a
yelling, a shouting, a
singing.

It was the best party
I've ever been at,

although I didn't really
understand what it was

that was happening.

I was holding a big girl
around the waist,

and she was holding me.

And they knew the songs
they were singing.

It was, uh, very probably
Zionist, a Zionist song,

but I sang "la la, la la"

because it was so much fun
to be joining this party.

ROSENFELD: Not only were
the frontier guards

on the Dutch side very nice,

they had a contingency of ladies
who bought us cocoa

and Dutch zwieback.

And it was like manna
from heaven.

It was wonderful.

We suddenly felt as though

you'd been clad in a cloak
of lead or iron,

and it had been taken from you.

It was a wonderful feeling--
of freedom.

We started to smile.

I don't think any of them
had smiled for a long time.

It was wonderful.

GORDON: Then the train went on
to Hoek van Holland.

Got onto the boat,
which took us to Harwich,

which was not a pleasant trip
because the English Channel--

Huh! It's one of the worst
places in wintertime to cross.

We had small children.

People got seasick,

and, oh, it was
some how-do-you-do.

HAYMAN: I have a very
vivid memory of waking up

and seeing the sea for the
first
time with the sunrise on it

and thinking
how beautiful it was.

It was only the British Channel,

but it seemed a long, long way
from home in 1939.

And so it was
a mixture of elation,

because we saw something
so beautiful and saw the sea,

while this fear was in me, which
never left me for those 6 years

of "what's going to happen...
at home?"

NEWSREEL COMMENTATOR:
Refugees from terror.

First boatload
from Nazi Germany.

Vanguard of an army
of helpless children.

Uprooted from their homeland
in a modern exodus.

NARRATOR: Each Kindertransport
was led by adult escorts

on the condition that
after delivering the children,

all escorts would return home

or else the transports
would be ended.

WOLLHEIM: A couple of times,
I travelled with them.

At one transport, the customs
official checked and said,

"We have a problem."

He says, "This young man here
brought a violin,

"which is very, very expensive.

And this is not
an ordinary violin."

I said, "Well, don't forget
these young people

"take music lessons,

"and obviously he likes
music very much,

so he took his violin along."

This didn't sit well,
so I gambled.

I said to that boy, "Are you
able to play something?"

And he said, "Sure."

[Violin playing]

And he was playing
"God Save the King."

And that boy,
he couldn't be stopped.

He played all 3 stanzas.

When he was finished,

and he was very happy
to have listened to that,

I asked the fellow,

"Are you now convinced, sir,
that he likes music?"

And he said, "Yes!"

So he got his violin
into England.

ALLARD: Then came the arrival
at Liverpool Street station,

and everyone
was being picked up.

And I wasn't.

I remember sitting
in an enormous arrival hall.

And I just sat.

Nobody came to me,
nobody talked to me.

And I think I must
have sat an hour.

Maybe longer. I don't know.

And then came two people
who were my guardians,

and they introduced themselves.

And they explained
that they lived in Lincoln.

They didn't speak
one word of German,

and I didn't speak
one word of English.

If they said, "Lincoln,"
that could have been anywhere.

Never heard of the place.

My mother sent me off, saying,

"Whoever is going to be
good enough to take you in

and give you a home, you must
treat as a temporary mother."

And when we arrived back
from Liverpool Street,

and we all went to bed
in the evening,

I went up to her
and put my arms around her,

and she pushed me away.

And the words were,
"That's sissy."

She may have said something
else, she may have said,

"We don't do this,
that's sissy."

But the words "that's sissy"
have never left me.

Narrator: The children
arrived in England

at the rate of
about 300 a week.

Those who were not already
placed in foster homes

were taken to temporary centers

hastily set up in summer
holiday camps, like
Dovercourt.

SEGAL: They did try
and keep us busy.

The memorable part
of this camp experience

was that it was one of
the coldest winters in history.

We all went for breakfast
to this big hall,

and the snow came in
through the cracks.

We had this curious food.
We had kippers.

I mean, what little
Austrian Jewish child

has ever heard of kippers?

Here was this salty shoe leather
on our plates,

and it had snow on it.
It was pretty interesting.

While we were sitting
around the stoves,

always with our coats on
and with our little gloves on,

there would come
groups of people

to choose children
to take away with them.

LEVERTON: We called it
the cattle market

because every Saturday
and Sunday we were told

to put on our best clothes,
and visitors used to come.

We felt a bit like
the monkeys in the zoo.

You know, we were being
stared at and evaluated,

and people were chosen,

then taken away from the tables,
and interviewed--

If you were suitable
to be taken to their families.

Most families wanted little
blue-eyed and blond girls

of about 3 to 7.

Little boys
were accepted as well,

and the older children
found it a bit more difficult

to find foster parents.
Of course, by that time,

they hastily established hostels
to take a big influx

of the children who weren't
chosen quickly

because we had
to be chosen fast.

In and out, the camp was filled.

Every week, another transport
would arrive.

SEGAL: I was writing a letter
to my parents,

and one of these ladies
in a fur coat

bent down to me and asked me

if I would like to come
to Liverpool.

I said, "Yes, I would like
to come to Liverpool."

She said to the other woman,
"Oh, she speaks English."

By speaking English, I mean
I could understand

"Would you like to come
to Liverpool?"

and I could say "yes."

And then they said to me,
"Are you Orthodox?"

and I said, "Yes,"

and they wrote that down.

It was understood
that I was going to go

to Liverpool the next day,
and when the ladies had gone,

I wrote in my letter
to my parents,

"By the way, what is Orthodox?"

LEVERTON: My brother
had been chosen first

to be the playmate
of a little boy in Coventry.

They asked me if I'd like to
go to a family in Coventry.

Of course, I jumped
at the chance.

I wanted to be
near my little brother.

And they chose me as a maid,

but only I didn't know
I was supposed to be a maid.

I hadn't ever thought
of becoming a servant.

But I drew the line.

I point-blank refused
to wear a uniform.

I think they took me to show off
in front of the neighbors

because they were only
working-class people.

The culture shock
was very great,

and also the fact that my
clothes were better than hers.

And she took
great exception to that,

and she took
the clothes and all.

The children whom we brought
over and placed

I think, in the main,
were satisfactory.

Uh, one can never claim 100%.

There were certainly
some who weren't.

There were certainly
some who were misused

and used as servants
if they were of the right age.

I wouldn't claim
that it was a 100% success,

but I would claim
that everybody who came over

was alive at the end of the war.

WOMAN: You felt you wanted
to do something.

There was a meeting in Norwich

of a few Jewish congregants
and non-Jewish.

They said, "Any offers
to take children?"

And my husband said, yes,
with me,

and then some photographs
were handed around,

and I remember
there were some boy twins.

Oh, my heart aches,

but we couldn't afford it
in those days.

We didn't know what was
going to happen, you know.

So, that's when we took Kurt.

FUCHEL: Percy and Mariam
picked me up at the boat,

and they took me back home.

At the entrance stood the maid,

who I would learn later
actually ran the household,

and halfway up the stairs
sat the little boy of 5

looking at his new brother.

COHEN: When we got home,
my maid Selena was there,

and she said to me,
"Can't we change it?"

He was filthy, you know, and
smelt of sick and everything.

Anyhow, we gave him a bath.

FUCHEL: My grubby clothes,
after 3 days of travel,

were torn off me,
burned, I learned later,

and I was scrubbed
from head to toe,

and then dressed
in English clothes.

And then the family got together
for a chicken dinner,

and that I remember;

that's a language
I could understand,

uh, and I started
to feel more at ease.

I learned English by being
sent
to a German man, rather old,

who lived a few houses
down the same street.

And maybe I thought
he was a Nazi,

but I was terrified of him,

and...but...

in fact, I was so terrified
that I learned English so
quick

so I wouldn't
have to see him again

that 6 weeks later,

I wrote to my parents
in English,

"I no longer speak German."

I never have, and I've never
been able to relearn it.

COHEN: And he was
very, very good.

He liked the sweet things,
and John liked the savory,

but they got on
very well together.

But I noticed--

well, we knew every night
when it was dark,

he'd come down the stairs,

and he'd see
the door was locked,

and that was one thing
I remember.

SUGAR: My mother was in London,

so for me, the separation
was not as traumatic

because I was
going to something.

And I came
to the London station,

and she just picked me up and
took me where she was working.

And then I stayed
in this very cold--

oh, God--this cold,
fancy house in England

where they were exploiting
the European maids, you know.

And of course, if you've
ever been the child of a maid,

you know that maids are not
supposed to have children.

They're not welcome.
You can't stay there.

Then, I guess--I don't know
how those decisions were made--

I would be sent to Belfast,

to the Jewish refugee hostel
in Belfast.

When you see your life
has been saved,

and you're brought
into a hostel which is clean,

and there's food there,
and other children there,

how could you not be happy
in that place?

But to me,
it smelled of orphanage--

which, of course,
in due course, it became--

an orphanage is the thing
that frightens

every child out of its wits.

I mean, to be, you know,
Charles Dickens,

to be in a workhouse,
to be in an orphanage.

HELLMAN: My first impression
of Waddesdon Manor was...

it was like a dream,

like a castle I've--I've seen
in pictures.

But never...

never seen anything
in--in person.

The Cedars
was a servants' house.

26 of us lived
in the Cedars.

First thing we did was throw
a soccer ball on the lawn

and kicked it around.

And the local boys wanted to see
what was all of a sudden

being brought into
their little village.

When it was time for dinner,
they said,

"We'll see you tomorrow."

I was so excited.

I was absolutely so exuberant,

I ran in to my housemother
and told her,

"Somebody who's not Jewish
wants to see me tomorrow."

ROSENFELD: We did start going
to school there, actually,

and it was marvelous.

I'd never realized
what school really was like--

that you could participate.

And I did enjoy it so.

And the wonderful part about it,
it had a library.

I waded through that library.

And that's how I learned
to speak English, really.

And I-- through that I got
a love of English
literature.

But altogether,

it was a wonderful experience,

and the children were
so friendly to us.

HAYMAN: I knew that
I was going to a school

near Bournemouth in Dorset.

It was the headmistress
of the school

who guaranteed to look after me.

And when I arrived
at the school,

it was all these girls,

very polite and very nice,
very kind.

I couldn't understand
a word they said.

I was given my bed,

and the curtains could be drawn
along, you know,

to give me some privacy.

I remember the first thing
I did was putting a picture

of my parents
on the bedside table

so that I could say
goodnight to them.

And the first 3 months
before war broke out,

we could still write home.

So I could share my experiences
with my parents

and had very frequent letters,

so I didn't feel
quite so isolated.

WOMAN: As you can well imagine,

you have been constantly
in our thoughts.

We still see your face before us

in that window of
the railway carriage.

MAN: My dearest little mouse,

hopefully this letter will
reach
you already in your new home,

where you surely will
enjoy your stay.

Be a very good little girl.

Be obedient.

BOY: Dear parents...

how are you both?

Today I had my first
English lesson.

Greetings and kisses.

SECOND WOMAN: I was very happy
with your dear little letter,

only there shouldn't be
so many spelling errors!

THIRD WOMAN: If only I could
see you just for a tiny
moment.

But as it is, I can only
write letters full of longing.

YOUNG GIRL: Dear daddy,

thank you very much
for the game of cards

and the broaches

and the bracelet.

I had a game with them.

FOURTH WOMAN: I keep running
to the mailbox.

Every line from you
overwhelms me.

Every day I thank God
that you are in such good hands.

But please show
your gratefulness.

SECOND YOUNG GIRL: My dear,
good, darling parents,

I feel very safe here,

if only I was not so very scared
about your safety.

TEENAGE GIRL: For my birthday,
you wrote me

that I'll always have to
be brave

because you can't be happy
if I'm not.

And I can assure you that I
always grit my teeth and
smile.

MAN: Your letter of yesterday
was again so sweet

and written with so much love

that tears came running down
your mummy's face.

Your writing is so natural,

it makes me imagine that
you're standing before me.

WOMAN: Your letters come to us
like sunshine.

It's our future that gives us
big worries.

We yearn to get away from here.

That's our fondest wish.

It'll be a difficult task
for you to bring us over there,

but I have the feeling
you'll manage it in time.

ALLARD: When I arrived
in England,

I made it my priority to
try
and find homes for
people

because I felt people
didn't know

how desperate it was in Germany.

My biggest problem was
to try and get my parents out,

and that was difficult

because it was either
finding them a job,

and bearing in mind
my father's age,

or getting this £100 guarantee,

which was just
nowhere to be seen.

I proceeded to find large houses
and knock at the door

to find out whether
I could get them a job.

My mother as a cook,
bottle washer,

my father as gardener,

anything just to get them out.

Sometimes I knocked at the door
and I burst into tears.

Sometimes I knocked at the door
and with my very poor English

could try to explain
what it was all about,

who I was, what I wanted,
what I needed.

Help.

Um, I did find someone,

and it--it was just...

like unbelievable dream
come true.

HELLMAN: My father had
a first cousin in London.

Every weekend I took the train
into London

and bombarded him.

And I said, "Uncle Paul,

"you got to get my parents
out of Germany."

He said, "I--I can't do it."

After me being so
insistent,
he finally said,

"I'll give him an affidavit
if he has a working permit."

I went back to
the Rothschild estate,

knocked on the door,

and the butler,
who was about 10' 6",

came out and--and looked at me,

"What do you want?"

I said, "I want to speak
to Baron Rothschild."

He said, "Wait here."

I waited.

A couple of minutes,
and he says, "Follow me."

I said to him,
"Baron Rothschild,

"my father's cousin will give
him and my mother a visa

providing he has
a working permit."

Without hesitation,

he said to me, "Would he work
on a chicken farm?"

I said, "He'll do anything."

He went to a notary

and made out a working permit
for my parents.

LEVERTON: The family
that chose me

were the only people
I could rely on

to give a visa
for my little sister.

She was a beautiful little girl.
They had no children.

I showed them
the photograph of Inge,

and they seemed to like her
very much.

I realized one thing,
that Uncle Billy hated red hair.

Uncle Billy
was paying maintenance

for a red-haired child,
not his, by his first wife.

Well, say no more.

Inge was a bright redhead.

The question of color hair
never arose

because I had brown hair.

One day, he said to me,
quite idly,

"What color hair
does your sister have?"

I said, "Oh, like mine."

No more was said.

And they gave permission
for her to come,

and they would take her in.

SADAN: I went
very happily to England.

It was an adventure, you know,

to go abroad,
to go on the train.

My sister wrote
fantastic letters.

Everything was wonderful,

and she was having
a marvelous time,

and so was my brother.

And my brother said
he had a dog.

And when I got there,
actually,
there was a dog and a cat.

The dog bit me, so I didn't
think much of that.

LEVERTON: Inge arrived,
her hair aflame,

titian red.

Uncle Billy was furious.

So he turned around and he
called me a so-and-so liar,

and I said to him,

"Because Inge has red hair,
I leave her at home in
Germany?"

I said, "Now you send her away.

Don't mind. Thank you
for asking her here."

And he calmed down in the end,

and he did accept her
into the house.

SEGAL: I think I had
a sense, for instance,

while I was playing,
while I was laughing,

that was the moment in which
I could have been,

and should have been,

doing something about
this--this demand on me

that I should bring
my parents out.

From Dovercourt camp,

I wrote a couple of letters to
the refugee committee in
London,

and I think they must have been
moved by a letter from a child

asking to get her parents
out of Vienna.

And they did get my parents
a domestic service visa.

And my parents appeared
miraculously in Liverpool

on my 11th birthday.

And I remember feeling
that some terrific weight

that I had been carrying,

and hadn't known
I had been carrying,

was taken off my back.

ALLARD: Everything was being
done to get the papers

for my parents to come out,
and war started.

And that was the end of that.

I just felt the world's come
to an end.

Shattering, if I think about it,

because everything was built
around this reunion

and my temporary stay
in England.

[Bells chiming]

NEWSREEL COMMENTATOR:
The fateful hour
of 11:00 has struck,

and the state of war
once more exists

between Great Britain
and Germany.

Only 25 minutes after
war had been declared

came the first air-raid warning.

[Air-raid alarms sounding]

ALLARD: Everything we'd ever
talked about or written
about...

and thought about--
it had all collapsed.

Everything had collapsed.

I think I cried for, not weeks,
not months.

I cried for years.

NARRATOR: War ended
all Kindertransports

and legal immigration from
central Europe to England.

It also ended regular mail

between the children
and their parents.

The only way they could now
communicate

was by 25-word postcards

sent through
the International Red Cross.

HAYMAN: The isolation came
when the letters ceased.

That was accepted,

that you didn't talk
about what hurt you.

I couldn't speak Czech
with anybody.

I didn't want to tell my sister
how unhappy I was

because I felt, you know,
she was too young anyhow.

I wrote at that time
in my diary.

"I never dreamt that one could
be so lonely and go on living

"with this constant fear
for our loved ones.

"The tears I shed at night
do not ease my pain,

"yet I was told that one feels
better after a good cry.

"All I have is a swollen face,

and my heart is as heavy
as it was before."

My pillow often was very wet
in the morning.

There was a gardener
who didn't understand,

perhaps,
what I was going through,

but he always said to me,

"Don't worry,
it won't last long."

And whether
I believed him or not,

it was good to hear him
say that.

And he always gave me a flower.

NARRATOR: Within a few months
of their arrival in England,

many of the refugees,

along with other
English children,

were forced to evacuate
to new families in the country,

to escape the expected bombing
of the cities.

Good morning.

You kindly consented
to take two children in?

Yes, I'll take
two children.

Two little girls.
Here they are.

They'll be very happy
with you, I'm sure.

Thank you very much.

Two nice little girls,
aren't they?

SEGAL: None of the foster
parents with whom I stayed,

and there were 5 of them,

none of them could stand me
for very long,

but all of them had the grace
to take in a Jewish child.

They were not particularly warm.

They were not par--
they did not love me,

I did not love them.

Nevertheless,
they did, as I say,

what most of us don't do,

which is to--to burden
the household,

the kitchens and the bedroom
and the living room,

with this little foreigner.

FUCHEL: Mariam
was somewhat aloof.

It was her manner.

She was loving,
but she didn't hug and kiss me,

whereas my mother was
the exact opposite.

She used to, not just
kiss me once, in fact,

but she sort of kissed me,
you know,

rat-tat-tat,
like a machine gun.

But Mariam was distant and nice,

and I think that's what
I needed,

because I had trouble really
feeling that I belonged there.

And to have sort of
pushed me into it

would have, I think,
been difficult.

He didn't cry, not at all,
not at all.

Couldn't understand it.

RADIO COMMENTATOR:
This is London calling...

COHEN: Just once.

They used to like to listen to
some programs on the wireless.

And, you know, he used to come
sit on my knee,

and there was something--
something in the news.

I just heard him once go
[gasp],

you know, a little sob,
and that was all.

FUCHEL: I tried really to please
the Cohens

because, you know, I loved them
and I felt very dependent.

One of my main worries was that
I would be sent away.

And I know this happened to
another boy, somewhat older,

who was taken in by
some friends of the Cohens,

and he was arrogant
and impossible,

and eventually they simply
had to send him to,

you know, some other home.

And I'd heard other places
where this happened.

So, I felt very much on edge.

SUGAR: Word came that my mother
is no longer in London.

She went back to Vienna
to get my father to move,

who was impassive.

So I really did make up my
mind
I would be as tough as nails.

I would--nothing would hurt me,

I would have no emotions.

And it carried me through
for about 6 or 7 years.

[School bell rings]

SUGAR: I got a scholarship
to a grammar school.

And people were saying to me,
partly in jealousy,

said, "You know, they
are snobs in these schools

and they are anti-Semites,

"And you've got to watch
yourself, you know.

They're gonna take it out
on you."

And I went to school.

I had a school tie, I guess,
or a blazer,

I mean, I was just entering
a new world.

It was...the sun was shining.

I went to school, and a fellow
came up to me, and he said,

"Who are you?"
and I just knocked him down.

[Children yelling]

FUCHEL: There was, no doubt,

a cost of trying to
be good all the time

and keeping my anger in.

Only once did it slip.

One day John and I were having
breakfast,

and there was some
silly argument

over who got
the marmalade first.

And Kurt threw a knife.

That was the only time
he was naughty.

And John had a little wound
here, which was near his eye.

It wasn't very nice.

And Dr. Rose, who was our great
friend, lived a few doors down,

and he came in,
and he was furious.

"You shouldn't have
taken this child in,"

and da-da-da-da-da.

FUCHEL: It terrified the entire
family, and me, too.

Since then
I've been somewhat afraid

of my possibility
of letting go to anger.

The other sign that
I had a lot inside me

was that I always had
some intestinal problems.

Until I went in the army,

and then I had the most terrible
food and felt fine.

I have an analogy for this.

When...all of us
have had the experience

of finding a bird
with a broken wing.

And you pick up this bird
and you hold it in your hand.

And you think it's going to sit
there quietly, sweetly,

with its warm feathers,
and be--and be darling.

It's not. What it does is
immediately to use its muscles,

and it's a very uncomfortable
thing to hold in your hand

because there's this
fluttering.
What he wants is to get away.

It may need you to hold it
and to--to nurse it,

but what it wants is to
get the heck out of there.

And I think that's what
we were like.

Uh, certain that's
what I was like.

I was--I was not nice
to have around.

GORDON: So I got a new job
in London,

and I was working there
until June 28, 1940.

It was lunchtime, and I was
sitting having a sandwich

when suddenly two guys appeared,
two men.

C.I.D.

"What have I done?"

"Nothing. You are
Abrascha Gorbulski?"

Et cetera, et cetera.

"You are now under arrest."

Under arrest.
"For what?"

"You are an enemy alien,
and please come with us."

NARRATOR: After Germany invaded
western Europe,

the British began
rounding up all refugees

from Germany and Austria
who were over the age of
16.

Although the vast majority were
refugees from Nazi persecution,

anyone with a foreign accent was
viewed as a potential saboteur.

Within a few months,
the government interned

approximately 30,000
men and women.

Plans were made to deport
as many as possible.

The good thing about life is,
you know, you remember

all the good things
that happen to you,

and bad things,
you forget about them,

and in fact,
you have to make an effort

to really remember them.

The day came and we had to go
to the ship.

Uh, soldiers were standing there

with bayonets mounted
on their rifles.

And they pushed us along
and said,

"Leave your luggage over there.
You'll get it later on."

And they pushed us
along the deck.

Before you knew it, we went
down
the stairs, another stairs.

I was on the third deck.

NARRATOR: Over 2,500 prisoners,
twice the capacity of the ship,

were crammed
onto the HMT Dunera,

supposedly bound for Canada.

Two days out of Liverpool,

the Dunera was spotted
by a German U-boat.

GORDON: Suddenly something hits
the ship.

The lights went out.

This was the end of it.

Everybody gravitated
towards the stairway,

which led to the deck above.

And after about two minutes,

you couldn't get up there
because there were so many--

the stairs--
because we were just choking.

And suddenly the lights
went on again.

Everybody stopped in their...

steps and went back down.

The torpedo didn't explode,

but I was under
the impression

that the torpedo
hit us sideways

and it just bounced off.

Our luck.

Because if
it would have hit,

all of us
would have been finished.

We're travelling,
going west for several days.

But suddenly our outlook said,

"Something's happening.
We are not going west.

We are turning south."

We had no idea
where we were going,

except it must have been
Australia.

We were starving daily. They
were treating us like pigs.

Being hungry every day,
people were lining up on--

in the kitchen there
to get an empty pot,

you know, where the jam was, and
to--just to scrape it out,

and having one slice of bread.

The existence
from one day to another

was worse than the day before,

and we were on the ship for
almost completely two months!

What happened on the Dunera?

Uh...years later
I'm looking at it.

This didn't happen to me.
It must have been somebody else

because it was horrible,
too horrible to describe.

[Instrumental music]

NEWSREEL COMMENTATOR:
From an overseas liner

in Sydney Harbor, a strange
contingent of new arrivals

is transshipped
aboard a ferry--

enemy aliens who are being
interned in Australia

for the duration of the war.

GORDON: Before we knew it,
we were off the ship.

The first thing I remember
is that each one of us

got a box of food.

That was the best meal
I ever had in my life.

After starving for
two months, I opened up.

There were two cheese
sandwiches, thick like
this,

and a banana
and an apple and an orange,

and they're giving
second helpings.

It was unbelievable.

[Indistinct chatter]

NARRATOR: As the war progressed,

reports of mass arrests
and deportation

of central European Jews
began to reach Britain.

[Dramatic music]

WOLLHEIM: In the spring of '43,

the city of Berlin was
cleansed of the last Jews.

They came and took my family
and myself along,

and we were taken
to a collection point,

and after a couple of days
we were deported to Auschwitz,

though we did not know
when we got to the train,

which consisted of cattle cars,
where we were going.

We landed in Auschwitz,
and the moment we landed there,

we were commanded
to leave the trains.

Women with children to the left
and men to the right.

And that was then the last time
that I saw my wife,

my then wife, and child.

[Dramatic music]

NARRATOR: Lory Cahn
and her family

were deported to
Theresienstadt,

the Czech ghetto the Nazis
used to deceive the world

about how humanely they
treated their prisoners.

In time, the population
of Theresienstadt

exceeded its capacity.

CAHN: One day they came
into our barrack,

and my name was called to
report
to the railroad station.

And I went to
the railroad station.

And as they called your name,

you had to go
and see this S.S. guy,

and he crossed you off the list,
and then you went into the car.

I got there,
and I repeated my name.

He said, "You're not going."

I had no idea, I didn't
dare ask why or what,

but that was the end of it,
and they sent me back.

And this went on
for about maybe two weeks.

I'd been at the railroad
station, I think, 4 times,

and I was a complete wreck.

To say good-bye to your
parents,
one time, a second time,

a third time, and a fourth time.

And once before when I was
in the Kindertransport.

It was just absolutely
devastating.

And every time I said good-bye,

I think I tore a little piece
out of my mother

and out of my father,

and also a big piece
out of myself.

The last time it happened,
I said to the guy,

"Would you terribly mind,
but I want to go."

"Are you sure of that?"

I said yes. Crossed
my name off, and I went.

And little did I know that
we were going to Auschwitz.

There was a long period

where I did not hear
anything from my parents.

And I said,
"Well, it's wartime."

And I found all kinds
of reasons and excuses.

And then, finally, I received
a letter from my father

in which he said, "Tomorrow
I'm going to be deported

"to an unknown destination,

and it may be a very long time
before you hear from me again."

And then I received
a letter from my mother.

She says, "Tomorrow I'm going
to be deported from here."

And she encourages me
to be good and honest

and courageous
and to hold my head high

and to never give up hope,

and this at a time
when I think she knew

what might be happening to her.

[Train chugging]

And then there was one more
communication from her,

a postcard dated
September 4, 1942.

And it's written
in real shaky handwriting,

and she's saying that
she's travelling to the
east

and is saying a very final
goodbye to me.

But for many, many, many years,

I would see the postcard
in front of me, and I would--

see, she's saying,
"Travelling to the east,"

and yet, I would understand
that she's saying

she's travelling in
an easterly direction.

And then I would say to myself,

"Well, maybe she's
going back to Kippenheim.

And maybe that's good."

And the final good-bye
I didn't understand.

[Train approaching]

[Baby crying]

SADAN: I always felt
I should be grateful

and that we had been saved

and that these people
had taken us in

and I should be happier there.

But, you know, facts are facts,

and it wasn't
a good place to be.

Uncle Billy, who was not
a very courageous man,

every night, he would go
into the country,

but he took us with.

We went and--
to escape to bombs--

until one day, the people
where we were staying--

we slept in a--all in a
room
there, in a cottage--

and the people said they don't
want the German children,

so we didn't go
into the country anymore.

[Air-raid sirens sounding]

One day the sirens sounded,

and what was known as
the Coventry Blitz started.

[Bombs exploding]

And when the bombs
started to fall,

we stayed with
Auntie Vera's mother,

who had a boarding house.

And the whole night long,
the bombs rained down,

and Coventry was
a very hot place to be.

We were in one house,
and that was bombed.

And there was
a big fire upstairs,

and everybody rushed out.

[Dramatic music]

In the morning, when Auntie
Vera
and Uncle Billy came back

and they saw one of the
boarding
houses without any house,

just a spiral of a bedstead,

they were very shocked and they
thought we'd all been killed.

And they rushed over
to the other house,

and there we were all drinking
tea, as alive as anything.

And that was the only time
I saw Auntie Vera cry,

I think relief, because I
guess
she had a heart after all.

COMMANDER: Halt!

Advance.
End of line. March!

Jorgensky!

Here!

Tzufevich.
Here!

Leventhal.
Here!

Alba.
Sir!

Rosenthal.
Here!

Tozic.
Here.

Tolina.
Here.

Yes, they all have
names like those.

This company,
which I command,

is almost entirely composed

of German and Austrian
anti-fascists.

It is one of the 15 alien
companies in the pioneer
corps.

NARRATOR: The Dunera scandal

and the harsh treatment
of refugees

began to shift public opinion
in England against internment.

The government started
releasing internees

and allowed them to join
the British Armed Forces.

GORDON: Those who want
to go back to England,

they would send back
under one condition.

They would join the army.

I was anxious to get into this.

First of all,
I hated the Germans.

I hated their guts.

And I wanted to be part of it.

Besides, what was I
going to do in Australia?

Sit in Australia throughout
the whole war? God forbid.

[Instrumental music]

NEWSREEL WOMAN:
Girls, this is urgent.

If you're over
17 1/2 and under 19,

you can volunteer for the ATS.

The sooner you come, the wider
the choice of jobs available.

Come on, girls, it's urgent!

ALLARD: When I was 18,

I had to do either work of
importance or join the forces,

and I decided
to join the forces.

And I also felt I was
saying thank you to England

for saving my life.

I think as a soldier,

I then felt suddenly
I was in an environment

where I was the same
as everybody else,

for the first time
in my life, I think.

Because I think in Lincoln, I--
more or less, I think I existed

because I was waiting
for tomorrow

and tomorrow and tomorrow.

I had lots of friends, and I did
the things I hadn't done before.

I felt like everybody else.

The people on my left,
the people on my right,

we were all the same.

And that, I think,
was the first time in my life

I felt that
I could do everything

the other people are doing.

HAYMAN: I wanted to do
something
to help to finish the war,

and I said I wanted
to go nursing.

The first year,
I nearly gave up.

I found it very difficult, but
I was determined to stand it.

Second year was better,
and then it grew on me.

We were so busy I didn't have
time to think of myself
anyhow.

[Engine revving]

SADAN: After about two years
of not hearing from our
parents,

life sort of
stretched on endlessly,

but suddenly we heard that
our parents had reached Spain.

Every night since I left
my parents, I had prayed,

"Please, God, don't let it
take longer than 5 years."

And 5 years almost to the day,
we had the telegram.

SADAN: The telegram said,
"Arriving Friday, 4:45."

That was all.

Unfortunately,
4:45 was the train

that my school friends
were coming back on as
well,

and I knew that
since the whole village

also knew they were coming,

they would all be at the station

and my school friends would see
me and my brother and sister

meeting our parents for
the first time in 5 years,

and it was a tremendous ordeal.

And we went down
to the station to wait,

and I couldn't cope with it.

So I went--I went
back home and I said,

"I'm going. I'm going home.
I'm going to put the kettle
on.

They'll need a cup of tea." I
mean, how English can you get?

I waited and I waited
and I waited,

and it took ages.

And suddenly there's
my brother and sister

with this middle-aged,
elderly couple

with suitcases and bags
coming up the path.

I remember rushing down
to meet them,

and I knew they were my parents,

but it wasn't
the same parents I'd left.

They were much older,
and they were worn out.

And we, obviously,
we weren't the same children

that they'd sent off.

And suddenly I realized
I couldn't say anything

except their names, you know,

mommy and daddy,
or mutti and papa.

And then we just stood there,
looking at each other,

and...it was such
a traumatic moment.

It was sad for Inge because she
couldn't speak German anymore.

My brother spoke it
with difficulty,

and I was the only one who
could communicate with
them.

But the barriers
completely went,

and we became
a family again.

[Bell chiming]

MAN IN NEWSREEL:
The cease-fire began yesterday,

to be sounded along
all the fronts.

The German war is,
therefore, at an end.

[Upbeat music]

[Crowd cheering]

[Fireworks exploding]

ALLARD: I remember V.E. Day
very clearly.

It was just
wonderful, wonderful.

And we all danced
in Piccadilly Circus.

And for me, I just thought,
well, this is it.

Going to see
my parents next week.

I went straight back
and wrote to both of them.

I wrote separate letters
because I had separate addresses

through the Red Cross messages
in Theresienstadt.

The letters were returned to me
about 3, 4 months later.

Took a long time.

All it said on the back,
"Deported to Auschwitz,

October '44."

And war was finished in May '45.

That's how I found out.

ROSENFELD: As soon
as war finished,

Hella and I went to
the Red Cross committee

and asked for them to search.

Eventually, we got
a letter from them to say

my mother had been killed
in Minsk, in Russia,

where she was deported.

It's very hard
to come to terms with,

when you've
always had that hope.

And, of course, we've had
no, no grave, really.

No parting, no end, no funeral.

It's that sort of vague feeling
in the air, of hope,

and that hope suddenly fading.

[Baby crying]

HAYMAN: I remember nursing
in the children's ward,

and I was always joking
with the kids and laughing.

And I was called
to the telephone,

and there was
a telegram for me.

I asked her would she read it.

And so, she read
over the telephone:

"Your parents were gravely ill.
There was no hope.

Wait for further news."

And I probably didn't
quite take it in,

so I went back to the ward and
started--carried on making beds

until one of the little
boys said to me,

"Why aren't you laughing
this time?"

And that's when I burst
into tears and ran out.

I remember going out into the
garden and lying on the lawn.

I didn't want to be
with anybody.

It was such a shock.

And suddenly the future which
we always painted wasn't
there.

There was no future.
There was just an emptiness.

CAHN: At the time
I was liberated,

a month later,
I would have been 20.

And I weighed 58 pounds.

And that's after
8 concentration camps.

Many times I thought about it:
what would have happened

if my father wouldn't
have pulled me out?

I would have never, ever
mentioned it to my father again.

You know, "Why did you do that?"

Because I think I would have
done him very wrong.

And I can fully understand,
being a mother,

what it would mean
if this is what

I would have had to go through
with my child, God forbid.

My main concern was always,

let me be strong,
and let me try to make it.

I made it that far.

I want to make it to the end,

regardless of what the end was.

WOLLHEIM: Survival
is an accident.

You cannot ask a soldier
who comes out of battle,

"Why were your comrades
left and right killed,

and you survived?"

You have no
explanation for that.

It's an accident.

At the moment of liberation,
we were very happy, certainly,

but, on the other hand, really
very sad, because I realized

that I was one of the last
who had survived,

that all the others who had gone
with me to Auschwitz,

or who had been taken to
Auschwitz, would never return.

[Instrumental music]

[Woman singing in German]

EPSTEIN: In July 1945,

I went back to Germany to work
for the American government.

One of the reasons was
to look for my parents.

The most sensible place to go to

would be to
go back to Kippenheim.

But I didn't go back
until August 1947.

I think on some level, I knew
my parents didn't survive.

But as long as I didn't
go back to Kippenheim,

I could still say, well, maybe
they're back in Kippenheim,

which doesn't really
make a lot of sense,

but I think it was
just my survival mechanism.

I just wasn't ready yet
to accept the fact

that I no longer had parents,

that I hadn't had
parents for a long time.

[Instrumental music]

NARRATOR: Although
the vast majority

of Kindertransport children

lost their mothers and fathers
in the holocaust,

remarkably,
a few parents survived

to be reunited
with their children.

FUCHEL: My parents managed
to get out of Austria

by going to Italy,
and from Italy,

they got into France.

And they were hidden

by some extremely
wonderful people there.

After the war ended, I was
told
that my parents were alive

and that someday I would
probably have to go back

and live with them.

I think I was horrified
by that idea.

Uncle Percy persuaded my parents
to wait until I finished

the English-school
certificate at age 16,

and also, they needed time
to reestablish themselves.

Eventually, in 1947,
they were ready for me.

I didn't want to,
but the Cohens took me to Paris,

where I was to meet my parents.

And I remember standing
outside the hotel.

And I saw in the distance
my parents approach.

And I couldn't look
at them directly,

so I looked at their
reflection in a shop window

as they walked towards me,

and I felt a very,
very strong emotion.

It was a sense of
elation, of love.

I suddenly felt it
and fought it.

But I felt, you know,
I knew it was them.

We met. And Kurt's father,

who was more demonstrative
than the mother,

put his hand
through Kurt's curls.

And Kurt went like that
and gave him a wallop.

And my husband says, "Don't
you ever do that again, Kurt.

Your father is showing you,
you know, his affection."

And that was that.

[Dramatic music]

FUCHEL: When it came to say
goodbye to the Cohens,

I realized for the first time,
I think, consciously,

that they had loved me,
especially Percy,

because he was in tears.

And I'd never seen
him cry before.

Never seen him cry before.

And then we had to leave him.

And I remember him
looking back, you know.

It was very, very sad.

He didn't want to go.
He didn't know them.

FUCHEL: My parents let go
of a 7-year-old

and got back a 16-year-old.

And my mother, especially,

wanted to carry on
where she'd left off.

And a 16-year-old doesn't like
to be treated like a
7-year-old.

So, when we got back to France,
things were very difficult.

Of course, I'm very lucky.

I mean, I realize this:

Whereas most of the kinder
never saw their parents again,

I not only had mine back but
another set of parents as
well.

What more could one ask for?

[Dramatic music]

HAYMAN: I ceased to be a child

when I boarded the train
in Prague.

It's strange that it's only
6 years out of a long life,

and those 6 years will affect
the rest of your life.

ROSENFELD: I never belonged
when I was a child.

I wanted somewhere
to find roots.

I feel in the latter years of
my life that I've been
accepted.

And nobody's ever said to me,

"You weren't born
in this country."

I was entirely accepted
as everyone else.

And I gradually felt I had
somewhere I belonged.

SADAN: To be a refugee is
the most horrible feeling

because you lose your family,
you lose your home.

You're also without an identity.

Suddenly, you're a nothing.

You are just reliant on
other people's good nature

and help and understanding.

And that's why I think
living in Israel,

I feel for the new immigrants.

I feel for the Russians
and the Ethiopians

and anybody who's new,

especially if they've come
without their families.

Then, you know, if I can do
anything, I do it.

[Music continues]

SEGAL: I am dazzled from
the point of view of a writer.

Who else has
the unbelievable good fortune

to live with
the Jewish manufacturer,

the English working class,
union man, railroad stoker,

the milkman, the Anglo-Indian
Victorian ladies.

Whoever has
the sheer advantage

of not studying this

from the outside,
but being a helpless member

from the inside
of these families.

Seems to me it was a gift.

Didn't seem so at the time.

ALLARD: I now look at
my 14-year-old grandson,

and I think this is the age
when
I lost parents, home, country.

A lot has been made up to me
from where I lost out.

I have a second cousin here.

He says, "Anything you
haven't had, you've got now."

Which is so true.

And I'm very grateful and
very proud of the whole family.

SUGAR: The younger you were,

the more unforgiving you are
of your parents.

You may say, oh, they were
so brave and saved you,

but they really abandoned you.

We were 4 friends,
very close friends.

We all agreed
if it ever happens again,

we will not send away
our children.

We will stay and die together.

That's what we said.

Later on, as we grew older,
we mitigated it, we said,

if it ever happens, we promise

to take each other's
children in.

We will not send them
to strangers.

[Music continues]

EPSTEIN: I certainly do
my share of remembering.

But remembering also
has to have a present

and a future perspective.

You can't just stop
at remembering.

I don't think I ever
made a conscious decision

to devote myself
to human rights

and social justice issues.

Someone helped me.

I can't pay back or thank some
of the people who helped me,

but I can do something
for other people.

[Big Ben chiming]

[Music continues]

GORDON: I've come to
a conclusion about myself.

In 1938, I escaped
the deportation of Poland.

I got out of Germany
in the Kindertransport.

I was sent to Australia
on a ship,

and the ship was torpedoed
and nothing happened.

I got back to England
and was in the army.

Why all these coincidences?

And I've come to one conclusion:
I was meant to survive.

Not because of myself,

but the Jews would survive.

And I would bring up
another generation,

and they would live.

And I look at my children
and my grandchildren,

and I know there was
a purpose to my life.

[Child singing]

[Theme music]