XI. Internment of the three brothers

England, Australia 1939 to 1942 There are many kinds of prison camps. We are to encounter more than 10 of them in the years to come. However, none of them is to be quite as home-made as the one near Gainsborough, where we are deposited in the evening after an uneventful drive South from Middlesborough. A new bus depot outside the ancient market town has been converted into an army compound. Barbed wire, a gate and a guard lead to the camp area where new recruits are introduced to discipline. Inside the compound stands the garage, one corner of which has been partitioned off to hold the internees. Our papers are inspected and handed over, our luggage is searched for weapons, we presume, and we are allotted Numbers 11,007-9. Uwe argues with the intelligence officer about some unimportant matter and both take an instant dislike to each other. This leads to a kind of intellectual sniping which interrupts the monotony of the following weeks whenever an opportunity arises, which is not that often.

We are issued with blankets, a tin plate, a pannikin and cutlery. We fill our palliasses from bales of straw lying in a corner of the garage. Should one stuff them tightly or loosely? Time will show! Loaded like camels, we are led to the door in a timber wall partition, guarded by a soldier with a rifle. We realize that it is the real thing when we are herded into the rectangular room without windows to meet Internees 11,001-6. Iron bedsteads are lined up around the wall. There is a table in the middle with benches around it and a pail near the door. Two lamps without a shade hang from the ceiling. Everywhere are signs of improvisation. Obviously, England is not prepared for the war, at least not for the imprisonment of large numbers of persons. The intelligence officer informs us that he expects us to fit in and give no trouble. With a glance at Uwe, he departs.

We settle down and become acquainted with our new company. One of the dominant characteristics of an internment camp is that it contains a wide mixture of people who are thrown together for one purpose only, namely to be kept under lock. They have little else in common; there is no objective joining them.

My notes of these first months have been lost, and therefore I can only recall lasting impressions. Internees 11,001-6 come from ships which happened to be in port at the outbreak of war. Jim is a cook from a passenger vessel travelling between England's East coast and Danzig. He makes these first weeks exceptional from a culinary point of view. He tells good stories and soon accepts me as his assistant during the hours when we prepare the food for our group in a field kitchen outside the garage. His skills make him also valuable to our guards who ask him to cut up the carcasses which arrive daily for soldiers and prisoners. As a consequence, the internees receive the best cuts, because I stand next to Jim with a bag in which our share disappears quickly.

Jim does not mind missing the opportunity of German army service. The others are less skilled than Jim, but resemble him otherwise. My brothers and I add a new element to the camp population. We are Anti-Nazis and Non-Aryans. However, our group is not yet large enough for tension to arise. As the room fills during the following weeks, stratification gradually develops. It never reaches confrontation. Later arrivals are similar to ourselves, refugees who were living in the Midlands and ran foul of one regulation or another. In the end, there are 30 people in the room which becomes overcrowded by almost any standards known to us. We are lucky as there is no one who is objectionable or unreasonable.

I recall how on one occasion several new arrivals, obviously Jews, are escorted into our room. One of the sailors, after looking them over quickly, calls out for all this we must thank our beloved Fuehrer. The intelligence officer stands behind them and they cannot turn back. For a few seconds they seem to have a sense of pending disaster until their fears are dispersed by the laughter of all prisoners. The intelligence officer's knowledge of German is not sufficient to understand what is happening.

While German residents, who are caught accidentally in England or on the high seas, probably have no option but to sit out the war, refugees immediately set about to plan their strategy for applications which might free them. For this purpose, they must obtain paper and writing utensils from the intelligence officer who seems to be quite convinced that everyone under his supervision is where he should be, or, better still, that England is better off for their internment. Eventually, we receive paper with a shrugging of shoulders indicating that one is reasonable, even to the extent of making the writing of useless applications possible.

A1l round, everyone of these refugees in the camp considers himself a special case and does not discuss his strategy with others. For many months, they will have in common this waiting attitude, each expecting for a different reason to be the first to be released. And if a release occurs, it is instantaneous and there is not much time to discuss what strategy was used. I cannot remember how many applications are launched by my brothers in the course of the following 32 months.

Once a day, the prisoners are taken for a walk in an open yard. Such an excursion lasts about one hour, while we are watched all the time by the guards. Otherwise we are confined in our room, except for when we wish to visit the toilet. The pail in the corner looks after minor requirements. It is quite active during the night. Occasionally, the guard is also called during the night for more ambitious activities. In the evenings, even after the light is turned out at 10 p.m., we hear the soldiers singing songs of the last war and such additions to the repertoire as We hang our washing on the Siegfrid Line. We learn to sleep on command.

One day, at the end of October, we are informed that we will be moved elsewhere. We do not mind, because our investment here is small. This camp is like a doctor's waiting room, uncomfortable and functional. We empty our palliasses, fold our blankets, hand back our eating utensils. In the evening, a bus takes us to the station from where our carriage is shunted through the night. All stations lack names and lights, the country is fully blacked-out and the guards do not divulge our destination. We do not know whether they are better informed than ourselves or have been told not to let us know. In the morning, one of us recognizes the countryside. We are near Exeter.

Our last shunt sets us rolling South into Devonshire. We reach the Channel coast at Seaton. Across a meadow beside the station, we see Warner's Holiday Camp. We have arrived at Camp 2 of our Odyssey. The routine of reception is repeated except for the allotment of numbers, since we keep them for good. Our luggage is searched as if the former guards might not have done a good job in case that we have had an opportunity to acquire armaments and ammunition en route. The officer accompanying us presents our new intelligence officer with as many envelopes as we are prisoners. The camp has only just been started and within hours we are involved in its development. The advantages of the new set up are beyond dispute.

The camp is an extended rectangular compound which in the past has served as a low class seaside holiday camp: Two double rows of tiny plywood huts, a swimming pool, tennis courts and a football field occupying the space in between. Two barbed wire fences, added to the holiday scheme, surround this arrangement with a gangway in between for the guards. The industrial-type building facing the main road into town contains mess facilities, kitchen, camp office, a theatre with stage and a canteen. The sea, on the other side of the road, can be heard occasionally. When there is a real storm, the sea crosses the road and inundates the camp. This is to happen several times during the Winter, when cold conditions lead to formation of ice on all footpaths.

As the camp fills up with internees from all over England and from ships apprehended or scuttled by their crews on the high seas, accommodation is allotted according to national sentiment and allegiance. The two Western rows of huts contain Nazis and Nazi sympathizers, the Eastern rows refugees of racial and political origin; there are tents in between for people who hesitate to join one of the other side. As the war develops, individuals change side, but this is no real problem. Both sides cooperate under the supervision of the Camp Commandant and his internal deputy.

There are roll calls twice daily in the dining hall. Al1 internees crowd into one end of the room and must pass on their way to the other end the Sergeant Major who calls out the 600 names. At times, this procedure is not only watched by the Adjutant, but also by the Colonel himself who may even address his charges standing on one of the tables with his dogs on the floor beside him. These occasions can be quite impressive and we get the feeling that we present our commandant with a welcome substitute for his real life purpose, India.

Outside the first fence, soldiers are stationed at strategic positions on towers from which they can survey the sides of the camp and its inside. Every few hours, they march in groups, one after another, along duck boards between the two fences to change the guards. At night, we hear the calls of the guards through the dark: "Number One Post, all's well, Number Two Post, all's well, etc.". It is quite eerie to hear these calls when the fog rolls in from the ocean and one can see only over a distance of a few feet.

The camp organizes itself quickly. Soon it is possible to have shoes and clothes repaired and small carpentry jobs undertaken. The hospital deals with trivial cases, while patients with more serious complaints are sent away. Especially popular become visits to the dentist in town. It is said that for cash one can obtain there other than dental attention.

Gradually, classes in languages, history and economics are started, the home office making suitable lecturers available. Juergen Kuczynski is a well-know economist from the London School of Economics, Franz Eichenberg knows the European train time-tables by heart, Spanish, French and even Russian can be learnt from people who speak these languages like natives. Younger internees try to resume studies which they left behind, but internment has not yet lasted long enough for anyone to resign to the fact that it may be for years. The atmosphere of the camp is one of temporariness and uneasiness. The unusually cold Winter contributes to this stage of development of permanency. There is a real lack of heating; people are forced to crowd into the dining hall where three gun stoves, stoked with briquettes, provide minimal warmth.

A great addition to the potential of the camp is the arrival of a complete music band from a German cruise liner scuttled in the Atlantic Ocean. While the ship sank, the crew took to the boats with their instruments. The Bride from Ophir is an operetta, specially written by Franz, the railroad time table expert, and performed around Christmas. The officers of the camp are invited for the first night. The bride in silk stockings and almost all revealing evening gown, a cabin boy in real-life, raises amazement and stimulates sexual activities. The dentist in town has assisted with the acquisition of his wardrobe. In general, the mixture of all ages and inclinations in the camp finds its outlets without great concern to those whose task it is to keep order. In these respects, England is tolerant most of the time.

Camp 2 has the great advantage that we can walk about during day and night, although lights are turned off at 10 p.m. The huts, however, are not designed even for the standard English Winter. This winter is by no means a standard winter. Ice and snow last for many months. After some protests, tiny heating coils are installed in the small plywood huts without insulation, each of which sleeps three people. There are not enough blankets and all clothing is worn at all times. At night, pyjamas are quickly placed underneath the day time clothes before one slips into a carefully prepared, but improvised sleeping bag on a straw-filled palliasse.

When, after installation of the mini-heaters, the first electricity bill reaches the camp, the inventiveness of the prisoners manifests itself. It is a miracle that no major fires occur during the Winter. From then on, the soldiers search almost daily the huts for improved heating elements, but that battle is never won and the electricity bill never drops to the scheduled level.

Food deteriorates guickly during the Winter. Salt herrings in various stages of decay and similarly inclined potatoes are the bulk of our nourishment together with bread, margarine and jam. Irish Stews with dumplings are a weekly event. Those internees who acknowledge allegiance to Germany are supplied by the Red Cross with a little pocket money, smokes and necessities. Parcels from outside begin to play a major role. A very few internees live in a luxury which does not bear description; one of them, the scion of Munich's best known delicatessen, referring to the female sender of his parcels from Fortnum and Mason, London's well known delicatessen store, as his financier.

Many internees on the East side volunteer for making camouflage nets. We are paid per net and make sufficient money to purchase basic needs at the canteen. Some people heat cans of soup on the iron stoves in the dining hall. Occasionally, an unfortunate owner of a can forgets his treasure over a game of cards and sees it disappear in a jet when the tin explodes. The canteen also supplies some underwear, socks and outside wear. The war has not yet lasted long enough to create apparel problems.

Shortly before Christmas, our turn comes to face the examining authorities. Our application has found a response. One morning, we leave Seaton under guard for London, where we are accommodated in Camp 3, a school in Chelsea, where we are guarded by Scotsmen in kilts. Every morning, at 7 a.m., they march around the small enclosed yard outside our basement dormitory and fill the air space with bagpipe music. I remember how father often raved about such music, but probably he had the highlands rather than a London backyard in mind.

The interview with Scotland Yard's military intelligence section MI5 (Military Intelligence) turns out to be of no interest to either party. We are interviewed one at a time, my own session lasting shortest, probably because I am younger and one expects my brothers to divulge whatever secrets can be glimpsed. One of our older coprisoners, son of a world famous chemist, runs into some difficulties because of his nervous twitch; but in all other respects there seem to be no indications that we are harbouring among ourselves great threats to England's safety. Of course, there is always a chance that someone is lying, and this keeps the exercise going.

After our interviews, we are sent to Camp 4, a race-course at Lingfield, South of London where we are to spend Christmas. The camp consists mainly of the grandstands around which barbed wire has been placed in such a manner that prisoners can almost touch the guards. Accommodation and mess facilities are rudimentary; we are lucky to spend there only a few days.

An interesting aspect of Lingfield is the existence of a section, where internees pay for their services and enjoy considerable luxury. Here we meet Putzi Hanfstaengl, formerly Hitler's foreign press secretary, and K.Lachmann, an aircraft designer to whom Uwe had an introduction when he first went to England. May be, someone found this letter of introduction among Lachmann's correspondence? On Christmas Eve, Putzi, an accomplished pianist who used to play for his Fuehrer in private, plays Beethoven's Appassionata in public. The grand piano is part of the private members' lounge in which paying guests of His Majesty's Government are housed.

On Christmas Day, we are permitted to go to church, of course, under guard in a segregated section of the church. Throughout the service, children in the congregation turn back to stare at us. A little snow has fallen and stayed on the ground. We are having a white Christmas.

Burlington House is the seat of the Royal Society and other scientific and cultural organizations. It provides the venue for the Advisory Committee on Internees to the Home Secretary. Its chairman is Norman Birkett who is to figure in 1945 in the First Nuernberg Trial. We arrive there on 5th January, 1940. I am asked by Margaret Bondfield, a well-known quaker member of the Committee, whether I have had to suffer in Germany. My hesitant reply not physically, but is completed by her with the word mentally. The atmosphere at the committee is pleasant and people seem to take an interest in us as human beings. We come away with the firm belief that our innocence and unimportance have been established beyond doubt and that soon we may pull our weight in the war. At the last minute, we are assured not to worry! The next day we return to Seaton to continue our wait.

On 25th February, 1940, Wilhelm Hermann Georg Arnold Theobald Solf, aged 25 years, son of Germany's former Ambassador to Japan, is convicted in the Police Court at Abingdon of an offence against the Alien Order of 1920 (illegal photography) to one month's imprisonment and costs. He presents references from Sir Horace Rumbold, former British Ambassador to Berlin, Sir George Ogilvie-Forbes and others; in cross-examination, he divulges that he served in a German Cavalry Regiment, worked later in the German aircraft industry, is a German reserve officer and returned to England three days before the outbreak of war. He has studied at Oxford during the past three years and intends to continue doing so. His probably innocent act was observed and reported to the local police by Linda Volante, a 14 years old evacuee from London,

Among the refugees in the internment camp, this development is referred to as the Solf affair which eventually has sinister consequences for all of us. On 2nd March, the Times reports an answer by Sir John Anderson, Home Secretary, to a question in Parliament relating to the internment of aliens. He indicates that out of a total of 74,233 Austrian and German nationals, registered in England at the beginning of the war, 55,457 were acknowledged refugees from Nazi persecution and that 569 were interned. For the first time, we see real figures and learn the lesson that even under these and probably many other conditions it does not matter who you are but whom you know. The fact that we are among the one percent which has been detained is not raising our spirits.

This is the beginning of the internment of ever larger numbers of refugees and the end of our hope to be allowed to pull our weight in this struggle with the system in Germany. Not many of the more recently interned people join our camp which is of limited size. Most are sent to the Isle of Man. However, Solf appears one day among us, and it is no too difficult to imagine how popular he is among some of us. At a later time, when Germany appears to perform well, he joins the Nazis in the camp.

We are now convinced that there will be no early end to our imprisonment. We are also not surprised when we learn from the newspapers that Putzi has been allowed to go to Canada to his farm. We continue to wait, but no one really can tell for what we are waiting.

It is around this time that we learn of father's release from concentration camp. Grete Simon in New York makes every effort to organize his emigration to wherever a door is open, since this was the first prerequisite for his release. My brothers make their savings available for this purpose. At the same time, new applications for release with new facts are written and the brothers make attempts to help him. We ourselves have now become part of the bureaucratic system which is unaffected by and impervious to sentiments, compassion and humanity. We are numbers in a file which grows as the war begins to develop during the early months of 1940.

When Germany invades Denmark and Norway on 9th April, 1940, we are deprived of newspapers. From then on rumours are our daily food for thought; the slightest observations such as that suddenly our guards carry around old-time, quite unsuitable guns are interpreted in terms of disaster and defeat. The Nazis in the camp become more confident, there occur change-overs from our side of the camp to theirs, and the atmosphere all around becomes loaded.

After a cruel Winter, the Sun begins to warm up. We are given permission to cultivate some land outside the camp. in order to subsidize our sustenance. We grow lettuce and radishes, and establish tomato plants. The swimming pool, on which some people organized skating and ice shooting with water filled, frozen margarine tins during Winter, is returned to its real purpose. We acquire a tan and start to make camouflage nets in the open.

In the middle of June, it becomes clear that the camp will be vacated soon. The canteen holds a sale. Food is cheap and shoes rise in price. We receive our last payment for camouflage nets. On 22nd June 1940, during the evening roll call, about 300 names are read out; these people are told that they will depart on the next morning for an unknown destination. Luggage is limited to 50 lbs, any overflow must be stored during the few hours left. Matches are prohibited. The group includes many Nazis, but there does not appear to be a system in the selection except for a preference for persons who are not involved in activities vital to the running of the camp. During the next days, we make a selection of items of which we believe that we will require them when our turn comes. The residue is sent to friends in Scotland. Among these things is my diary of the past months which is supposed to have been destroyed by fire during an incendiary raid on Glasgow.

We are now engaged in a general clean up of the camp. All remaining persons must move into the first few huts near the main building. There is little doubt in our mind that we will not have to wait much longer. On 29th June, we are told that we will leave the next morning. We are to rise at 2.15 a.m. There will be a roll call at 4 a.m.; the train is to depart at 6 a.m. Again matches are prohibited. Does this indicate that we will be sent to the Isle of Man? We suspect that the exclusion of matches indicates sea travel. We feast once more outside our hut on self-grown vegetables. Recently we have heard that the parents and Gundula are to pass through Italy on their way to South America during June. There is a rumour about regarding Italy's entry into the war. Our departure will cut us off from all communications for an indefinite period. We leave with great uncertainty about the fate and whereabouts of our family. Not to worry are the last words from the intelligence officer before the train pulls out of Seaton Station.

Our group of about 200 internees travels in six carriages. The train reaches Liverpool towards evening and passes through a long tunnel before pulling up beside a large vessel, the Blue Star Liner "Arandora Star", a luxury cruise ship. When we are led up the gangway, a doctor looks into our eyes and a steward allots cabins. We must stay under deck. At 10 p.m., we receive food of a very high quality, the best since we were interned nine months ago. It is served on china plates!

There are guards everywhere and our movements are restricted. Apart from the paying residents of the camp at Paignton in Sommerset Shire, there are about 800 Italians on board, a fact which confirms that Italy has entered the war. Have the parents been able to leave before? By now it appears to be obvious that we are going further than the Isle of Man. In the morning, we organize ourselves, reshuffle accommodation and look after other chores which will ensure the smooth running of Camp 5: "Arandora Star".

The ship is moving northwards through the Irish Sea, probably to Canada. Around lunch time, we sight the Isle of Man, where the wives of quite a few of our group are held. At Sunset, we are North of Ireland. The ship is not in convoy. For a little while, we are accompanied by a submarine. A Sunderland Flying Boat visits us several times as we zig-zag through the relatively quiet sea. There is a general sense of elation among us. We are happy to go to America. We have reached at last a turning point of our fortune and things should get better from now on. Before bunking down that night, we stand about on the upper deck talking to the ship's doctor.

No one comments on the fact that there has not been any boat drill. We are inexperienced! Even the fact that life-jackets lie about in all cabins is hardly noted. I have been given the task of collecting breakfast in the morning at 6 a.m. Forgetting about the ship's westward movement and the associated putting back of clocks, I rise before 5.30 a.m. and dress. I leave my spectacles, received a few weeks earlier from Germany, on a night table in the cabin shared with my brothers and another person. Uwe gets up and puts on his shorts, but lies down again when we discover that it .is too early. I stand at the end of the short passage leading from the main corridor to our cabin when suddenly the light goes out, an explosion rocks the ship and fumes propagate along the now dark passage. Just before the light goes out, I see a group of soldiers with guns walking in file along the corridor. As they pass me, they take me between them and lead the way upstairs to the lower open deck. There is a weird silence about the ship; the engines have stopped. We hear people in the cabins calling out. Under our feet we feel broken glass from window panes and bulbs, shattered during the explosion. Many people cannot find their shoes and receive cuts on their feet as they feel their way up to the open decks.

By the time the soldiers and I reach the open deck, the ship is listing. I return under deck to find my brothers, whistling a tune from Beethoven's Pastoral Symphony which we have used at times to signal to each other. I receive immediately Uwe's reply and do not have to struggle against the stream of humanity flowing from the cabins. When I meet my brothers, I notice that they have only brought their life vests with them. I am without one until I come across an Italian with two. Jobst could not find his shoes and stands on the deck in pyjamas with bleeding feet.

Many of the Italians are panicking, some are kneeling on the deck praying, others are climbing the narrow steps to the upper deck. My brothers and I stand by the railing uncertain of what to do next. German and English sailors on the upper deck are launching life-boats and are throwing rafts into the sea. People with suitcases in their hands jump over board. Others drop from the upper deck with life vests on them. They break their necks and float afterwards between swimmers and debris,

I talk to a young soldier who stands quietly on the deck with his rifle. No one has given him an order and he waits. He suggests that I jump. When I turn back to my brothers, they are gone. A rope ladder hangs from the lower deck near where I stand. I climb down and let myself drop, holding my vest in one hand, I dip under and come back to the surface to place the vest quickly over my head. I immediately begin to swim away from the ship lest I be struck by rafts falling from the upper deck. It is too dangerous to stay near the hull which is gradually rising at the stern. I see several life boats and decide to swim towards one of them. Suddenly I see Uwe ahead of me. He tests a plank for buoyancy, but decides against staying with it and continues towards the same boat which is my goal.

I arrive soon after he has been pulled inside. The body of an elderly Italian hangs from a rope trimming where I reach the boat; I have to climb over him with the help of people inside. From the elevation of the life boat, one can see a huge field of debris with bodies floating in between. On the deck of the sinking ship, we can still see people running about. On our side of the hull, another life boat drifts past and joins us standing by. We cannot see how many boats have been launched as others may be hidden by the sinking ship. To start with, I join the large number of persons lying in the bottom of the boat, dejected and some of them seasick. I am cold and covered with oil. I feel a bit sick after having swallowed sea water with oil. However, I soon volunteer for a place on an oar which from then on is operated by Uwe, myself and a Nazi sailor.

Now and then I throw a glance at the wreck which is already half submerged with its bow raised. I see people toppling down the deck as suddenly two holes open in the foredeck and jets of smoke emerge. She slides smoothly out of sight about 30 minutes after the torpedo struck. She leaves behind more debris, bodies and swimmers. Immediately after the ship has sunk, the boats converge on the site to search for survivors. Our rowing becomes coordinated and follows the instructions of an officer of the "Arandora Star". However, as we have already 120 persons aboard a boat meant for 80, the officer leaves our vessel and joins another life boat to ensure that the best use is made of all available space. It is obvious now that at least four of the 12 life boats were lost during launching. Many people have managed to clamber aboard rafts and will have to hold on to them for a while.

The sky is clouded over; there is a heavy swell. An absence of white caps is reassuring us that for the time being luck is with us. We learn from another boat that an SOS was sent out before the ship sank and that therefore a visit from a Sunderland Flying Boat may occur before long. The "Arandora Star" was torpedoed at approximately 6 a.m. Shortly after 9 a.m., an aeroplane is seen over the horizon. Several rockets are launched and our oars are raised vertically to draw the pilot's attention. Soon the bulky plane cruises overhead and drops a capsule with the message that a destroyer is on its way. It also jettisons some food which is picked up by the only operating motor boat. Biscuits, chocolate and cigarettes are distributed among the boats. For a while, the plane cruises overhead and searches for survivors, signalling to the boats below. It then departs.

As our boat sluggishly rises and falls on the swell and we row slowly steadying it into the waves, time passes. Around 2 p.m., a dark spot appears on the horizon. Soon after, the flying boat returns and joins the destroyer in its search for survivors on rafts. The destroyer's fast motor boat dashes about for a while in this pursuit, while we await our turn to be transferred. We decide to row towards the destroyer. En route, we pick up a raft which we tow behind. It carries six men sitting in rows of three facing each other. They look quite comfortable until one realizes that they have their legs in the water. We are the third of the 8 boats to reach the rescue vessel. As we approach it, we note that the heavy swell raises and lowers the boats as they come along the side of the destroyer. Three wooden ladders have been lashed to its side. Two or three men at a time clamber up these ladders when their boat is at the crest of the wave. When they reach the railing, they are promptly grabbed by sailors of the destroyer and lifted on to the deck to make room for the next trio.

The iron deck is hot; people without shoes quickly disappear inside. Among them is Jobst who joins us soon from another life boat. Once again we have been lucky. I have a look inside the ship where the air is thick; exhausted and wounded people lie about everywhere. The worst cases are taken to the hospital, which soon is overcrowded. I am given a tumbler of cognac and a cigarette before I emerge on deck to give a hand with the unloading of the remaining life boats. As I help a huge fat man without clothes covered with oil to the hospital, my hands which grab him from the back lose their grip and he slides on to the deck. It takes several men to shift him.

At last, all survivors have been collected and the Canadian destroyer St. Laurent with the number H 83 heads back to Scotland. I spend most of the night in a hide-out under the bridge with a number of sailors of the crew. They are my age and treat me with great consideration. For a few hours, I have the feeling of being part of the war. What will happen next?

In the early morning, Ailsa Craig at the entrance to the Firth of Clyde rises out of the fog. I recognize its monolithic shape after having seen it frequently during cruises when I visited Scotland in 1936. Thus I know my way about when the ship berthes in Greenock. There are many soldiers on the quay and no civilians in sight. The English soldiers and sailors leave the ship first and are welcomed enthusiastically. As we leave the destroyer, we are met by silence. We are counted and become again numbers. Many of us are only covered by blankets obtained from the crew of the rescue vessel who are shaking our hands as we leave. We are first sorted out into Italians and Germans. When we insist, a third group of refugees is formed. Surrounded by soldiers with rifles, we march through Greenock to a multi-storey factory, the same building in which survivors of the "Athenia", the first passenger ship torpedoed during this war, were billeted a few months earlier.

Those too sick to walk remain temporarily on board. Four more men died during the night. Our procession looks like a funeral without a band. We move very slowly over the cobbled streets, because many of us are without shoes. The population watches us emotionless from the sidewalks. The morning papers have reported the loss of the "Arandora Star" and of about 900 soldiers, sailors and prisoners. When we reach the factory, the Nazis are placed on the top floor, the Italians on a floor beneath and our group of 63 refugees on the ground floor. For a long time, nothing happens. We stand about on the concrete floor, waiting for clothing, blankets and food. Gradually, one after the other collapses on to the floor and goes to sleep where he drops. We are hungry and tired after 36 hours without food or sleep.

Apparently, no provisions have been made for our arrival. After hours we are given some dry biscuits, tea and cigarettes. These are followed by one blanket per person. Later in the morning, the Italians are taken away. A rumour has it that they are immediately on their way back to Liverpool and another ship. We share the building with the Nazis whose singing can be heard above, sounding through the central light shaft of the factory. They have recovered their spirits, and, maybe, they have already obtained newspapers telling about the fall of France.

Corned beef and bread with tea become the staple food of the next three days. Our room has windows into the street some of which are broken. We manage to obtain newspapers and are astonished to learn that the tragedy of the "Arandora Star" was the fault of the prisoners. We were undisciplined and have panicked in the face of the courage and heroism of the crew and guards, and, of course, all of us were Nazis. There is no mention of lack of boat drill nor of the fact that several boats were unserviceable. We also learn about the fall of France and the evacuation of Dunkirk. Little by little, we fill in the gaps left since we ceased receiving newspapers almost two months earlier. What motivation could lie behind such an order?

During the afternoon, I speak with a nurse who promises to phone our friends at nearby Bridge of Weir. In the evening, Ian appears. Since we were interned, we have our first contact with an outsider other than officials and soldiers. He promises to bring us some clothes and contact other friends. On the next day, a local parson visits us and after a brief memorial service for our dead we are given hot tea and cakes. Other parsons visit during the following days and bring welcome clothing. They are also instrumental in some of us sending unofficially messages to relatives. So far we have not been allowed to use the post. Our guards, all elderly men, treat us kindly and do not hesitate to close an eye when we try to send messages. In the evening of 4th July, while we are asleep, Uwe's friend from Glasgow turns up with some of the clothes which we sent to him from Seaton a couple of weeks earlier. He also leaves some money and strawberries which the officer in charge hands over to me. Ian comes again on another day.

On Friday, we are equipped with ancient military uniforms, probably stock from World War I. Underwear, trousers, shoes and jackets of varying sizes are available; it is up to us to achieve the best fit. On the way out of the fitting room, a soldier with a paint brush adorns the backs of our new garments with red crosses. Now we are ready for the next move.

Next day's papers report how our guards must protect us against the fury of the local population. We are upset and defenceless. Since days, we have only received kindness through the cracked windows of our prison.

At last, we are given postcards with the inscription "I AM SAFE". There is no possibility of explaining why such a mysterious statement should be sent. Presumably, relatives are to guess that we were exposed to unsafe conditions. At the same time, we complete from memory our own list of lost persons. Altogether, 106 men from Seaton and nearby Pagination, a camp with paying inmates, were drowned or died subsequently. The Nazis lost 45, the Italians about 450 persons. We have no means of estimating the numbers of sailors and soldiers lost. Our group of Anti-Nazis now comprises 63, that of the Nazis approximately 200 men.

Throughout the week, we try to impress on the commanding officer the need to separate us from the Nazis; some promises are made. On Saturday morning, we are told to prepare for the next move. When we ask what is going to happen and whether we can count on being separated from the Nazis, the answer is not to worry. Soon we are on our way to the station, this time looking superficially like defenders of Britain. When it turns out that there are not enough guards, after consultation, our compartments are left without guards. One trusts us! The population gives us a farewell. As we roll through the countryside around Glasgow towards Edinburgh, people wave to us. They cannot see the red crosses!

We are quietly unloaded in the evening at a station South of Edinburgh. During a half hour drive southwards, we pass a number of road blocks, probably improvised recently in face of the threat of invasion. We enter an area marked "Keep Out! Military Reserve". Camp 7 is a simple rectangular compound surrounded by barbed wire entanglements. It contains about 80 tents, mess tents, corrugated iron sheds with showers and latrines. There is no separation from the Nazis. During the four days at Woodhouse Lea, we make a number of attempts to impress on the young kilted lieutenant with a severe stammer our wish for separation from the Nazis. In the end, ho assures us that his life would have been easier if all Anti-Nazis had got drowned!

Besides all this, we are hungry and cold most of the time. Even in July, the Scottish climate is not over suitable for our mode of accommodation, and lack of clothing is a real problem. The surroundings of the camp are beautiful. At the foot of high hills on the West side, old trees, grazing sheep and heather create a typical setting of Scotland. It rains regularly and soon the tents are afloat. Every evening and morning, we must walk once around the track between the entanglements forming the compound, to be counted: Nazis first, Anti-Nazis trailing behind. When there is an air raid on Edinburgh, the camp is surrounded by soldiers with their rifles pointing inside. They are called by a queer sounding alarm system involving electrically operated whistles.

On Wednesday, 10th July, a trumpeter wakes us without any warning at 5 a.m. Soon we are under way by train. This time no one has bothered to tell us not to worry. May be they know by now that nothing will stop us from doing so. When we pass through the tunnel at Liverpool, we know that we are once again going to sea. It is almost dark when our turn comes to board the troop transport "Dunera". While we are standing on the pier waiting, soldiers pass us coming off the boat. Several of them hold watches in their hands and wave them to us.

HMT Dunera

We fail to understand the significance of their actions. We walk aboard along the gangway, where an officer counts us by operating a mechanical device. As we move along the deck, our few possessions are grabbed, our clothes are searched, cigarettes and money removed. Some people lose even wristwatches and rings, others manage at this stage to hold on to them. Suddenly we understand what is going on. By that time we have been herded through a gate in a barbed wire fence several feet from the railing. We have reached Camp 8 which preserves the style we are accustomed to by now.

The officer guiding us wants to locate us together with the Nazis in the same space under deck. We protest on the spot, stand about for a while in the dark and eventually are placed further back on a deck below the one occupied by Italians. All the decks at the stern of the vessel are interconnected and use the same facilities. We have to remain below deck and are given some food at 10 p.m. Otherwise we are left undisturbed until the next morning, making our own arrangements for the night. There are no blankets or mattresses. We sleep on tables, the floor and on benches. It is very cold. Many people complain about having lost their few personal objects as well as their minimal luggage. We are depressed and worried. As the cold becomes unbearable towards the morning, I get up early.

To my horror, I discover that we are completely surrounded by barbed wire without access to the railing. We are in a cage! After the experiences of the last week, we will naturally be looking for a route of escape if the ship were to be torpedoed. There is a small space 30 by 10 feet on deck outside which a soldier stands guard with a rifle. He sends me immediately below deck without responding to my question regarding our destination. I have just enough time to perceive that we are well on our way through the Irish Sea in the company of two destroyers and a large transport.

As I climb down the steps to our deck, I meet a sergeant who under threat removes my wrist watch. It is worthless since I swam for my life. During the day, more watches and valuables are stolen. Gradually, people learn to keep things out of sight.

In the morning, hammocks are issued together with blankets. We are to suspend them during the night as best we can in the space, where we are to live and eat. All decks are packed tight with little space to move about at any time. A day's simple routine starts with the collection of breakfast from the kitchen on the deck above at 6.45 a.m: Hot fish or sausages, bread, margarine and jam, tea. The dishes are washed immediately afterwards in the primitive washrooms at the stern on the same deck as the kitchen. Along one side of this space, a 20 inches wide open gutter with a rail on which one can crouch is flooded by the sea from the direction of the bow and discharges towards the stern. This is our sanitary arrangement which poses quite interesting acrobatic challenges during storms.

At 9.30 a.m., soldiers come down into the decks and chase everyone on to the top deck, where we must pass through the gate and walk in file several times around the upper deck. At both ends of the open deck, on both sides of the ship, soldiers stand beside machine guns with their fingers on the triggers. What would be the headlines if one or all of them decided to let go one day?

Sometimes I manage to stay below deck during this "recreational" exercise. In the absence of the prisoners, the floors of the decks are washed with disinfectant. In general, the guards are rude and rough to us. There does not seem to be any supervision from their officers who keep out of sight most of the time. None of us have expected such a concentration camp atmosphere; we find it hard to readjust our thinking.

At noon, lunch consists of soup, stew, potatoes and dessert. The food is frequently burnt. Its taste fits the general atmosphere. It deteriorates over the weeks and stomach upsets become later a problem for everyone. Afternoon tea at 4 p.m. brings tea or coffee, bread and jam, at times cheese, fruit or fruitcake. In the evening, at 7 p.m., we eat fish, macaroni cheese, bread and jam. In the end, the jam has fermented and loses its attraction for most of us. The lights are turned out at 10 p.m., apart from those over the staircase.

Franz Eichenberg, the leader of our small group, manages to talk briefly to one of the officers. He enquires about the purpose of the fencing and the theft of our few possessions. He is told not to worry as all prisoners will go down with the ship, if it should be torpedoed. The officer laughs when a suggestion of boat drill is made. He promises to enquire with regard to the thefts.

We can take showers with salt water as often as we like. When we run later on into storms, the washroom and latrine are inundated and we have to wade to our destinations. It is a miracle that we do not encounter worse sickness than we do. There is always a lucky aspect to everything.

During the first few days, the guards' scavenging for valuables is a continuous worry. At the suggestion of an officer, we collect the remaining items, label them and hand them over to him for "safe-keeping". We will not see them again. We ask for the luggage which was taken away from us when we boarded. We are given a collection of items. An exhibition is mounted, where a few of us celebrate reunions with bits of clothing. Soon we refer to the "Dunera" as the Pick-Pocket-Battleship. Our sense of humour at the time is reflected by the following adjustment of the well known limerick :

There was a young man from Larkie, There was a young man from Eira,
who had an affair with a darkie, who sailed on the troopship "Dunera,"
the result of his sins were quadruplets not twins, the result of his sins was a wrist-watch, not twins,
one white, one black and two khaki. for he lived in a civilized area.

On l2th July, I creep back into my hammock after breakfast and go to sleep again. I am woken up by Jobst. There is a great turmoil. People are running about and shouting. The ship has experienced two shocks. Minor explosions? Many think we have been torpedoed. There is a rush upstairs to the kitchen and the smal deck space. One of the prisoners has climbed up the barbed wire lined light shaft, while Kaminsky, a heavy, ex-resident of Berlin, accustomed to removal of grand pianos, throws his 20 stones against the gate in the fence and breaks it open. A soldier fires a shot and our massive comrade receives a mounted side-arm wound. Gradually, the excitement subsides as the ship continues peacefully on its track. It is a false alarm which demonstrates what might have to be expected in case that really something happens. Did a torpedo hit the ship, but did not explode? We will discover after the war that a torpedo was actually avoided by sharp manouevering of the ship.

On 13th July, our ship separates from the other transport and the destroyers, one of which has turned out to be our saviour H 83. In zig-zag, we proceed in a Southerly direction. This cannot be the route to Canada. Where are we going? Ten days later, we see flying fish. It is warming up; soon the Sun is overhead at noon. Now clothing is no longer a problem. A lap-lap is all we require. We make shorts out of shirts and other suitable material. A huge air hose is hung down into our deck through the light shaft. Failure to cover up well at night causes widely spread colds and stomach troubles. The demand for a few minutes on the limited space on the top deck makes it necessary to roster visits there.

On 24th July, we reach Freetown. Some way out to sea, we encounter canoes with single natives fishing. The ship remains anchored in the bay. We see palm trees, negroes, round straw covered huts with conical sharp pointed roofs, bungalows under shrubs. I cannot see too much, because I lost my spectacles with the "Arandora Star". As our ship cannot receive water and supplies here, we proceed to Tacoradi which is reached three days later. Here the canoes hold two or more fishermen. The shape of their oars also differs. The ship moors at a small jetty and remains for two days. We take food and water. Tacoradi is small and picturesque. A minute railroad station by the jetty, a radio station on a hill behind the settlement, a modern hospital, Negro guards on the jetty and a continuous stream of natives coming to stare at us. Perhaps they have never seen so many Europeans in a cage. It is like a zoo. In the eveninq, a few French soldiers and officers are given a guided tour through our quarters.

I have managed to obtain a good supply of toilet paper and begin to make notes about the last few weeks on which the present description of the events before and since the "Arondara Star" disaster is based. I keep a record of daily events. My greatest treasure is a short piece of a pencil. We are now interned for more than ten months. The wish to become once again one's own master is growing. However, there seems to be less hope than before that we will be released once we reach our destination wherever it is. On the basis of our experiences hitherto, my brothers will have to write many more applications. It would really be ironical if after all we were to reach now .Australia.

All of us have become considerably run down. We have lost the tan and healthy appearance which we achieved after survival of the very hard winter. I am very nervous and manage to get into prolonged arguments over quite unimportant things. It will be good to get away from people and have a bit more space around oneself. Our position is 11 degrees South, as Uwe determines by a rough measurement of the Sun' s position; the sea is rough, but no one on our deck is seasick. We have become acclimatized.

On 8th August, the ship enters the harbour of Capetown. Through our fence, we see a beautiful town climbing the hill side towards Table Mountain which is hidden by clouds most of the time, only occasionally making a short appearance. The port is crowded with ships. In the evening, we hear the traffic, see the lights. There is no black-out. We are loading food. One of the Nazi internees is unloaded here. A rumour has it that Australia does not want to have him. We manage to obtain a newspaper and learn of Trotsky's murder in Mexico. A Polish internee among us tells us how he heard him speak 20 years earlier and of his great admiration for him. What a time we live in that governments use taxe to murder adversaries!

On the way across to Australia along the Southern route, the weather deteriorates as we penetrate the Roaring Forties. The ship moves violently. At night, I lie in my hammock. The ship moves around me. Ropes strain and squeak everywhere. During the night of 19th August, the engines stop and the ship stands by for three hours. In the kitchen above, pots and pans are beginning to lead individual existences. Heaps of broken plates skid forward and backward with the ship's motion. The Italians react quickly with shouting and there is a stampede up the stairs. The music from the kitchen reaches a crescendo. Eventually, the "Dunera" resumes her journey. After this night, many people raise again the questions why there has not been any boat-drill and why we have not been issued with life vests. The general conclusion reached is that only a non-event can save us. If all of us were lost, and the crew and soldiers were to turn up, an ensuing parliamentary enquiry would not revive us.

To-day, 21st August, during the morning walk, 40 years old Mr. Weiss jumps overboard. Against all our expectations, the guards do not shoot at him. The ship stops and turns back. However, there is no sign of him. May be the worry about the future and his family became too much for him. We are supposed to reach Fremantle in 4 days. So close to' the end, we suddenly are concerned that something might go wrong at the last minute. Our older colleagues remember similar sentiments from World War I during the last days before going on leave.

During the night of 22nd August, I am sitting at our table, writing my diary, when a totally drunk officer falls down the steps onto our deck. He insists that I and others playing cards go to sleep. Many of us have lately stayed up all night and slept during the day. Everyone is tense and many of us have the feeling that we cannot go on like this for much longer. Maybe it was this mood which made Mr. Weiss jump.

There is a rumour going around that Australia has interned many of her refugee immigrants. At least all males under 65 years of age are supposed to be in camps. Their cases are to be reviewed, and we know by now what that means. Will we brothers be able to get new papers from Canberra? Ever since we jumped off the "Arandora Star", we habe been worrying about our lack of papers. I cannot even prove that I was matriculated at the Munich Technical High School and have lost my school leaving certificate. Other rumours concern what is going to happen when we reach Freemantle. Some are qoing East by train, others continue on the boat to Melbourne, or better still to Sydney. Most have heard of the Sydney Harbour Bridge.

A last storm before Fremantle keeps us awake as the kitchen utensils supply ample background noise. It is not as bad as the storms further South and everyone reacts more reasonably. It lasts only a few hours. During the last days before reaching again land I get an opportunity to visit the compound in front of the ship which holds almost 2000 refugees, who were interned only shortly before the fall of France. Such a visit is possible, if one swaps position with one of the carriers who bring the food from the quartermaster store in front of the ship. We have been in contact with those in front only through these carriers. I must borrow civilian clothing from someone as our army uniforms mark us as "Arandora Star" survivors. I leave the stern in the morning after breakfast and return at lunch time. In this way I meet the brother of the professor whom I met the last night in Berlin and who gave me the money for the second class train fare to London. How small the world is!

I learn about the whereabouts of several persons who were interned at Seaton and released from there, only to be interned again. Many of them volunteered to go to Canada. I note that there are many professionals in this group; I come away with the hope that we may stay together in a camp. This would be good for a resumption of study which must come one of these days, if the war is going to last much longer. Everyone in the front compound wants to hear about the "Arandora Star" which has been something of a mystery. They have been interned long enough now to realize that the newspapers could not have given the true facts.

On 27th August, 1940, we reach Fremantle. Six Australian doctors board the ship at sea; we must parade past them on deck. Our lower arms are inspected. Each nation has a different method of scrutinizing internees. At about 8 a.m., we see some islands. We reach the port by 10 a.m. It is a small clean harbour town with many ships, trains and cars. On hills nearby, we note etrange looking trees with layered branches forming triangles; someone tells us that they are Norfolk pines. We are satisfied with our first impression. The ship is loading all day and then leaves for our next destination which, as usual, is a mystery. At least, this time there are only two possibilities, namely Melbourne and Sydney. No one has heard of Adelaide.

As we move South along the coast, I am reminded of Nidden, sandy beachee, dunes and hills in the background, occasional clusters of houses. From now on we admire the sunsets. One day, a rainbow lies ahead like a portal to the new land. Otherwise the trip is uneventful until we reach Melbourne on the first anniversary of the outbreak of what might now just as well be called World War II.

When we go to bed on the evening of 2nd September, we can see already the lighthouse at the entrance to Melbourne. I sleep badly and get up at 2 a.m. to take a shower before the rush starts. When I come on deck afterwards, the ship is just entering the channel between the search lights of two pilot boats. I see the last waves in the light beams and then the still water in the protected section of the channel. The guard sends me below deck.

I can only return after sunrise. By that time, we are in the bay outside Melbourne. In the distance, we see beaches and high hills behind. A layer of fog lies in front of us. Suddenly, two tugs emerge out of the fog. They pull us to a pier in Melbourne which is hardly visible until we are actually tied up. There are several officers on the jetty and a train. The night before we reach Melbourne, we were informed that we will be unloaded in Melbourne together with the Italians and Nazis. The first fight ahead of us it to achieve separation from those with whom we do not want to be identified. The hope of joining the congenial company in the forward compound is already shattered. We have been on the pick-pocket-battleship for 55 days; no one is sorry to see the last of it.

While waiting on deck to be unloaded, we watch the traffic past the land end of the jetty. We cannot see much of Melbourne, because of the fog. The Nazis are the first to disembark, followed by the Italians, and finally us. Our names are crossed off a list before we climb down some steps and enter the train compartment allotted to us. Our guards are elderly, congenial and talkative. They do not get tired of all the questions which we ask. Soon we know that several hours of travel lie ahead of us. At about noon, the train starts to move. It contains approximately 220 Nazis, 200 Italians and 110 refugees. As the train moves through Melbourne's suburbs, we gaze at the vegetation much of which is new to us. Many yellow flowering trees are explained to us as being "wattles". Later on we find out that in Europe they are called mimosas. There are many palm trees and other sub-tropical plants. Fruit trees in blossom adorn many gardens.

The train stops several times as it enters the city itself and is shunted about. We see large buildings and busy streets with crowds, cars, advertising. We get an impression of what would have awaited us if we had arrived as proper immigrants. Soon after the train is moving through suburbs with strange lookinq bungalows at the ends of narrow gardens with lemon trees, out-houses and high wooden or corrugated iron fences, so that one cannot look from one garden into the next. After leaving Melbourne behind, we pass through country with scattered huge trees, wide expanses of grassland and grazing sheep. No kangaroos, no emus? "Give us time", says the guard. He was a soldier during World War I in Egypt and France. Without the slightest sign of impatience, he continues to answer our questions.

A flrst indication that there exists an organization on our behalf manifests itself when we reach Seymour Station around 2 p.m. Several well-dressed young ladies and a group of high officers receive us. Everyone is given a packet of sandwiches and cake. There is butter on the bread! We receive fresh fruit, strong tea with milk. After many weeks, we are starting to feel again like humans.

Towards 5 p.m., we reach the small station of Rushworth. Many local onlookers and several buses wait for us. After a 30 minutes drive through a countryside with grassland and eucalyptus trees, we reach a large camp with many huts climbing up a hill with a view over a lake. Each hut contains 28 beds in two central tiers. There are two dining halls in each of the two compounds which at first are interconnected. Soon the Italians occupying one of them insist that they want to be separated from the Germans. We remain together with the Nazis, but have our own mess hut. Al1 buildings are constructed out of corrugated iron and timber, stand on stumps and have steps leading into them. The whole area must have been erected recently. There are many signs of a final rush. Nails, bits of timber, cement bags lie about everywhere until we clean up.

At first, the weather is very cold. They tell us that they are the coldest September days in 85 years. There is plenty of good food served in four meals daily. During the first weeks, we fill ourselves up until we burst at the seams. As the huts are effectively air cooled and the temperatures are low, we find that four blankets are not enough to keep warm during the night. In my whole life I have not frozen more than during these first few weeks in Australia. There is no heating anywhere but the kitchen stoves. Eventually, we are given an extra blanket each.

An unpleasant aspect of our existence at this time are the ceaseless differences with the Nazis, or Nasties, as they are being called since Scotland. As they are in the majority, following the best democratic principles, we do not have a representative in the internal camp administration which acts under the camp commandant. Naturally, we are allotted regularly the task of cleaning the latrines, a row of plumbings in a half-closed corrugated iron shed. Complaints to the camp commandant result in an order that we are to participate in all activities and discussions. However, our representatives are thrown out within hours. Eventually, we finish up as non-working guests of the Party. Fortunately, soon after this decision has been made, we are told that we will be removed from our ninth camp.

On 25th September 1940, at the beginning of our second year of internment, we are separated from the Nazis. First we must sign a document that we will not attempt to escape en route. Where to? Then we are driven on lorries with our few possessions to Camp 10, some 12 miles away. Apparently, the whole region is equipped with facilities for prisoners all of which have been constructed only recently. Our new camp consists of four almost triangular compounds arranged in a square. Broad streets form the diagonals. Each compound has space for over 200 persons. Accommodation is in small cubicles holding two men each. There are sixteen of them to each hut. Again the huts have been constructed on stumps and steps lead up to pairs of cubicles at a time. The subdivisions of the huts are out of timber and masonite. It is all very civilized' and comfortable.

It becomes soon apprent that new arrivals are expected for whom we are the spearhead. On 27th September, we are joined by internees from Singapore, brought in supreme luxury to Australia on board the "Queen Mary". The two "Queens" have become troop transports and are probably to carry Australian soldiers to the Middle-East. Our compound receives 56 single men, while married couples and children are impounded next to us. At night, we hear children cry, during the day, we see and talk to our new neighbours. At last, our group has received new blood, and we really needed it. We have acquired a jazz band, a number of other musicians, a dentist and two doctors. There are engineers, a photographer, a sculptor, an economist and several other professionals. They have with them complete households and innumerable cases of possessions of a kind which we have not seen for a long time. For days, we are sent to Rushworth, in order to unload their goods from railway carriages and transport them to the camp.

We are resuming the writing of applications and try to contact acquaintances who emigrated to Australia. There is a doctor from Koenigsberg in Sydney. I also recall that at some university teaches a geologist whose name and location I have forgotten. Each week, I write to another university and give a description of this person's background. After a few weeks I am successful and receive from Kurt Teichert the name and address of a meteorologist in Melbourne who is of interest to Uwe. We are allowed two letters per week. As a rule, one letter is sent to the parents or friends overseas who might know where they are. We have not heard from them since we left Seaton. Are they in Italy or in Venezuela or in the U.S.A.?

Since it looks as if we will be here for quite some time, we begin to make our huts as comfortable as possible. Reject material littering the camp at our arrival comes in handy. We build tables, chairs, bookshelves. During the warmer period, at special occasions, blankets are draped around the walls of the cubicles to obtain a less stark atmosphere. There are several jobs in the kitchen, the general camp area and the bath house where internees may earn pocket money from the camp administration. There is no other money coming in, as the Red Cross is not responsible for us once we have renounced our allegiance to Germany. At different times, I work in the kitchen; later I chop firewood and light fires in the early morning and then wake up the kitchen staff. The last job is the best, as there is no one around but magpies with their native carols.

There is a daily roll call on an open area between the bath house and the mess huts as well as an inspection of all cubicles which at times may replace the roll call. We have to stand in front of the steps as the camp commandant, his staff and the internal camp administration walk past and occasionally take a look inside. Blankets must be folded properly at the ends of the beds with the paliasses folded over. Throughout the many months, which we are interned in this area, there is only one escape. We become aware of this event when we are called out at an unusually early hour for a roll call. A man, interned in Australia, had joined us recently and took to sleeping during the warm nights behind a blanket tied to the internal fence. We have seen this and so have the guards on the watch towers at the corners of the square. He has even spoken to them. One dawn, it is noted that there is still the blanket, but no man. He is caught soon afterwards. How difficult would it be for us, who do not know the country, to escape?

Australian wood is very hard; I break many axe handles before I master the art under the scrutiny of Albin, my hut companion and friend. He is from Austria where he taught skiing in Steiermark. He has left there, because he did not want to be organized nor have to belong to anything he did not want to belong to. For many hours, he will lie on his bunk, roll cigarettes, smoke them and watch me studying. Although there are not many words exchanged between us, there is complete understanding. Franz Lebrecht from Mainz has studied economics after World War I. He was arrested placing roses on the grave of Rosa Luxemburg on her birthday in 1934 and spent 4 years in concentration camps. After a brief period of freedom in Malaya, he is back in familiar, although much improved surroundings. His excellent library gives a lot of thought to many of us. We become very good friends and remain in contact until he dies in the late Seventies in Berlin. Franz Eichenberg from Hamburg, our leader from Seaton days, encounters a challenge to his leadership by Franz Rosenthal from Berlin, a trader from Singapore. For weeks, politics rise to a pitch; Franz R. spends even a few days in hunger strike in solitary confinement outside the camp. Any excitement helps to pass the time, even if it involves only trivial matters!

After more than one year of drifting and not indulging in any systematic activities, I begin to look around for means of resuming my studies abolished in 1939. We make requests for text books; after a while we receive some as well as writing paper from the Australian Students Christian Movement. Its secretary Margaret Holmes in Melbourne adopts the students in our camps.

During these days, the Universitas Taturensis, named after the nearby village Tatura, our postal address, is established by Leonhard Adam from Berlin, the physicist Felix Gutmann and the chemist Bruno Breuer, both from Vienna. As newcomers are joining us, we build up a group of young students who avail themselves of this opportunity. Lectures are arranged in mathematics, philosophy, history, economics, politics, and a number of languages. In this way the days are gradually filled up. Evening lectures aim at all inhabitants of the camp. Franz Borkenau interprets Churchill after years of membership of the Communist Party and resignation from it in disagreement, much like Arthur Koestler. He has violent arguments with many of the more leftist camp occupants; however, all is quite civilized and there is plenty of time to let everyone have his say.

Leonhard Adam, a legally trained Berliner, indulges in his hobbies of Buddhist and Red Indian art and begins to take an interest in Aboriginals. Walter Wuerzburger from Frankfurt, a musician, has esoteric musical ambitions and teaches composition; to-day, he writes music and conducts his own amateur orchestra in the London area. And then, of course, there are many attempts to improve everyone's knowledge of English. Unfortunately, German is the language which is used by everyone most of the time.

In the beginning, there is a great shortage of paper and even writing utensils. We write on cement bags with soft stones which we find lying about. Pens are only used for letters which continue to be written without much hope of early replies. Australia has already a Clipper Service, but this demands extra postage which we cannot afford too often. All these activities take our minds off the misery of waiting for news from the parents. On 20th November, we hear for the first time about their progress ( cf. Chapter X). The long wait is over; we can start making plans for the future. Many people in the camp share our joy. Some have received sad or similar news before us, others are still waiting. At this time begin negotiations aimed at enabling us to take examinations at Melbourne or London Universities, both of which have provisions for external examinations. Since most of us have lost all papers and it will be difficult to obtain copies from Germany, we envisage having to first of all take matriculation examinations. It is two and a half years since I took similar examinations in Germany, where the syllabus differed radically. While I will be well ahead in mathematics after the three terms in Munich, other subjects, especially English, are bound to require great effort.

In many cubicles, the walls are decorated with maps of the world on which regularly war events are entered. We obtain newspapers daily and are no longer cut off from developments. In general, the situation is still very confused and with little hope; Germany is winning. We are particularly depressed in view of the fact that there still seems to be no need for our contributions. We are willing to undertake anything to help in the war effort and have expressed this willingness hundreds of times by word of mouth and in writing, supported even by important people in England. Why must we sit in our camps and keep ourselves occupied? Why must we also use up resources when we could be productive? Every internee has his own arguments why he should be and will be released, while he at the same time can see why others should stay behind barbed wire. Those who have relatives in England and who begin to receive news of the effects of the battle of Britain are especially badly off. Everyday someone hears about loss of life and property. They cannot help their families. Such conditions create a heavy atmosphere. People are depressed and despairing of the future.

On 6th December, 1940, a rumour circulates that the U.S.A. has suspended all immigration. Another hope for an escape from the camp has been eliminated. Since weeks, my brothers are followinq: up the possibility of using our waiting numbers, obtained two years earlier in Berlin, for entry permits into the States. For our parents, this development can be catastrophic. Their first letter from Portugal indicatee that it is very difficult to reach South America from Portugal at this stage. If only we had been released, as had been promised to us earlier in the year, and had been able to help them get out of Germany more quickly. Over and over again we have discussions without finding a way out. The waiting for better news continues. On 11th December, we learn that our parents' expired visas for Venezuela have been renewed and that they hope to be there for Christmas. This obvious overoptimism raises our spirits which has started to drop when we learn that deportees to Canada are free and studying. If only the "Arandora Star" had not been torpedoed!

Our first Summer in Australia has arrived. We spend a lot of time under the cold showers; even write letters and study in the shower rooms. Fortunately, there is no shortage of water and cold showers. One has to queue for hot showers, a pleasure I forego for the duration; even under these conditions, I do not like to queue up and wait. Our water comes from a nearby reservoir which we can see from the highest point of the camp. After hot northerly winds, dust storms blacken out the Sun and fill our huts with thick layers of red dust. The ensuing cool changes can be seen as the colour of the sky changes. A few drops of rain and a temperature drop of 15 to 20 degrees bring a welcome relief before the cycle restarts. During Christmas, we have our first taste of the by now for us famous Australian beer. The kitchen produces some traditional German cakes and special meals. Everyone receives a plate with sweets, nuts and cake. There are letters from overseas. After Christmas, we are shown an old Charlie Chaplin film. However, the greatest excitement is caused by a telegram from the Home Office demanding a list of all internees with US waiting numbers.

The new letter forms The year 1941 starts with an issue of special writing paper which must now be used for the two letters we may write each week. This paper is impregnated against the use of secret inks! What can we report? Each letter has 22 lines, and we must write clearly. As long as we receive little and very old mail from the parents, this does not create any problems, but when we have a lot to tell or answer, there arise insurmountable problems. Classes have stopped over Christmas and resume during the second week of January. We are waiting anxiously for this event, as we are to have a first set of exploratory examinations before Easter. There is still much work to be done.

At last, we are to receive spectacles for which our eyes were tested many months ago. I have had a bit of trouble with my eyes, probably due to the bad lighting on the ship. I also have a wisdom tooth pulled by our own dentist, Dr. Seefeld from Hamburg, who practices outside the camp, treating internees as well as soldiers. He uses a portable, mechanical drill which he operates with his foot like a sewing machine, an almost medieval torture.

On 24th January, 1941, another letter arrives from Portugal. It is a month old and indicates that the parents are still waiting for definite news of their departure. They tell us for the first time about many of the events in Koenigsberg and during their wanderings. The letter also contains many questions which are to fill them in on our experiences. They only know that we were on the "Arandora Star" from one of the "I AM SAFE' postcards which eventually reached them. Early in February, we have our best laugh of the internment period when the Australian Minister of War visits our camp. He asks our cook whether he is off a Nazi submarine. After trying over months to convince whatever authorities may care to listen to us or read our letters that we are Anti-Nazis and almost exclusively Non-Aryans, such a question really hits us between the eyes. Some of us reckon that we are getting a first-hand insight into politics which should prove to be valuable for life. It does not matter what you say, because on the next day there will be a different headline; if you made a mistake it will be covered up by another headline or mistake.

On l7th February, a letter from Portugal tells us that the parents are to leave for the U.S.A. on 25th January. We are very pleased. Jobst opens up one of our valuable bottles. We have started to make alcoholic drinks out of readily available fruit and sugar. The bottles are buried under the hut for fermentation. Needless to say that such an enterprise is illegal, and that great care has to be exercised. Nevertheless, the news that we are thus engaged gets out and one day we are made to line up on the parade ground while the soldiers search our huts. They find a few bottles and it seems to us that we hear more noise from their camp that night. At another occasion, several bottles buried underneath a hut explode as the camp commandant is on his daily tour of inspection. Again we are lined up on the parade ground for another search.

At last our complaints about the treatment which we have received on the "Dunera" have produced a positive reply. Everyone is to make a list of his losses; we are to be compensated! We learn that the commanding officer held a Victoria Cross from World War I and that he was dishonourably discharged because of his performance on the way to Australia.

During these days, we receive the money which was taken from us when we were interned. It is amazing how in the long run an organization attends to details. At the same occasion, we are refunded money paid to the Australian authorities in connection with our landing permits. We decide to have a pair of flannel slacks made for each of us by a tailor who has set up in busines in the camp. When will we wear them?

A comet is sighted and watched nightly. We are not sure whether it is the same comet that has been reported in the United States. After all, we are on the Southern Hemisphere. In the past, comets have often been associated with wars. If a war lasts long enough, this symptom need not encounter any administrative difficulties. The scene is now complete, war, comet and all.

On my birthday, 18th February, we receive a telegram that the parents have landed in New York. A chapter is closed, although we do not yet know the conditions under which they are there and whether they must proceed to Venezuela. We hope that this is not the case. Now, we will make a real effort to get to America. Will it be possible?

At the end of February, we receive permission to enroll for courses at Melbourne University and Melbourne Technical College. We must first of all pass entry examinations, but at least we know now that we can obtain formal acknowledgment of our efforts and build a basis for a future. The thought that we might be here for another three or four years and then come out solely with a claim of knowing something has been rather worrying. It is true perhaps that in the end performance should matter more than a piece of paper, but does it? How can one find a chance to perform without a paper? I will have to forget about engineering for the time being at least. Without workshop and drawing office practice, it is not possible to pass the hurdles along the road to such a degree. I can do here only theoretical subjects such as mathematics and physics. Some of the students are talking about taking philosophy and languages. This kind of study is not for me.

The first letter from the parents from New York arrives early in April. Somehow the knowledge that they are safe has made a great deal of difference to me. I am working harder and make progress rapidly. It is as if a change of state has occurred. It is a miracle that six out of the seven members of our family are now safe. In view of the news other people receive, we have beaten the laws of probability. We have been very lucky, and I must make the best of this extraordinary luck.

Winter is approaching. It is much cooler, but the landscape is still one of dust and scorched grass. Whenever a few drops of rain fall, the picture changes radically. The trees become glossy and new life starts, a fact which one senses rather than perceives. As we have not yet had a full year's weather cycle, all these observations are made with intense interest. We plant new vegetables and flowers in our small plots in an expectation of better things to come.

Music is a pleasure for many of us. Since we have radio which is switched on to a Melbourne station from outside the camp, we can listen daily to the Music Lover's Hour at 2 p.m. when a wide selection of classical music is presented. On Sunday evening, Dr. Floyd, a Melbourne organist, has a programme which we never miss. We sense that he is a musician and not a person who knows all about musicians' metabolisms. There are also quite a few records about and it is possible to borrow a gramophone. Occasionally, we give a music party during which special food is served.

The first internee leaves for Melbourne to collect his American visum. His father is waiting in New York. He returns after a couple of days and has many things to tell. My brothers miqht have enough money to get us to San Francisco. It is supposed to cost about 70 Australian pounds per person.

What are we going to do when a chance arises to join an army? There is talk now about internees being allowed to return to England to join a Pioneer Corps. Or may be Australia will set up a corresponding organization? I personally prefer by now the ideas pursued in the United States. Having been a second class citizen in Germany, one really wants to be equal in all respects. We have not only gone through the mere act of being born somewhere. While it is true that we were pushed out, it is also true that it took considerable courage and initiative to get out and this far. It would be good to be trusted one day and to feel that all opportunities depend only on ability and conviction.

We are now getting frequently chances to go for walks and do chores outside the camp. Only a few guards come with us, as a mere formality. We always feel sorry for them when it is hot. We are tempted to offer them to carry their rifles, since all of them are much older than many of us. But such a gesture might be interpreted the wrong way. We walk to the reservoir, and even have a swim. There is a wealth of bird life about, many species are new to us.

On 7th May, we receive a parcel which the parents sent from New York. Most welcome are advanced mathematical books and a pair of spectacles which they bought for me still in Koenigsberg. The spectacles supplied by the official optician were not too good. My hut companion Albin is most impressed by my appearance; he reckons that I look like the Kreditanstalt, Austria's large bank.

I receive a letter from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology (M.I.T.) with a handbook and entrance form. A lot of effort goes into filling out the form, but many questions cannot be answered. My background and German education differ too much from corresponding American standards. In addition, I have lost my papers and cannot prove anything. It is unlikely that I will be able to avail myself of this opportunity initiated by father. He certainly has not lost much time before getting started on my behalf.

About the same time, we hear from Norman Birkett, the chairman of the Home Office Advisory Committee, to whom we have written again asking for help. He assures us of his assistance in our attempts to get out. Simultaneously, we receive a letter from the secretary of the refugee committee in England informing us that our release in Australia is out of the question. We may be allowed to return to England and join the Pioneer Corps or to emigrate to the United States. Obviously, this country has as yet no need for us. How long will that attitude last?

We are starting to adopt this country and the way of life it offers, at least as we see it from inside the wire in need of a shave. Surely, in view of all the space available, one should live on the land. I would not mind living in some lonely cottage. This is a reaction to years of an overdose of togetherness. I got used to it, but then you can get used to anything. That does not mean that I like it. Now that we have a more varied mixture of people around, it is better.

I take up learning Russian. It is slow going, but the alphabet has been overcome and an elementary knowledge of its vocabulary and grammar acquired. 0ur Latvian teacher is Herr von Skerst. However, we are short of grammars and texts. Yet it is clear to me that I will stick to mathematics. I still find it difficult to remember words in whatever language. We say in the camp that Sunday differs from other days of the week in that on Sunday we do not even start a new project.

On 22nd June, 1941, Russia is attacked. A wave of excitement and new hope runs through the camp. Everyone is drawing maps of Eastern Europe, in order to trace out the front as it moves Eastwards. Surely, this must be Hitler's Waterloo? Obviously, he wants to lay his hands on urgently required resources. May be, it will not be long now and they will use us here. We speak of the millions of unfortunate victims of this new move.

M.I.T. turns down my application on 18th July. In view of the increasing difficulties people experience with obtaining U.S. visas, I do not think that this refusal will make too much of a difference. It was nice to think about it for a while.

In their latest letter, the parents confirm our letters from Seaton written over a year ago. How much has happened since then! These letters must make strange reading. It gives us the feeling that time has passed, a feeling which is so often absent under our present conditions. Every day is the same; if it were not for the studies which are making progress, I could not sense the passage of time.

As we learn more details about our family's adventures, I realize what a heavy burden has been imposed on Gundula, the youngest of us. She will be 20 years old soon. The parents have relied heavily on her. Neither she nor I have completed our tertiary education. We went to school during the time when the changes caused by the Nazis were really becoming effective. These developments have affected our lives differently from those of our brothers. We sensed the dangers and worries of our parents, but did not become part of them, because we were considered to be too young. If one is not too young to swim for one's life or to visit an uncle in prison, someone is not thinking correctly.

Father has had an accident with his right arm and is out of work as inspector at a railway stock factory. Are the worries ever going to stop? Here we are, three fit and young men living on the fat of the land without duties and responsibilities, and we cannot do anything for him who is labouring at an age of 58 after a life-time of high responsibilities.

At times, I am wondering how I really felt when I jumped into the water after the "Arandora Star" was torpedoed. Certainly, there was no fear of getting drowned, there just was not time for that. I am musing naively how the inhabitants of the huge hotel "Planet Earth" behave. It is a rather uncertain vehicle which can break down any minute. People on it are fighting over ideas and places, while they are moving at an incredible speed from nowhere to nowhere. When are they going to find a modus vivendi by which everyone will get a bit of pleasure, and not at the expense of others? The importance of violence is overstressed in all reporting and thinking. For example, the cruelty of removing people from their accustomed surroundings, especially at an advanced age, and forcing them to live like animals is worse than eventually making them die under such conditions. I recall the discussion before the Advisory Committee in London and Margaret Bondfield's remark to me about suffering. It is sudden change which causes the greatest stress and unhappiness. When conditions stop changing, we get used to them, whatever they are.

During August, we move to our eleventh camp. It is not clear to us why we are being moved; however, the camp is even nicer. From its highest point, we see the flat country stretching out to the North-West and South-East. We have a complete view of the reservoir with trees all around it. We also are to get a bit more freedom; we are able to play tennis and golf outside the compound without guards. We have contact with the other compounds and our community receives again new blood. I am going to give lectures on differential equations to a new group of interested students.

We know now that we will be sitting for the Matric in November. The pressure is building up gradually. Preliminary examinations, based on last year's examination papers, will be held soon. The examinations are over. I did well except in English. It is unfortunate that we are speaking German most of the time, while our vocabularies are growing, our usage is not making much headway. Some Australian should come into the camp daily and talk to us for hours on end.

On 12th September 1941, Roosevelt speaks from the White House. We all listen in front of the hospital, the highest point in the camp. England is to receive all the help which it requires including ships, aeroplanes, etc. Surely, this is the first step towards America's involvement in the war. Hitler cannot turn back now. America offers the only means of ridding the world of this menace. What will come after Hitler? Who will study his actions and words and try to do a bit better? How will the Germans fare after this war?

One of these day's books will be written about what happened to individuals during these years. Not a novel, but simple documentaries in which sufficient joys and worries are mentioned to recreate the atmosphere. For me, at this stage, the worst is that no one wants us to contribute. We cannot really complain, as we have all the food we can eat, a bed, a palliass, even some diversions and opportunities for study. This must be for some people a life long tragedy, wanting and being able to give to others and not to be able to do so for reasons which are wrong and negative, be they political, religious, racial or simply personal. I study now because I want to have a degree which will one day place me in a position to create and give, not because I want to live much better than other people or want to possess many thing. These are not objectives as I view them. We learn and study to pass on, if we have the ability to do so. There are not too many people who can teach freely, and they must be able do it without impediments.

Front page of Volmann's collection of poems

For our matric examination we must read Shelley's "Prometheus Unbound": "Grief for a while is blind and so was mine. I wish no living thing to suffer pain. " These words should be written everywhere in giant letters so that no one can forget them.

I read John Steinbeck's "Grapes of Wrath". Are such books really a sign that something is being understood at last with respect to what man will do to man? Franz L. tells me that Germany's conditions did not differ. I never saw it, nor did I see too much of the Nazi atrocities which were there. Probably, Polish seasonal workers in East Prussia did not receive bad treatment, but this is only hindsight. Their existence did not touch mine. I am deeply depressed after reading that in the Thirties people in Poland died of hunger when the potato harvest failed. And that was close to where we lived in luxury!

We are being interviewed by a representative of the British Home Office who travelled all the way from England. Albin goes to see him and is informed that his "A" classification stands. It means that he cannot be released and is considered to be a Nazi. Albin is not easily aroused, but this time he told the major: " I am rather old already and tired. Al1 I want is rest and peace, but if there comes a letter saying that I am a dirty vagabond, I get very angry, because this is not true." I would have liked to see the face of the official when he said it. However, it is likely that it left little impression. Each of us is just a case, that is all; the bureaucracy to handle cases consists of positions. Therefore it is infinite and immortal.

"Children's verse" out of Volkmann's collection of poems

Spring is back. We did not freeze so much during the second Winter. We nevertheless are glad that it is getting warmer. It is very dry early this year.

The campaign in Russia has slowed down in front of Moscow. Our Russian teacher gives several lectures on the movements of the Russian front. I draw his maps and in this way become familiar with many of the place names. The suffering in that part of the world not so far from where we formerly lived must be beyond imagination.

Japan has attacked Pearl Harbour. The scale of the war is changing; our future will change in the wake of this event. We will now be in Australia until the end of hostilities at least, and before long they will use us. Everyone else also thinks so; it is now only a question of time. In fact, we have already been asked whether we will join an Australian Labour Corps. Although we would like to see equality in our position, no one is really prepared at this stage to argue the point. We want to get out of the camp and pull our weight, even if we cannot do our best as a result of stupid policies. What has happened to us is not of our own doing, nor did we deserve it. We will never find out how it came about.

New Year card 1942 In February 1942, the brothers and I receive another refusal to our application for release. Combined with a temporary breakdown of the line of communication with our parents, this period is another low point in our internment. We are fighting shadows, because that is all officials are, shadows which are hiding, because no one can find out how a decision has been reached. It would take a life-time to follow up one single decision, and who has got a life to spare for such a pursuit?

We are transferred back to our first Australian camp. However, the Nazis are no longer there. They have been replaced by the internees from the foredeck of the "Dunera" from whom we were separated more than one year ago. They went to Sydney, and from there to a camp near Hay in New South Wales. Suddenly I find myself in the company of many young people, many students and very good teachers. I am no longer at the top, but rather at the bottom of the spectrum of ability and knowledge. There are extraordinary chances to learn, in particular, mathematics. I rush in head over heels. A period of intense study begins as I try to catch up with the advances made by many of the students during the past year. At the same time, internees are being released to the Australian Employment Company. Felix Behrendt, one of our mathematics teachers, is even released to lecture at Melbourne University. He has two doctorates, from Berlin and Prague.

On 19th February 1942, the first air-raid on Australian soil occurs at Darwin. The papers are full of the event which has rocked the entire country, not only Darwin. Let it keep on rocking until it wakes up and our fences fall.

I have failed in last year's English examinations, while I have passed in all other subjects. There is going to be a supplementary examination; however, in Melbourne, my name has been omitted from the list, so there is some doubt whether my paper will be looked at. Margaret Holmes has started negotiations to obtain permission for me to proceed to the work of the first university year. Never anything goes straight. Why? I am disappointed, but I still hope that in the end this hurdle can be cleared. If I could only go to the university and attend to this matter myself. Maybe, I could persuade them to act. If I had my papers from Munich, I could have entered immediately the second year, and English might not at all be a problem.

Internment lacks the spirit which perhaps is present in an army unit on active duty. There, too, people are thrown together, but for a purpose. They depend on each other and comradeship must be a natural consequence. We have not come across such unity of purpose. Internees, particularly refugees who believe that they should not have been locked up in the first place, never get around to developing that sort of unity. They remain a collection of individuals each of them continuously scheming to get away from the others.

Now, that there is a chance of being matriculated and completing a course at the University of Melbourne, I am wondering whether I should join the army, if the permission to do so arrives. Suddenly I am haunted by the fear of reaching the end of the war in a foreign country without a qualification. When I raise the subject with my brothers, they are worried that such a decision might also keep them interned. It thus appears that I will have to go along, and then make an effort to get qualifications in spite of being in the army. I wonder how this can be done.

Many more people leave the camp for the 8th Australian Employment Company which consists only of internees from England, except for its officers and some of its non-commissioned officers. The internment camp is getting empty; we learn to say good bye daily, or is it au revoir?

On 12th May 1942, we are informed that we will be released on the next day to join the 8th Australian Employment Company. We have been interned 962 days. I was 19 years old when I entered, I leave at 22. I could have committed quite a few crimes for such a sentence. Our only crime has been to have been born in the wrong place and with the wrong ancestry and to have lacked the right contacts in a foreign country.

On the next morning, we are taken to the train and travel to Melbourne in the company of one of the soldiers from the camp. He does not carry a rifle this time. We look like everyone else on the train. Our thoughts are travelling back in time: we try to pierce the future. What will it be like to wear the uniform which guarded us for the past 20 months? Will I be able to study as a soldier? Will there be time and a place in the evening where I can study? What can be done about my matriculation?

Rainer Radok 1942 (Photo Helmut Newton)