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On Whit-Sunday 1940 my 60 year old father (a German who had lived and worked in England since 1931) was taken by the Police in the morning and transported to Liverpool where he was put behind a barbed wire fence, living in a tent and sleeping on a straw palliasse, which he had to fill himself.

Three weeks later, the Police came to our door again and this time my mother and I (aged 9) were given 30 minutes to pack, (who knows how long for), and we were then taken to the Police Station before leaving York in a bus to start the long journey to Liverpool. In Liverpool we were put in a large Hall, rows and rows of seats with a boxing ring in the middle, spending most of the day and night surrounded by lots of people, much noise and little to drink or eat. On the following morning we were transferred to a boat and went across the sea to the Isle of Man, being taken from Douglas by bus to Port Erin where we were allocated to a hotel.

Once settled in, life for children at least consisted of food, sleep, sand, sea, walks on the hills around Port Erin where Fuchsia bushes grew wild in profusion. Later all the walks were out of bounds and barbed wire was much in evidence. We made our own entertainment and as with most children the problems of war and a missing father were not really of No1 importance. Gradually however, my mother’s constant worry about my father’s health did permeate my thoughts. Dad had become very ill with his eyes and heart and was finally released back to York. He needed nursing, so my Mother and I were released, taken back to the mainland and we returned to our home with no money, as my father now no longer had a job. Life was tough, the winter was cold, children made my life at school very unhappy. This was perhaps natural for them in the circumstances, but I could not understand what I had done wrong.

We were fortunate to have returned home however difficult it was. Life for those who remained on the Isle of Man and in Liverpool for the rest of the War was not ‘all summer sunshine’. The experience has remained with me, War is not nice and those who are caught up in it do not usually have any choice in the matter. A salutary thought. Lasting reminders of those times are a profusion of fuchsias in my garden

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