´óÏó´«Ã½

The last time I strummed the mandolin made by two Italian Prisoners of War, was in August 1945 in Nairobi, Kenya. I was ten years old and my world was to change for ever.

As a child, I had always worn my father's strength of mind and character like a halo around me. It came as no surprise therefore, that when he straddled the sand-bagged covering of the trench dug out in our front garden, with his shot-gun pointing heaven-wards, to pick off any straying German planes, I had absolute faith that one of those infernal machines would fall downwards like a spinning Catharine Wheel amongst the tall Geranium bushes in our front garden.

We rushed to get into the musty trench, dug out to protect us from any falling German and Italian bombs. We sat on cold slabs of heavy, wet black soil, cut out to form a bench shape. This was usually preceded by the wail of sirens, which seemed to compete with the howls of hyenas in the surrounding bush. Then the search lights flicked on, jabbing the inky blackness of the dense black African night with anxious, probing fingers. It was all rather frightening, but also an exciting adventure for me.

Then came VE day, but celebrations and processions took place with gusto on VJ DAY, 15 August, 1945. I remember wanting to be dressed totally in white from head to toe, with even a new white ribbon, for my hair being bought specially for the occasion. My father was furious with my mother for kitting me out in this fashion, as white was associated with the colour of mourning amongst us Hindus. From that day on, I have preferred bright colours and will only put on a white blouse reluctantly. As for those Italian POWS, they were nice young men, who were allowed out of camp on Sundays. From materials they purloined in the work shops, they made intricate picture frames, jewellery boxes, ash trays, which they peddled in Indian neighbourhoods. My father befriended them, offering hospitality and taking care of money they had made. At the end of the war, he had a three-piece woollen suit and a pair of new leather shoes made for each one. Acting on my father’s instructions, the cobbler created a space in the soles, so that my father could insert a cache of bank notes which could not be detected when the POWS left for Italy . When I came to England in 1953, we were still corresponding with Carmine Napolitano, who came from Naples, and with Theodore Sforza, who had immigrated to the States. Theodore named his first born daughter Mona. This had been my pet name as a child. We exchanged letters, until I lost their addresses during one of my many moves to find new and cheaper digs.

Oh yes, the subtitle, Kaiser, Tito and Tojo refers to our pets at the time: Kaiser was a Dalmatian/Rhodesian Ridgeback who was the most faithful of hounds, protective and loving in the extreme. Tito and Tojo were named after the Yugoslav dictator and the Japanese war Commander. All names related to people who made head-lines at the time, though I cannot remember a pet called Mussolini or Hitler!
PS Years later, I attended the wedding of a nephew in Australia. On the way back there was a brief stop-over in Singapore. One of the places a tour was arranged to was Changi, the infamous Prisoner of War camp where so many British men and women were interred during the war. Despite the brightness of the day, I found it an eerie cold, forbidding and desolate place, in stark contrast to the bustle of the nearby market where I purchased two dainty little dresses for my grand-daughters aged three and four.
I will never forget the skeletons of those empty, ghostly buildings in Changi silhouetted against tropical skies — so removed from the war.

All this is now a long way off from number 21 Nagara Road, Nairobi, Kenya.

© Copyright of content contributed to this Archive rests with the author. Find out how you can use this.