In 1938 my father, aged 14, was packed onto a crowded train in his hometown of Vienna and sent to England, without his family, on the Kindertransport. The train travelled through the night, passing through Holland, where kind Dutch women waited on the train platform to give the children cakes and hot drinks, until it eventually arrived in Kent. My father, who spoke no English, was met by one Mr Marx, who spoke a little German, and so began a new life as a refugee.
My father's best gift
28 June 2021
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