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975: Life In A Siberian Labour Camp Poland 1940: Soviet troops force 14-year-old Izak Wiesenfeld & his family to emigrate from Przeworsk to Novosibirsk, Siberia: Izak Wiesenfeld Read Full Text Home Memories People Places Experiences About Contact Menu Close Home All Memories About Menu Close ← Previous Memory All Memories Next Memory → ← Previous Memory Credits & tags Edited from Izak Wiesenfeld's interview with Dr Rosalyn Livshin for AJR Refugee Voices Testimony Archive, August 2026 • Learn More → Izak Wiesenfeld Food Forced Soviet Emigration Read AJR biography Next Memory → See Instagram & Facebook posts Soviet Union See Locations Full Text Poland 1940: Soviet troops force 14-year-old Izak Wiesenfeld & his family to emigrate from Przeworsk to Novosibirsk, Siberia: We were taken by lorries into the forest, to a huge barrack. The first speech: “You will never get out of here, here you will die & if you don’t work you won't get any food”. I was 14. I had to go to the forest to cut down trees & dry out swamps, difficult work. They used to give workers 1.2kg of bread. People who couldn’t work, or who were too young: 0.5kg. The bread inside was like clay, outside was a bit better. We had no vegetables, fruit, fat, sugar, or anything like this. Because of it we couldn’t see at night, we really lost some of our sight. But when war broke out, in 1941, they stopped all the bread as well. We had to live from what we could collect in the forest. During the summer we had strawberries, or mushrooms & all kind of things. That is what we had to live on for a long, long time. We were there with Russians who'd been there since 1917, since gulags & communism. They helped, knew what was edible. When we got malaria in Siberia, during the 3 months that it was hot—people think of Siberia as cold, that wasn’t the worst, the worst was the 3 months when it was hot, like a tropical country. Then it was like in the Torah, in the Tochacha [Leviticus 26] they say: “In the evening we waited for morning & in the morning we waited for evening”. In the evening when we came home we couldn’t sleep in the barrack, because there were the bugs, & outside there was the mosquitos, thousands of them, & then we waited for the morning. And we went to work in the morning in the forest & every bite you got your hand was swollen & your feet were swollen & you waited for the evening, so it was… it was very, very difficult. For malaria there is only one cure: quinine. Here, if you get malaria, you either get an injection or pills. There, after pleading & pleading & pleading, we got it in powder form. This is the bitterest thing in the world. We couldn’t take it, one Gulag said: get hold of an onion, get one of their thin skins, wrap up this powder in it, with a bit of water. That's how we could take it. But lots of people didn’t survive. Once they became ill there, you are finished, no cure, no doctor, no medicine, or anything like this, so that is how my father died in Siberia, & my friend's father. I was a bit lucky, because although I was 14 I was short, so when my father died I was still able to sit shiva. But when my friend's father died, he didn’t go to work & they put him in prison for 8 days for this. There were about 120 or 130 of us in the barracks & about 39 died during the one and a half years we were there. We were taken once to clear away snow, about 10km from us. We slept in a school overnight on the floor, & there we got some bread, it was good bread somehow. We queued up, with our names, & she couldn’t read our names. Some of us queued up 3 times, we got 3.6kg of bread. We lay down on the floor, it was only bread, nothing else. We couldn’t fall asleep until we finished the whole lot, because for months we didn’t have any. But they didn't treat us too bad. It depended who was in charge. Mazel [luck] played a big, big part in this. We were in the forest, we were free, we couldn’t go anywhere. We had no transport, no paper, no radio, we didn’t know the world existed. Cold weather is actually very healthy weather, if you have proper clothing & boots. A human being can survive different climates. If you take an animal from a hot climate to another climate, it may die. But somehow, Hakodosh Boruch Hu [God] gave us special shkoyach [strength], if I was to eat now what I did there, or walk now on snow with bare feet, I wouldn’t be well here. Whatever Jewish customs we could keep, we kept. No question of eating treife [non-kosher food]. There was no treife there, no meat or anything like that. Although remember I said we couldn’t see at night, because of the lack of vitamins? A Russian said “If you get hold of a piece of liver & eat it your sight will be restored.” Eventually we got hold of one & it came back. 975: Life In A Siberian Labour Camp Izak Wiesenfeld Edited from Izak Wiesenfeld's interview with Dr Rosalyn Livshin for AJR Refugee Voices Testimony Archive, August 2026 • Learn More → Text adapted and edited by Susanna Kleeman Facebook & Instagram Posts

Poland 1940: Soviet troops force 14-year-old Izak Wiesenfeld & his family to emigrate from Przeworsk to Novosibirsk, Siberia: We were taken by lorries into the forest, to a huge barrack. The first speech: “You will never get out of here, here you will die & if you don’t work you won't get any food”. I was 14. I had to go to the forest to cut down trees & dry out swamps, difficult work. They used to give workers 1.2kg of bread. People who couldn’t work, or who were too young: 0.5kg. The bread inside was like clay, outside was a bit better. We had no vegetables, fruit, fat, sugar, or anything like this. Because of it we couldn’t see at night, we really lost some of our sight. But when war broke out, in 1941, they stopped all the bread as well. We had to live from what we could collect in the forest. During the summer we had strawberries, or mushrooms & all kind of things. That is what we had to live on for a long, long time. We were there with Russians who'd been there since 1917, since gulags & communism. They helped, knew what was edible. When we got malaria in Siberia, during the 3 months that it was hot—people think of Siberia as cold, that wasn’t the worst, the worst was the 3 months when it was hot, like a tropical country. Then it was like in the Torah, in the Tochacha [Leviticus 26] they say: “In the evening we waited for morning & in the morning we waited for evening”. In the evening when we came home we couldn’t sleep in the barrack, because there were the bugs, & outside there was the mosquitos, thousands of them, & then we waited for the morning. And we went to work in the morning in the forest & every bite you got your hand was swollen & your feet were swollen & you waited for the evening, so it was… it was very, very difficult. For malaria there is only one cure: quinine. Here, if you get malaria, you either get an injection or pills. There, after pleading & pleading & pleading, we got it in powder form. This is the bitterest thing in the world. We couldn’t take it, one Gulag said: get hold of an onion, get one of their thin skins, wrap up this powder in it, with a bit of water. That's how we could take it. But lots of people didn’t survive. Once they became ill there, you are finished, no cure, no doctor, no medicine, or anything like this, so that is how my father died in Siberia, & my friend's father. I was a bit lucky, because although I was 14 I was short, so when my father died I was still able to sit shiva. But when my friend's father died, he didn’t go to work & they put him in prison for 8 days for this. There were about 120 or 130 of us in the barracks & about 39 died during the one and a half years we were there. We were taken once to clear away snow, about 10km from us. We slept in a school overnight on the floor, & there we got some bread, it was good bread somehow. We queued up, with our names, & she couldn’t read our names. Some of us queued up 3 times, we got 3.6kg of bread. We lay down on the floor, it was only bread, nothing else. We couldn’t fall asleep until we finished the whole lot, because for months we didn’t have any. But they didn't treat us too bad. It depended who was in charge. Mazel [luck] played a big, big part in this. We were in the forest, we were free, we couldn’t go anywhere. We had no transport, no paper, no radio, we didn’t know the world existed. Cold weather is actually very healthy weather, if you have proper clothing & boots. A human being can survive different climates. If you take an animal from a hot climate to another climate, it may die. But somehow, Hakodosh Boruch Hu [God] gave us special shkoyach [strength], if I was to eat now what I did there, or walk now on snow with bare feet, I wouldn’t be well here. Whatever Jewish customs we could keep, we kept. No question of eating treife [non-kosher food]. There was no treife there, no meat or anything like that. Although remember I said we couldn’t see at night, because of the lack of vitamins? A Russian said “If you get hold of a piece of liver & eat it your sight will be restored.” Eventually we got hold of one & it came back. 975: Life In A Siberian Labour Camp Izak Wiesenfeld Credits & tags Home Memories People Places Experiences About Contact Menu Close Previous Memory Next Memory ← Previous Memory All Memories Next Memory → Previous Memory Next Memory 975: Life In A Siberian Labour Camp ← Previous Memory All Memories Next Memory → Izak Wiesenfeld Read Full Text Previous Memory Home Memories People Places Experiences About Contact Menu Close Next Memory ← Previous Memory Credits & tags Edited from Izak Wiesenfeld's interview with Dr Rosalyn Livshin for AJR Refugee Voices Testimony Archive, August 2026 • Learn More → Izak Wiesenfeld Food Forced Soviet Emigration Read AJR biography Next Memory → See Instagram & Facebook posts Soviet Union See Locations Full Text Poland 1940: Soviet troops force 14-year-old Izak Wiesenfeld & his family to emigrate from Przeworsk to Novosibirsk, Siberia: We were taken by lorries into the forest, to a huge barrack. The first speech: “You will never get out of here, here you will die & if you don’t work you won't get any food”. I was 14. I had to go to the forest to cut down trees & dry out swamps, difficult work. They used to give workers 1.2kg of bread. People who couldn’t work, or who were too young: 0.5kg. The bread inside was like clay, outside was a bit better. We had no vegetables, fruit, fat, sugar, or anything like this. Because of it we couldn’t see at night, we really lost some of our sight. But when war broke out, in 1941, they stopped all the bread as well. We had to live from what we could collect in the forest. During the summer we had strawberries, or mushrooms & all kind of things. That is what we had to live on for a long, long time. We were there with Russians who'd been there since 1917, since gulags & communism. They helped, knew what was edible. When we got malaria in Siberia, during the 3 months that it was hot—people think of Siberia as cold, that wasn’t the worst, the worst was the 3 months when it was hot, like a tropical country. Then it was like in the Torah, in the Tochacha [Leviticus 26] they say: “In the evening we waited for morning & in the morning we waited for evening”. In the evening when we came home we couldn’t sleep in the barrack, because there were the bugs, & outside there was the mosquitos, thousands of them, & then we waited for the morning. And we went to work in the morning in the forest & every bite you got your hand was swollen & your feet were swollen & you waited for the evening, so it was… it was very, very difficult. For malaria there is only one cure: quinine. Here, if you get malaria, you either get an injection or pills. There, after pleading & pleading & pleading, we got it in powder form. This is the bitterest thing in the world. We couldn’t take it, one Gulag said: get hold of an onion, get one of their thin skins, wrap up this powder in it, with a bit of water. That's how we could take it. But lots of people didn’t survive. Once they became ill there, you are finished, no cure, no doctor, no medicine, or anything like this, so that is how my father died in Siberia, & my friend's father. I was a bit lucky, because although I was 14 I was short, so when my father died I was still able to sit shiva. But when my friend's father died, he didn’t go to work & they put him in prison for 8 days for this. There were about 120 or 130 of us in the barracks & about 39 died during the one and a half years we were there. We were taken once to clear away snow, about 10km from us. We slept in a school overnight on the floor, & there we got some bread, it was good bread somehow. We queued up, with our names, & she couldn’t read our names. Some of us queued up 3 times, we got 3.6kg of bread. We lay down on the floor, it was only bread, nothing else. We couldn’t fall asleep until we finished the whole lot, because for months we didn’t have any. But they didn't treat us too bad. It depended who was in charge. Mazel [luck] played a big, big part in this. We were in the forest, we were free, we couldn’t go anywhere. We had no transport, no paper, no radio, we didn’t know the world existed. Cold weather is actually very healthy weather, if you have proper clothing & boots. A human being can survive different climates. If you take an animal from a hot climate to another climate, it may die. But somehow, Hakodosh Boruch Hu [God] gave us special shkoyach [strength], if I was to eat now what I did there, or walk now on snow with bare feet, I wouldn’t be well here. Whatever Jewish customs we could keep, we kept. No question of eating treife [non-kosher food]. There was no treife there, no meat or anything like that. Although remember I said we couldn’t see at night, because of the lack of vitamins? A Russian said “If you get hold of a piece of liver & eat it your sight will be restored.” Eventually we got hold of one & it came back. 975: Life In A Siberian Labour Camp Izak Wiesenfeld Edited from Izak Wiesenfeld's interview with Dr Rosalyn Livshin for AJR Refugee Voices Testimony Archive, August 2026 • Learn More → Text adapted and edited by Susanna Kleeman Facebook & Instagram Posts

Soviet Union Novosibirsk Memories 975: Life In A Siberian Labour Camp Izak Wiesenfeld We were taken by lorries into the forest, to a huge barrack. The first speech: “You will never get out of here, here you will die..." Previous Location Next Location

Forced Soviet Emigration Memories 975: Life In A Siberian Labour Camp Izak Wiesenfeld We were taken by lorries into the forest, to a huge barrack. The first speech: “You will never get out of here, here you will die..." Previous Experience Next Experience

Hannah Wurzburger, age 5, was on the last Kindertransport from Berlin. She left on September 1, 1939, and arrived in Britain on September 2: It's a bottomless pit. So absolutely appalling. Children are so vulnerable. Especially when they're separated from their family. I don't know how they can do this. The whole thing is just a nightmare. Terrible. It took a long time to... accept the situation that I had gone through. Hannah's parents & most of her family were murdered in the Holocaust. I left Berlin when I was 5, so I don't have much recollection there. I do remember coming downstairs & saying, “Hello!” to my mother. And she said, “Oh you don’t have to say hello.” My father teaching me a few things in English: “Let me broom the kitchen”, for instance. I was on the last Kindertransport. It was September, a couple of days before they declared war here. I don't remember the journey. I seem to have a picture—whether it's made up or not—of being with lots of children. This train—I think I had actually a teddy bear. My mother I remember, I think, at the station. I don’t know how they got me there. It may be an imaginary thing. I don't know. What you think you remember is probably more important than what actually happened. I don't remember anything of the journey or arriving here. I had an aunt over here. A little while after I left Berlin there was a letter from my mother. A card perhaps with a photo. I can't remember exactly. But that was it. That was all. My aunt went regularly to the—was it the Home Office where you went, to inquire about refugees? Who had escaped & managed to come over? They had lists of names. She went there regularly. She was not worldly, she had such a struggle, she did really quite a lot. But she—she didn’t come up with any family names. I didn't understand my situation. I wasn't very worldly. I mean I just took everything that was thrown at me & there was quite a lot! You accepted it & relied on your fellow sufferers, if you like, for friendship & talking & so on. There was no... It all seemed to be very... narrowed down & concentrated…" If I hadn’t been forced to leave. I think I would have probably learned to play some musical instrument from my parents, both of them. It's fascinating to think about. My life would have been totally, totally different. No one's life follows a smooth path, does it? We're all going all over the place. But. My life certainly would have probably been more stable. I do think Britain should take more child refugees. They seem to have the size & space. But there's this backlash of native people who say, “We get all these refugees, all these bloody foreigners.” They're afraid they're going to impact on their lives, take away their jobs & whatever. But I think there's still room in this country for many more. They've just got to be gradually assimilated at the beginning. You can't just throw them in. But you have to remember, there's no such thing as blue-blooded Englishman, never has been. They've always had foreigners. 976: Taking What Was Thrown At Me Hannah Wurzburger Credits & tags Home Memories People Places Experiences About Contact Menu Close Previous Memory Next Memory ← Previous Memory All Memories Next Memory → Previous Memory Next Memory 976: Taking What Was Thrown At Me ← Previous Memory All Memories Next Memory → Hannah Wurzburger Read Full Text Previous Memory Home Memories People Places Experiences About Contact Menu Close Next Memory ← Previous Memory Credits & tags Edited from Hannah Wurzburger's interview with Dr Bea Lewkowicz for AJR Refugee Voices Testimony Archive, March 2018 • Learn More → Hannah Wurzburger Kindertransport Not Remembering Read AJR biography Next Memory → See Instagram & Facebook posts England See Locations Full Text Hannah Wurzburger, age 5, was on the last Kindertransport from Berlin. She left on September 1, 1939, and arrived in Britain on September 2: It's a bottomless pit. So absolutely appalling. Children are so vulnerable. Especially when they're separated from their family. I don't know how they can do this. The whole thing is just a nightmare. Terrible. It took a long time to... accept the situation that I had gone through. Hannah's parents & most of her family were murdered in the Holocaust. I left Berlin when I was 5, so I don't have much recollection there. I do remember coming downstairs & saying, “Hello!” to my mother. And she said, “Oh you don’t have to say hello.” My father teaching me a few things in English: “Let me broom the kitchen”, for instance. I was on the last Kindertransport. It was September, a couple of days before they declared war here. I don't remember the journey. I seem to have a picture—whether it's made up or not—of being with lots of children. This train—I think I had actually a teddy bear. My mother I remember, I think, at the station. I don’t know how they got me there. It may be an imaginary thing. I don't know. What you think you remember is probably more important than what actually happened. I don't remember anything of the journey or arriving here. I had an aunt over here. A little while after I left Berlin there was a letter from my mother. A card perhaps with a photo. I can't remember exactly. But that was it. That was all. My aunt went regularly to the—was it the Home Office where you went, to inquire about refugees? Who had escaped & managed to come over? They had lists of names. She went there regularly. She was not worldly, she had such a struggle, she did really quite a lot. But she—she didn’t come up with any family names. I didn't understand my situation. I wasn't very worldly. I mean I just took everything that was thrown at me & there was quite a lot! You accepted it & relied on your fellow sufferers, if you like, for friendship & talking & so on. There was no... It all seemed to be very... narrowed down & concentrated…" If I hadn’t been forced to leave. I think I would have probably learned to play some musical instrument from my parents, both of them. It's fascinating to think about. My life would have been totally, totally different. No one's life follows a smooth path, does it? We're all going all over the place. But. My life certainly would have probably been more stable. I do think Britain should take more child refugees. They seem to have the size & space. But there's this backlash of native people who say, “We get all these refugees, all these bloody foreigners.” They're afraid they're going to impact on their lives, take away their jobs & whatever. But I think there's still room in this country for many more. They've just got to be gradually assimilated at the beginning. You can't just throw them in. But you have to remember, there's no such thing as blue-blooded Englishman, never has been. They've always had foreigners. 976: Taking What Was Thrown At Me Hannah Wurzburger Edited from Hannah Wurzburger's interview with Dr Bea Lewkowicz for AJR Refugee Voices Testimony Archive, March 2018 • Learn More → Text adapted and edited by Susanna Kleeman Facebook & Instagram Posts

976: Taking What Was Thrown At Me Hannah Wurzburger, age 5, was on the last Kindertransport from Berlin. She left on September 1, 1939, and arrived in Britain on September 2: Hannah Wurzburger Read Full Text Home Memories People Places Experiences About Contact Menu Close Home All Memories About Menu Close ← Previous Memory All Memories Next Memory → ← Previous Memory Credits & tags Edited from Hannah Wurzburger's interview with Dr Bea Lewkowicz for AJR Refugee Voices Testimony Archive, March 2018 • Learn More → Hannah Wurzburger Kindertransport Not Remembering Read AJR biography Next Memory → See Instagram & Facebook posts England See Locations Full Text Hannah Wurzburger, age 5, was on the last Kindertransport from Berlin. She left on September 1, 1939, and arrived in Britain on September 2: It's a bottomless pit. So absolutely appalling. Children are so vulnerable. Especially when they're separated from their family. I don't know how they can do this. The whole thing is just a nightmare. Terrible. It took a long time to... accept the situation that I had gone through. Hannah's parents & most of her family were murdered in the Holocaust. I left Berlin when I was 5, so I don't have much recollection there. I do remember coming downstairs & saying, “Hello!” to my mother. And she said, “Oh you don’t have to say hello.” My father teaching me a few things in English: “Let me broom the kitchen”, for instance. I was on the last Kindertransport. It was September, a couple of days before they declared war here. I don't remember the journey. I seem to have a picture—whether it's made up or not—of being with lots of children. This train—I think I had actually a teddy bear. My mother I remember, I think, at the station. I don’t know how they got me there. It may be an imaginary thing. I don't know. What you think you remember is probably more important than what actually happened. I don't remember anything of the journey or arriving here. I had an aunt over here. A little while after I left Berlin there was a letter from my mother. A card perhaps with a photo. I can't remember exactly. But that was it. That was all. My aunt went regularly to the—was it the Home Office where you went, to inquire about refugees? Who had escaped & managed to come over? They had lists of names. She went there regularly. She was not worldly, she had such a struggle, she did really quite a lot. But she—she didn’t come up with any family names. I didn't understand my situation. I wasn't very worldly. I mean I just took everything that was thrown at me & there was quite a lot! You accepted it & relied on your fellow sufferers, if you like, for friendship & talking & so on. There was no... It all seemed to be very... narrowed down & concentrated…" If I hadn’t been forced to leave. I think I would have probably learned to play some musical instrument from my parents, both of them. It's fascinating to think about. My life would have been totally, totally different. No one's life follows a smooth path, does it? We're all going all over the place. But. My life certainly would have probably been more stable. I do think Britain should take more child refugees. They seem to have the size & space. But there's this backlash of native people who say, “We get all these refugees, all these bloody foreigners.” They're afraid they're going to impact on their lives, take away their jobs & whatever. But I think there's still room in this country for many more. They've just got to be gradually assimilated at the beginning. You can't just throw them in. But you have to remember, there's no such thing as blue-blooded Englishman, never has been. They've always had foreigners. 976: Taking What Was Thrown At Me Hannah Wurzburger Edited from Hannah Wurzburger's interview with Dr Bea Lewkowicz for AJR Refugee Voices Testimony Archive, March 2018 • Learn More → Text adapted and edited by Susanna Kleeman Facebook & Instagram Posts

Not Remembering Memories 976: Taking Everything At Age 5 Hannah Wurzburger It's a bottomless pit. So absolutely appalling. Children are so vulnerable. Especially when they're separated from their family... 982: Not Dwelling On Things Gerta Regensburger I have no feelings & not many memories. I’m not a very retrospective person. It always amazes me that so many people remember... 988: Getting Up From The Dust Ivor Perl BEM I was only 12 when I was taken to Auschwitz. I feel very, very hurt that I haven’t got many memories of my family... Previous Experience Next Experience

Hannah Wurzburger Read full biography at The AJR / Refugee Voices Testimony Archive Memories 976: Taking Everything That Was Thrown At Me Hannah Wurzburger It's a bottomless pit. So absolutely appalling. Children are so vulnerable. Especially when they're separated from their family Previous Person Next Person

Germany Hamburg Memories 977: The Cruel Guardian Maria Ault My first guardians were fine. But when we were evacuated we stayed with a very, very, very, very bad person who used to hit us... Previous Location Next Location

977: The Cruel Guardian Maria Ault came to Britain with her younger sister Birgit on a Kindertransport in May 1939: Maria Ault Read Full Text Home Memories People Places Experiences About Contact Menu Close Home All Memories About Menu Close ← Previous Memory All Memories Next Memory → ← Previous Memory Credits & tags Edited from Maria Ault's interview with Dr Bea Lewkowicz for AJR Refugee Voices Testimony Archive, May 2024 • Learn More → Maria Ault Attempted Humiliation Food Kindertransport Staying With Strangers Read AJR biography Next Memory → See Instagram & Facebook posts England See Locations Full Text Maria Ault came to Britain with her younger sister Birgit on a Kindertransport in May 1939: My first guardians were fine But when we were evacuated in September 1939, we stayed with a very, very, very, very bad person who used to hit us. She didn't feed us properly. But who could we go to in Melton Mowbray? There was no Childline. She should have known better. She was a minister's wife. I was used as a cheap maid. One day, I was only 12, I was getting a lunch ready for a hotpot, which meant I had to peel onions & potatoes & carrots. And because I used the same knife for the potatoes & the onions, because I didn't change my knife, she hit me. Really hit me hard & said, ‘I've had enough of you, get out.’ It was raining. I took my sister & we walked through Melton Mowbray hand-in-hand. We had nowhere to go, nowhere at all. So, in the end, we were soaked. We went back & I think she was quite pleased to see us. I didn't tell anybody. How they ever found out, I think it might have been through my headmistress who used to have me in her study to give me extra lessons. I had my arm in a sling because my guardian was so cruel to us. I had very bad abscesses under my arm & I had my arm in a sling one day. My headmistress said, ‘Maria, what's – why are you wearing a sling?’ So, I told her. She said, ‘Let me look.’ So, she looked… She didn't ring that person up who I was staying with, she rang the doctor & said, ‘I'm taking Maria straight to the hospital.’ They said if I had – I wouldn't have lived if I had – not a few hours, because I was – it was blood poison. So we were moved, to a very nice house. But again, I was taken in as a maid. I had to leave school & be taken in as a maid. And one day I thought: is this my life? Because my parents were in Sweden, we didn't even know whether they were alive. Maria grew up in Hamburg. I was a very privileged little girl. We were brought up in a nursery with a nanny. Our house was always full of people & music. My mother was a singer & had a choir, they used to meet. And when they’d finished their tea up, my brother & I went down to the kitchen & took the cakes & ate them, which was lovely. I was strictly brought up, which was so good because when I came to England, there was no money. The very first memory I have of having a meal, they gave us fish paste sandwiches. My sister & I looked at each other & she took my hand & we went upstairs & cried our eyes out. Not because of the sandwiches, but because we’d just left our parents. But to cry over fish paste sandwiches, I laugh now, but I didn't laugh at the time. I'm so happy and so lucky that I've got a character where I say, this is what happened to you & you get on with life. But my sister was different. When she was very happily married, they emigrated to Canada. She had 2 children. And one day she couldn't stand it anymore. She had memories of when she was beaten. She used to faint, when we had that awful woman looking after us in Melton Mowbray. My sister used to be beaten & then she'd faint & it was just awful. She couldn't take it. So, unfortunately, two years ago, she wrote me a goodbye letter. We used to talk on the phone every week. We used to talk about our past & she just couldn't stand it anymore. She asked the doctor in Canada: can you take your own life? She was allowed. He gave her an overdose & she passed away two years ago, because she just couldn't stand it. It was definitely because of what happened to us. Because when she went to the psychiatrists the first time she tried to do it, he said: ‘It's all because of what happened to you in Melton Mowbray.’ I'm so happy and so lucky, so grateful that it hasn't happened to me. I remember when we first came over, in the dining car from Harwich to Liverpool Street. We were given porridge. One thing I couldn't stand was porridge, & nor could she. Her tears were rolling down her cheeks. So, when she wasn't looking, I took this porridge & ate it for her. She said, ‘I'll never, never forget it. I’ll never...’ 977: The Cruel Guardian Maria Ault Edited from Maria Ault's interview with Dr Bea Lewkowicz for AJR Refugee Voices Testimony Archive, May 2024 • Learn More → Text adapted and edited by Susanna Kleeman Facebook & Instagram Posts

Maria Ault came to Britain with her younger sister Birgit on a Kindertransport in May 1939: My first guardians were fine But when we were evacuated in September 1939, we stayed with a very, very, very, very bad person who used to hit us. She didn't feed us properly. But who could we go to in Melton Mowbray? There was no Childline. She should have known better. She was a minister's wife. I was used as a cheap maid. One day, I was only 12, I was getting a lunch ready for a hotpot, which meant I had to peel onions & potatoes & carrots. And because I used the same knife for the potatoes & the onions, because I didn't change my knife, she hit me. Really hit me hard & said, ‘I've had enough of you, get out.’ It was raining. I took my sister & we walked through Melton Mowbray hand-in-hand. We had nowhere to go, nowhere at all. So, in the end, we were soaked. We went back & I think she was quite pleased to see us. I didn't tell anybody. How they ever found out, I think it might have been through my headmistress who used to have me in her study to give me extra lessons. I had my arm in a sling because my guardian was so cruel to us. I had very bad abscesses under my arm & I had my arm in a sling one day. My headmistress said, ‘Maria, what's – why are you wearing a sling?’ So, I told her. She said, ‘Let me look.’ So, she looked… She didn't ring that person up who I was staying with, she rang the doctor & said, ‘I'm taking Maria straight to the hospital.’ They said if I had – I wouldn't have lived if I had – not a few hours, because I was – it was blood poison. So we were moved, to a very nice house. But again, I was taken in as a maid. I had to leave school & be taken in as a maid. And one day I thought: is this my life? Because my parents were in Sweden, we didn't even know whether they were alive. Maria grew up in Hamburg. I was a very privileged little girl. We were brought up in a nursery with a nanny. Our house was always full of people & music. My mother was a singer & had a choir, they used to meet. And when they’d finished their tea up, my brother & I went down to the kitchen & took the cakes & ate them, which was lovely. I was strictly brought up, which was so good because when I came to England, there was no money. The very first memory I have of having a meal, they gave us fish paste sandwiches. My sister & I looked at each other & she took my hand & we went upstairs & cried our eyes out. Not because of the sandwiches, but because we’d just left our parents. But to cry over fish paste sandwiches, I laugh now, but I didn't laugh at the time. I'm so happy and so lucky that I've got a character where I say, this is what happened to you & you get on with life. But my sister was different. When she was very happily married, they emigrated to Canada. She had 2 children. And one day she couldn't stand it anymore. She had memories of when she was beaten. She used to faint, when we had that awful woman looking after us in Melton Mowbray. My sister used to be beaten & then she'd faint & it was just awful. She couldn't take it. So, unfortunately, two years ago, she wrote me a goodbye letter. We used to talk on the phone every week. We used to talk about our past & she just couldn't stand it anymore. She asked the doctor in Canada: can you take your own life? She was allowed. He gave her an overdose & she passed away two years ago, because she just couldn't stand it. It was definitely because of what happened to us. Because when she went to the psychiatrists the first time she tried to do it, he said: ‘It's all because of what happened to you in Melton Mowbray.’ I'm so happy and so lucky, so grateful that it hasn't happened to me. I remember when we first came over, in the dining car from Harwich to Liverpool Street. We were given porridge. One thing I couldn't stand was porridge, & nor could she. Her tears were rolling down her cheeks. So, when she wasn't looking, I took this porridge & ate it for her. She said, ‘I'll never, never forget it. I’ll never...’ 977: The Cruel Guardian Maria Ault Credits & tags Home Memories People Places Experiences About Contact Menu Close Previous Memory Next Memory ← Previous Memory All Memories Next Memory → Previous Memory Next Memory 977: The Cruel Guardian ← Previous Memory All Memories Next Memory → Maria Ault Read Full Text Previous Memory Home Memories People Places Experiences About Contact Menu Close Next Memory ← Previous Memory Credits & tags Edited from Maria Ault's interview with Dr Bea Lewkowicz for AJR Refugee Voices Testimony Archive, May 2024 • Learn More → Maria Ault Attempted Humiliation Food Kindertransport Staying With Strangers Read AJR biography Next Memory → See Instagram & Facebook posts England See Locations Full Text Maria Ault came to Britain with her younger sister Birgit on a Kindertransport in May 1939: My first guardians were fine But when we were evacuated in September 1939, we stayed with a very, very, very, very bad person who used to hit us. She didn't feed us properly. But who could we go to in Melton Mowbray? There was no Childline. She should have known better. She was a minister's wife. I was used as a cheap maid. One day, I was only 12, I was getting a lunch ready for a hotpot, which meant I had to peel onions & potatoes & carrots. And because I used the same knife for the potatoes & the onions, because I didn't change my knife, she hit me. Really hit me hard & said, ‘I've had enough of you, get out.’ It was raining. I took my sister & we walked through Melton Mowbray hand-in-hand. We had nowhere to go, nowhere at all. So, in the end, we were soaked. We went back & I think she was quite pleased to see us. I didn't tell anybody. How they ever found out, I think it might have been through my headmistress who used to have me in her study to give me extra lessons. I had my arm in a sling because my guardian was so cruel to us. I had very bad abscesses under my arm & I had my arm in a sling one day. My headmistress said, ‘Maria, what's – why are you wearing a sling?’ So, I told her. She said, ‘Let me look.’ So, she looked… She didn't ring that person up who I was staying with, she rang the doctor & said, ‘I'm taking Maria straight to the hospital.’ They said if I had – I wouldn't have lived if I had – not a few hours, because I was – it was blood poison. So we were moved, to a very nice house. But again, I was taken in as a maid. I had to leave school & be taken in as a maid. And one day I thought: is this my life? Because my parents were in Sweden, we didn't even know whether they were alive. Maria grew up in Hamburg. I was a very privileged little girl. We were brought up in a nursery with a nanny. Our house was always full of people & music. My mother was a singer & had a choir, they used to meet. And when they’d finished their tea up, my brother & I went down to the kitchen & took the cakes & ate them, which was lovely. I was strictly brought up, which was so good because when I came to England, there was no money. The very first memory I have of having a meal, they gave us fish paste sandwiches. My sister & I looked at each other & she took my hand & we went upstairs & cried our eyes out. Not because of the sandwiches, but because we’d just left our parents. But to cry over fish paste sandwiches, I laugh now, but I didn't laugh at the time. I'm so happy and so lucky that I've got a character where I say, this is what happened to you & you get on with life. But my sister was different. When she was very happily married, they emigrated to Canada. She had 2 children. And one day she couldn't stand it anymore. She had memories of when she was beaten. She used to faint, when we had that awful woman looking after us in Melton Mowbray. My sister used to be beaten & then she'd faint & it was just awful. She couldn't take it. So, unfortunately, two years ago, she wrote me a goodbye letter. We used to talk on the phone every week. We used to talk about our past & she just couldn't stand it anymore. She asked the doctor in Canada: can you take your own life? She was allowed. He gave her an overdose & she passed away two years ago, because she just couldn't stand it. It was definitely because of what happened to us. Because when she went to the psychiatrists the first time she tried to do it, he said: ‘It's all because of what happened to you in Melton Mowbray.’ I'm so happy and so lucky, so grateful that it hasn't happened to me. I remember when we first came over, in the dining car from Harwich to Liverpool Street. We were given porridge. One thing I couldn't stand was porridge, & nor could she. Her tears were rolling down her cheeks. So, when she wasn't looking, I took this porridge & ate it for her. She said, ‘I'll never, never forget it. I’ll never...’ 977: The Cruel Guardian Maria Ault Edited from Maria Ault's interview with Dr Bea Lewkowicz for AJR Refugee Voices Testimony Archive, May 2024 • Learn More → Text adapted and edited by Susanna Kleeman Facebook & Instagram Posts

England Melton Mowbray Memories 977: The Cruel Guardian Maria Ault My first guardians were fine. But when we were evacuated we stayed with a very, very, very, very bad person who used to hit us... Previous Location Next Location