Goodnight Children, Everywhere E-Book

Monica B Morris

• Herausgeber: The History Press
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011

Beschreibung

For the many children torn from their families, taken miles from home and placed with strangers, the evacuation at the outbreak of the Second World War was a life-changing experience. In Goodnight Children, Everywhere, men and women who were children at the time recall their poignant memories of being labelled, lined up and taken away. Their parents, urged by the government not to see the children off on the buses and trains, had no assurance that they would ever see their sons and daughters again. No lives were lost and no one was injured. Not so considered was the psychological wellbeing of these suddenly dislocated children. Some children were advantaged by the dramatic change in their lives; others, separated from all they knew and loved, suffered unendurable heartbreak. This is their story.

Leseprobe

Goodnight Children, Everywhere

Goodnight Children, Everywhere

Lost Voices of Evacuees

MONICA B. MORRIS

First published 2009

The History Press

The Mill, Brimscombe Port

Stroud, Gloucestershire, GL5 2QG

www.thehistorypress.co.uk

This ebook edition first published in 2011

All rights reserved

Monica B. Morris, 2009, 2011

The right of Monica B. Morris, to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyrights, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

EPUB ISBN 978 0 7524 7568 4

MOBI ISBN 978 0 7524 7567 7

Original typesetting by The History Press

Ebook compilation by RefineCatch Limited, Bungay, Suffolk

Contents

Acknowledgements

Introduction

1 My Story, Part One

2 Two Sisters: Irene S. and Phyllis B.

3 Bill Reed's Story

4 Joyce Reed's Story

5 My Story, Part Two

6 Alan Diamond's Story

7 Stella Stern's Story

8 Betty Winehouse's Story

9 Manning M's Story

10 Trials and Tribulations

11 Henry C's Story

12 Helen Onfong's Story

13 Joan Martinez's Story

14 Rosemary Beard's Story

15 My Story, Part Three

16 Reading, Writing, and Arithmetic

17 When All is Said and Done

References

Acknowledgements

A book is never solely the work of one person. I am indebted, first, to Diz White, my friend and colleague, author of Haunted Cotswolds and Haunted Cheltenham, whose cheerful enthusiasm kept my nose to the grindstone – or, rather, my fingers on the computer keys – even when I would rather have gone fishing. Thanks, also, to my walking buddy, Maureen Bailey, with whom I shared many of my ideas when we were hiking in Bronson Canyon, and who always asked pertinent and thought-provoking questions.

Without the men and women who sat patiently and told me their stories, I would have no book. Thank you all; I am eternally grateful. And to Nicola Guy of The History Press goes my appreciation for her optimism and advocacy; you are a treasure.

Finally, to my husband: it isn't easy being married to a writer!You may hope that she is simply sharing a meal with you as you look at her across the dining table, but you know she is editing passages and juggling facts and figures, and mixing moonbeams and metaphors in her head! So thank you Clark, for your understanding, patience and encouragement.

Images

Many thanks to the Associated Press, the Imperial War Museum and Diz White for allowing the reproduction of the images in this book.

Note: Some names have been changed or omitted for protection of individual privacy.

Introduction

The beginning of September 1939 saw a unique event in Britain's history.

Never before had millions of children – close to a million just from London alone – been moved from the cities to the countryside in the space of three or four days, and without a single accident or casualty. ‘Operation Pied Piper’, as this Government Evacuation Scheme was dubbed, has been described as the largest, best-prepared and most minutely organized movement of mothers and infants, schoolchildren and others ever conceived in peacetime. No one has ever seen anything quite comparable. And although this was not the only time during that era that the children were transported from place to place – there was another evacuation, ‘Operation Trickle’, in October 1940 to take the children away from the Blitz, and still another, ‘Operation Rivulet’, in the autumn of 1944 – it was the one at the onset of the war that seared minds and spirits most; it lingers still in the memory.

Most of the people telling their stories in this book make some mention of their parents seeing them off on the buses – or deliberately not seeing them off. Some, including myself, claim that parents had been told to stay away from schools and other embarkation points – to avoid displays of emotion that might slow down the process. Others mention that their mothers walked with them to school and helped them to carry their luggage. I wondered, therefore, if there had been any official policy and learned that while parents were generally not to be allowed on railway platforms, head teachers appear to have made individual decisions about the parents of their students making their farewells at their schools.

Margaret Gaskin, in her book Blitz, tells of the headmistress of the London County Council's Stoke Newington Junior and Infant Schools who had called a joint emergency meeting for parents at the start of September 1939, on the eve of the children's departure. One teacher recalls how solemn it was in the school hall, packed with grim-faced parents who listened in silence as the headmistress ran through the drill for the following day.

‘You will want to see them off,’ she began. She then gently requested that they stand around the playground walls and wave the children off cheerfully as they marched out. ‘Shed your tears after they have left,’ she urged. She also reminded them to appreciate the sacrifices that the teachers were making. They, too, were leaving their homes and their families to shoulder the serious responsibility of looking after other people's children. Her advice was followed to the letter. The parents who came to the school smiled through their anguish and the children went off cheerfully. As the children left the playground and climbed onto the buses, the parents all waved and so did the children. ‘It was a most moving sight,’ the teacher continued. ‘the children and their parents showed great courage. The only tears I saw shed that day were those of the young bus driver who… wept all the way to Finsbury Park where we disembarked.’

That parents were so cooperative as their children were taken away to unknown destinations, perhaps never to be seen again, is testament to the trust that parents put in the school staff and in the government. Further, they had been persuaded that their sacrifice was warranted. This mass exodus of September 1939 had been in the planning since the early 1930s. It was anticipated that the bombing would begin as soon as war was declared, and there were predictions of as many as 4 million civilian casualties in London alone.

As early as 1922, after the air threat from Zeppelins, Lord Balfour had suggested that ‘the capital of the Empire would be subjected to unremitting bombardment of a kind that no other city… has ever had to endure…’ It was felt that the inferior housing of poor people would be the first to collapse and as many children from the cities, especially from the East End of London, lived in sub-standard dwellings, it was vital to get them into safer areas as quickly as possible. The rich were thought to be able to fend for themselves. They could leave the cities as families or they could send their children to America or to the colonies.

The estimates of casualties, as it turned out, was something of an exaggeration. According to Richard M. Titmuss, from the onset of the Blitz on 7 September 1940 when the bombing began, until 1 January 1941, some 13,596 Londoners were killed and 18,378 were severely injured. On 10/11 May 1941, a further 6,487 were killed and 7,641 were injured. These are horrifyingly large numbers but they are far from the many millions of casualties estimated.

Further, the bombardment did not begin with the declaration of war, as was predicted. The Blitz began a whole year later, in September 1940, and during this period, known as ‘the phoney war,’ when ‘nothing was happening’, thousands of homesick children had returned to the cities. As early as November 1939, more than 6,000 children a week were returning to London alone, and by the summer of 1940, half of all that city's children were home – I was one of them – and their parents had to be persuaded to send them away again.

Government officials were clearly concerned by this turn of events and struggled to find reasons and remedies. One of the first suggestions by the Public Health Propaganda Office was that a letter ‘in simplest language’, signed by the Queen, should be sent to every mother and father whose child had been evacuated. It was found impractical that the Queen should send this letter, but the language of the intended message – and the commentary by the compilers of the letter – are instructive. They wrote, ‘This letter is specially designed for simple people. We think officialese would spoil it.’

The proposed letter read:

Christmas is at hand, and for the first time in your lives many of you are not able to have your children all around you.

I know how you are feeling, but I want you to be very brave and to put up with this for the sake of our country and for the sake of your boys and girls.

The country will need them in the days to come, to build up once more a happy land.

You may say that there does not seem much risk from air raids. But we do not know for certain. Even before you read this letter, we may have been called upon to suffer, and because the King and I are not taking the risks with our children, I ask you not to take the risk with yours.

I beg you to leave the children in the country til it is safe to bring them home. We shall all be told when that moment arrives.

Other plans to keep the children in the country included posters on buses and slogans flashed on screens in cinemas, ‘Children are safer in the country, leave them there!’ One of the Ministry of Health posters shows an outline of Adolf Hitler whispering in the ear of a mother who is visiting her children in the country. ‘Take them Back! Take them Back! Take them Back!’ he urges the mother, who is clearly reflecting on the issue. ‘Don't Do It, Mother!’ – the caption positively screams. ‘Leave your Children in the Safer Areas!’. The News of the World published articles encouraging parents not to bring their children home. J.B. Priestley wrote such an article in the News Chronicle; E.M. Delafield wrote similar pieces in Tit Bits, House and Country, and St Martin's Review; features were aired on the radio, and an evacuation film was hastily produced, all in an effort towards ‘systematic propaganda.’ Only when the heavy bombardment began was there another exodus to the country.

Some seventy years have passed since the evacuation of the children who are now in their mid-seventies to their mid-eighties. Like the soldiers of the Second World War, they will disappear before long and their memories will disappear with them.

For this reason, I have been collecting the stories of the now-adult Second World War evacuees. Mine is a ‘snowball’ or ‘contingency’ sample of interviewees. It is made up of people who answered my advertisements seeking anyone who had been an evacuee in 1939. I interviewed and tape-recorded each of them for several hours, encouraging them to talk freely about everything they remembered of their experiences. As it turned out, almost all my respondents came from London or from the south of England, and many of them had migrated from England as adults and made their homes abroad. As well as face-to-face interviews with the now adult evacuees, I also spent many hours in research at the Imperial War Museum in London and at various Record Offices, collecting archive material of the time. This included some letters from mothers complaining about their children's billets, and from foster homes complaining of the children being dirty, or ill-behaved. Some of the archives had been closed to the public and to researchers until the 1970s and some until the 1980s, and contained information from the Ministry of Education and the Ministry of Housing and local government.

As usually happens in any study of this kind, patterns soon began to emerge from the stories; certain common themes ran through the tapes like sombre or brightly-coloured threads. Many of the children were placed with good people who treated them well, but not all were as fortunate. The well-to-do ‘hosts’ often relegated their evacuees to the ‘downstairs’ to live with the servants. Others picked older, stronger children to work as unpaid maids or farm hands. Some were malnourished and otherwise ill-treated. Some were moved from billet to billet, rejected by household after household. Schooling, too, was sparse, even non-existent, many of the evacuees having to share the facilities with the village children, further adding to the resentment of some villagers towards the interlopers.

Bias against the evacuees was both religious and class-based, and suspicion and dislike were exacerbated when children and hosts were mismatched. Records show that many Catholic youngsters, for example, were sent to regions where no Catholic families lived and were made to attend Protestant services. Thousands of Jewish children from London's East End were faced with anti-Semitism, both direct and unwitting, for the first time in their lives. To some villagers, Jews personified the Devil. To others, they were merely curiosities, alien creatures with strange and ‘foreign’ dietary requirements. Further, in a society with sharp class distinctions, poor city children were thought to be badly reared and dirty, a pre-judgment supported by the large numbers of evacuees who became bed-wetters and were sometimes punished for this ‘disgusting’ behaviour – behaviour undoubtedly prompted by the trauma of separation from family and familiar surroundings.

So, while the transportation of the children to safety was undeniably successful, and although a great many children found much joy in their adopted homes – in the understanding and kindness of their temporary families, and in the pleasure they found in the countryside – the problems that would later emerge were unanticipated, hence little preparation had been made to address them. Accusations have been levelled against the controversial Sir John Anderson, Lord Privy Seal in Neville Chamberlain's Cabinet and the man in charge of the evacuation. He is described by David Prest, in a BBC Online article published in 1999, as ‘a cold, inhuman character with little understanding of the emotional upheaval that might be created by the evacuation.’ Elsewhere, Anderson was viewed as the man who ‘expertly worked out plans for three million evacuees.’ Clearly, the first task of the evacuation was to remove the most vulnerable civilians from danger, and in this the plan succeeded.

My own experiences as an evacuee from London form a throughline to this book: three separate chapters, interspersed with the stories of several other evacuees, and with commentary about specific aspects of the evacuation and its planning. The title, Goodnight Children, Everywhere is, of course, from the song of that name that was heard throughout the war. It was sung by Vera Lynn, who was also known as ‘The Forces’ Sweetheart’ for songs with sentiments pertinent to the longings of servicemen and women away from home. Listening to Vera Lynn's song for the children now still brings the hint of a tear to the eye, a lump to the throat – and not a little retrospective distress, for the message is mixed. While the words ask the children to be brave, ‘Rest your head upon your pillow/Don't be kid or a weeping willow,’ the sob in Ms Lynn's voice implies that she, like the children, is holding back her tears, trying to keep a stiff upper lip while she sings, ‘Your Mummy thinks of you tonight.’ Hearing this, any homesick little boy or girl might well have poured tears of grief into that pillow – as did I, all those years ago.

One

My Story, Part One

It was a glorious summer, the summer of 1939. City children all over London played in the streets and alleys. Perhaps there wouldn't be a war, but the authorities seemed to be getting ready. Gas masks were issued to everyone, even special little ones for us children. I tried mine on, adjusting the straps at the back so it fitted tightly below my chin. It smelled of rubber and soon got so hot inside that the celluloid eyepiece steamed up and I couldn't see out. I thought I was suffocating and frantically ripped the ugly thing from my face.

We were supposed to carry our gas masks at all times. I volunteered to deliver the containers in the neighbourhood, thrilled to be knocking on doors and showing people how to assemble the flat pieces of cardboard so they were transformed into perfect cubes with lid flaps that tucked inside.

‘You see those marks on the side?’ I said, revelling at ten years old in my official position as instructor. ‘You make holes there and thread string through. See?’ Cardboard wouldn't last long in the rainy weather, though, and people soon made covers of oil-cloth for their boxes and, before long, several kinds of cases appeared in the shops, some cubeshaped, some slim and shapely, contoured closely to the lines of the gas masks. Some were made of brocade and silk, for evening wear. Fashion accessories.

We kids didn't think about war; the evacuation drills were just a summer diversion. A game. Crowds of excited youngsters gathered in the schoolyards, gas masks slung over their shoulders, twists of barley sugar – to prevent travel sickness – clutched in their hands.

Then the game of evacuation became real. I half-walked, half-ran to my school – Benthal Road, in Stoke Newington – hampered by my heavy luggage, my gas mask in its cardboard box bouncing on my hip as I walked. I put the case down from time to time to sweep the long tendrils of my hair back over my forehead and clip them more firmly into place. At the school gate, my case was taken from me, the strings of a cardboard label bearing the name of my school were threaded through a buttonhole on my coat and I was steered to the end of one of several long lines of children stretching across the playground. Where were my classmates? I looked around for familiar faces, standing on the tips of my toes, straining to see over the heads of the taller children. ‘Stay in your lines, boys and girls!’ a voice ordered loudly. ‘Each line will march out in turn, starting from this corner!’

We moved briskly across the schoolyard in single file, through the side gate and into the street where a line of double-decker buses awaited us. Double-deckers in that narrow street! Buses never ran there. I thought it was great fun. I wished I still had my barley sugar, but I had eaten it long ago, savouring its sweetness as it splintered in my mouth. I climbed up the steps of the first bus and onto the front seat where I could see right over the brick wall of the schoolyard to the hundreds of children snaking across the asphalt. Over near the lavatories, piles of suitcases, secured with bits of string and old trousers’ belts awaited collection. Outside the school gates, edging the road, a small group of grown-ups waited, come to watch the children go. Glancing down, I was surprised to see my mother among them. She had already hugged me goodbye at home, just like an ordinary school day, except that it was a Saturday and I supposed she didn't have to go into work.

I banged on the window, shouting ‘Mummy! Mum! I’m up here!’ until she saw me. She tried to smile but she could manage only a kind of grimace, her lips barely parting across her teeth in a valiant effort to appear cheerful. Our parents were not told where we were going and they had no assurance that they would ever see us again. I learned later that parents had been asked to stay away from departure points, presumably so that the operation would proceed smoothly, without emotional outbursts and delays.

As soon as every seat was taken, the bus creaked away from the curb and along the small side street, swinging wide at the corner. I looked back. My mother was still there, watching the bus leave. She was waving, although I knew I was no longer in her view.

It was a secret where we were going. Even the teachers didn't know. Or, if they knew, they weren't saying. I quite liked secrets because they were usually about nice surprises. The buses emptied at the mainline railways station and, directed by teachers and other helpers, we all filed through the corridors, into the great booking hall, and then along the platforms onto the waiting trains. My attention was so diverted by the bookstalls with their piles of coloured magazines, and the little shops that sold marvellous, mouth-watering fruit, and the machines that dispensed penny bars of Nestles, and the crowds, and the porters with their peaked caps rushing by with carts piled high with luggage and mailbags, that it was some moments before I realised that my group was gone. I ran along the platforms, looking for people wearing labels like mine. No one. I darted out through the barrier, back into the main hall, along one white tiled corridor and into another, longer corridor. Perhaps I could find out where the buses were coming in and start all over again. The passageways were labyrinthine, twisting and weaving, one into another. There seemed no way out. I was hot and out of breath; I couldn't tell how long I had been running.

‘She's got no fear!’ my mother constantly complained of me. ‘A fearless little tomboy, that's what she is!’ It was easy to be without fear when Mum and Dad and my brother were close by, and neighbours and friends. Torn from my small safe world, I was no braver than any other ten-year-old.

‘Mummy!’I began to sob softly, almost experimentally. ‘Mummy! I want you!’ Then the tears flooded hot down my cheeks; I rubbed at them with my fists, ashamed to be crying, a big girl like me. The inside of my chest felt bruised from the effort to control the sobs. I groped around in the pocket where my mother sometimes secured a handkerchief with a safety pin. Nothing there. I swiped at my face with the back of my arm.