Sehnsucht- a yearning

My father was a quiet man and rarely spoke of the past. I knew he was forced out of Germany because he was Jewish although, I suppose, like many Jews he regarded himself first and foremost as a good German citizen. He had tried to fulfil his dreams. In 1929 he bought a piece of land in Silesia and built a house. He was a man who loved animals and farming. He worked hard, had a family and felt fulfilled. In 1936 he had to sell his farm at a loss, not because he was a bad farmer but because the new laws forbad Jews to own land. Together with his family he moved to Austria, which at that time had not been annexed by Germany. Once again he worked hard, bought animals, planted trees and was happy. Then came Kristallnacht. In the middle of the night he was taken to Dachau concentration camp. He never spoke to me about that time. At the end of 1938 he was released on the proviso that he left the country. He was one of the lucky ones. Thanks to Frank Foley, passport control officer at the British embassy in Berlin, he managed to get a visa. My father came to England and eventually met up with his family. He spoke to me about how grateful he was to England. He told me life wasn’t perfect but at least we were alive and he had been offered work, shelter and clothing. He had started a new life. He had been given a second chance and was determined to make the most of it. He wanted to give his children an education, which he did. He was so proud of his children. Often he repeated his gratitude to England but then, to my surprise, he said ‘But this is not my real home!’ I was astonished. Never before had I heard such a comment from him. ‘Of course it is, Dad. Here you are safe and with people you love and you are secure.’ ‘Yes,’ he answered, ‘But this isn’t home!’ ‘Tell me about home,’ I asked him. He closed his eyes and it was as if he was transported to a country far away: ‘Home is to me where the mountains are. Home is where the air is fresh, where the pastures are green and the wild flowers sway in the gentle breeze. Home is where I can hear the sound of the cow bells ringing in the distance, where the horses plough the fields, and in the winter the children ski down the snow-covered hills, laughing and shouting. Home is where I can eat Apfelstrudel and real bread. The Apfelwein tastes so good and the songs of the villagers who dance and celebrate the end of the harvest echo in my ears. Home is where I can speak my Muttersprache. Home is all these things and much more. Home is where my heart and soul are and where I will find peace.’ He opened his eyes and looked at me for a response. I asked him if he wanted to go home and, to my astonishment, he said this was his dearest wish but added ‘Not yet. I’m not ready yet. I owe Britain so much and must repay my debt to a country which, without questioning, took a Jew in with his family and gave them a second chance of life. But one day I want to go home.’ He was ready but the time wasn’t ripe. He died before he could realise his dream. Ruth Schwiening