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I was evacuated from the East End of London in September 1939 to the Norfolk village of Beachamwell.
I recall sitting on a garden wall and all the men of the village assembled tp form what became known as the ÃÛÑ¿´«Ã½ Guard, to discuss the situation and what should be done about it. I was ten years of age and it was now May 1940. Thirty years later I wrote the poem "The Third of September 1939".

I was a Jewish child of ten
in Norfolk, England,
with my gentile foster parents. In Poland
children were fostered to the roaring wind.

Aunty Mabel asked if I was afraid,
Uncle Gerald lit the night-light. The shadows
flickered from the flames
of the houses burning in the Polish streets.

On the Polish roads the children cried,
their mothers and their fathers stared
with childish eyes. I ate mince pies.
I never heard the bombing.

The dive bombers hunted silence everywhere.
The people took all their belongings
in carts and prams. I played with soldiers,
read Jules Verne and learnt to ride a bike.

In Warsaw the round-up was to come.
The boys and girls hid in the cellars.
I held a buttercup beneath her chin,
I tried to kiss her mouth and missed and caught her nose.

One little boy who fled beneath a Polish sky
I have seen since in war newsreels.
He wears a big hat and holds his two hands high.
His hair is black, his eyes are dark like mine.

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