Only when he joined the British army in 1944 and visited me at school in his sergeant's uniform was I reconciled with having been born in Germany and having a surname which tied English tongues. Neither did I let my parents know that I worshipped British fairies, and dreamed of waking up one day and not being a little refugee girl, embarrassed by a mother with a horrible accent and by a father who had no idea who Wordsworth was. By the age of 10, I knew where Auschwitz was and what "not getting out of Germany in time" meant - my grandfather and two aunts were murdered in concentration camps. ![]() Unfortunately for me, I had to learn far more than my teachers were prepared to teach me. To quote Rupert Brooke, one of my first idols: there is some far corner of a foreign field that is forever England. To this day I read Shelley, Keats and Robert Browning. I had an unforgettable teacher who fed the insatiable 11-year-old with Dickens, Thackeray and Shakespeare. Loathing boarding school and its rigid discipline did not keep me from loving the English, their literature and history. It complicated my life that swots who were not good at sports were extremely unpopular at Nakuru. Having learned the language, I thought it my filial duty to be top of the class - school fees were £5 per month, my father earned £6, and I wanted him to feel that he was investing his hard-earned money well. ![]() I was an only child, pampered by adoring parents, homesick, shy and speechless - I could not speak a word of English and I had no idea what was expected from me. The Nakuru Government school was 200 miles from home and I hated it. Because the war broke out at the same time, I blamed Hitler for the heartbreak of having to leave my parents and the farm. In 1939 school became compulsory for Europeans. My autobiographical novel Nowhere in Africa is not only dedicated to my father, but also to Owuor. Knowing nothing of the country's prejudices, my parents felt the same about Owuor as he felt about us. Africans were seen by the majority of the Europeans as "natives" with no sense of loyalty, and were frequently abused as dumb and lazy. ![]() At that time, this was a most unusual decision for an African. He left Rongai with us, accompanied us to Ol Joro Orok in the so-called "White Highlands", and while my father was in the army, he stayed with my mother in Nairobi. Owuor, a man from the tribe of the Luo, our "houseboy", sensed my parents' bewilderment, grasped their hands and guided our lives from the first day to the last. I loved its beauty, sights and sounds, the animals and birds - but most of all the gentleness of the African heart, the people's wit and their laughter. Having learned Swahili with the speed and eagerness of a child longing to talk to people other than her parents, I loved everything about Kenya. Even so, without the assistance of the Jewish community in Nairobi, he would not have gathered the sum in time to get his wife and daughter out of Germany. The colonial authorities only demanded £50 per head for an entry permit. ![]() When my father was advised to do so by a friend, he did not even know that Kenya was a British colony in east Africa. Whoever could and had the foresight and the money, emigrated to other countries that we escaped to Kenya was mere coincidence. Concentration camps were a Jewish reality. By 1938 the Nazis had robbed my father of his profession, his dignity, and all hope that he would be able to stay in Germany. We were Jews - in our home country in fear for our lives, in Kenya "bloody refugees", and after the outbreak of the second world war "enemy aliens".
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