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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

First and foremost, I would like to express my deepest gratitude to my director, Dr. Monica Tetzlaff, without whose time commitment, encouragement, patient guidance, and a shared sense of humor the completion of this book could not have been realized. Peace, Monica. I also wish to thank Dr. Lisa Zwicker for her insightful comments and suggestions for revision − bringing out the “inner-historian” in me. I am also very much indebted to Dr. Ken Smith who once introduced me to the beautiful world of book design, and helped me appreciate the beauty therein. Without Dr. Smith’s guidance, I might still be transcribing the many hours of recorded interview dialogue. Keep on rockin’ in the free world, Ken. My heartfelt appreciation goes to the late David James who spent so many hours of his time helping me physically transform my graduate thesis into a beautiful, attractive book, as only he could. Thank you, David. Special recognition goes out to Dr. Joseph Chaney, our MLS director, who set me on this amazing path of learning, intellectual discourse, and introspection. Thank you for believing in me, Joe. And how can I forget my wonderful wife, Laura, who sacrificed so much, including many of our early morning coffee chats as I sat hunched over my word processor? Thank you, Baby. Finally, I wish to thank my dear father-in-law, and the subject of this remarkable story, Maurice Levitt. Thanks, Dad for the great moments we shared working together, and for allowing me the honor of doling out just a little bit of “immortality” your way. God knows you deserve it.

PROLOGUE

Mum and Dad said he’d be going on a lovely holiday. But did the parents of his hundreds of school mates arrange similar holidays for their own children? That question had never occurred to the boy’s seven-year-old mind. Whatever the case, they would embark upon a well-ordered exodus down the local high street en route to East Hackney’s Dalston railway station. First, the children were dropped off at Queensbridge Road school by their parents (who had no knowledge of their charges’ destinations). Once there, they were handed over to their teachers who lined them up by class to be marched to the aforementioned rail station.

The boy sensed a tangible excitement along with a considerable dose of fear in the air as he queued up in the assembly area with the other children and their teachers. Each student had brought a parcel (or perhaps a small suitcase) containing the most basic of personal belongings. Around their necks hung both a personal identification tag and a small box ominously housing a government-issued gas mask—curious belongings, indeed for holiday goers. Having ensured all the children were present and accounted for and were properly fitted-out, their teachers led them onto the street—not unlike a group of runners about to begin a marathon race the throngs of children began their trek rather bunched-up. The initial going was slow yet steady, but at last, they were on their way. After a few blocks, their pace had quickened and the sounds of hundreds of hard leather shoes on the tarmac mixed with the melodic chatter of excited children’s voices had taken on a mesmerizing, almost musical life of its own.

Before long the music gave-way to the sound of hurried, heavy footsteps accompanied by labored breathing. Suddenly, the boy felt a strong hand on his shoulder. As he turned around he discovered who its owner was. It was his father! Had he come to accompany him on this mysterious holiday? Perhaps he was here to take him home. It was neither. His father looked down on the boy with his warm, blue, rather moistened eyes as he stuffed a paper bag of unknown contents into the lad’s coat pocket. A slight smile spread across the man’s face as he softly said, “It’s a sandwich... for your journey. You’ll be hungry.” With that, his father turned on his heel and nearly as quickly as he appeared—was gone. The music resumed and just like that the boy was whisked away by the surging storm of his classmates into an unknown future.

INTRODUCTION

The familiar aroma of Thanksgiving dinner emanated from my mother-in-law’s kitchen as my family sat around the Levitt dining room table anticipating the annual feast. I, however, was experiencing a different sort of anticipation than the kind driven by a person’s appetite. Mine was the sort that one feels when he is about to pose a long put-off question that might well change the lives of both parties involved. Before the cranberry sauce hit the table I decided to simply ask: “Dad, how would you like it if I wrote a book about your experiences as an evacuee during the war for my graduate thesis project?” My father-in-law’s response was better than I could have imagined. His usually tired, somewhat haunted eighty-three-year-old eyes sparkled brightly, and, without a glance in my direction, he shouted into the kitchen, “Naomi, Charles is going to write a book about me.” I had my answer.

There is an intrinsic value to be found in every human being’s story whether it comes in the form of a lesson learned, an example to emulate or avoid, a validation of the course one’s life has taken, or simply a good read. History and literature are full of thousands of such stories, based upon characters real and imagined. It is the duty of a historian and a writer of literature to scour history and churn up the pools of imagination in search of these stories and pass them along, extending the gift of immortality to the story’s owner. I have found one such story to tell you, my reader, and I hope to ensure the legacy of its hero for years to come.

This is the story of my dear father-in-law, Maurice Levitt, who, as a young boy from East Hackney, London, found himself caught up in the horrors of the Second World War, which turned up in his own back yard or, as he put it, “my back garden.” Between 1939 to 1944, at the age of seven to twelve, Maurice was evacuated five times from his family’s home and forced to live with “host” families in the English and Welsh countryside.

In the first few days of September of 1939 nearly 3 million people, mostly children, were evacuated through the largest population movement in British History: “Operation Pied Piper.” It may appear that Maurice’s story, although interesting and heartfelt, is just one of the many that emerged from the ashes of London. So what is it about this story which merits its telling and allows it to stand out?

This story of a young boy and his father who had to part ways during the time of war has an underlying issue that asks: “At what cost did this ‘safekeeping’ come?” The answer to this question shall become evident within my narrative as we relive the experiences of this inner-city boy who was severed from the love, support, and traditions of his family, and placed in a rural existence—often with unreceptive households.

Another element that makes this account important is that it is the story of a Jewish child evacuee—the son of a Polish Immigrant. His being Jewish made gaining acceptance by both his “host” families and the gentile children he encountered a challenge at times. The most important ingredient to this aspect of Maurice’s story was provided by his father, Abram, who refused to seek shelter during the nightly bombing raids—opting to ride it out alone within the rooms of his house. His is a much more somber contribution to the story, however, as we shall soon discover. Above all else, it is the preservation of Maurice’s legacy that necessitates the telling of this story. When I recall that sparkle in his eyes as he learned about this book I knew something wonderful was happening—the rekindling of an old man’s spirit.

I first met Maurice at his home in Santa Maria, California in the autumn of 1991 when I picked up his daughter, Laura for a date. With embarrassment, I remember my failed attempt to win over Maurice and his wife Naomi by projecting an “All American Boy” persona. Sporting a baseball cap and chomping on bubble gum, I came to collect their English bred daughter. To my horror, Laura soon confided to me that her father asked: “Just who is this Charles bloke—who you say is ten years older than you—turning up at my house chomping on chewing gum like some kind of a bloody ‘hick’?” After that beginning, things had to get better. They did. We married five years later.

Over the years our family has faced more than its share of adversity. In 2002, Laura was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. Three years later we were told our youngest daughter was on the Autism spectrum. Life challenges such as these have brought us closer together—so close, that I now consider Maurice to be my second father, while he has come to regard me as his second son. We trust each other, and the presence of trust between the researcher and his subject is vital to the success of any oral history project. From the beginning, I made it clear that my primary motivation for writing this book lay in the knowledge that it meant so much to him. This has allowed him to speak freely as we conducted our six interview sessions in the office of his South Bend, Indiana home—a familiar, comfortable setting where we were at ease. Here, I encouraged Maurice to simply relate what was on his mind as I gently guided his responses to my questions.

A family vacation in England in 2001 provided me with the opportunity to explore London (including East Hackney) and the surrounding English countryside. As we conducted our interviews fourteen years later my memories of these places brought life to Maurice’s childhood recollections. While in England, Maurice and I spent a day at the Royal Air Museum in Hendon. This provided me with some perspective when he recalled some of the same aircraft and “wonder weapons” deployed during the Battle of Britain.

My experience telling Maurice’s story did not come without certain challenges. Consider my wife’s perpetual question over the course of the project’s interview phase: “So, what did Dad say, today?”—to which my patent response was: “Wait until the book is finished, baby.” Then there was the time early on in the interview process when Maurice concluded his rendition of a delightful, yet embarrassing anecdote with: “Keep it to yourself, Charles—I don’t want Laura hearing about this.” Thankfully, that was the only time we encountered that particular “family-exclusive” restriction. I could be overly cautious to not offend Maurice’s feelings as I posed my questions and put his story into words—certainly to a greater extent than had I been working with a stranger. This was never a major obstacle, yet it was something I periodically had to overcome over the course of the project. All things considered, I can say without hesitation, that the advantages far outweigh the disadvantages in terms of my experience working with a loved one—indeed, with the man I consider to be my second father. The fruits of that experience shall soon be revealed, but first, let us take a look back at Maurice’s familial roots with an emphasis upon his extraordinary mother known as Cissy.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

INTRODUCTION