A Letter from Lockdown

By Sibyl Ruth

This is the fourth of nine letters that my German-Jewish grandfather wrote from a very different kind of lockdown. He had been shut inside an Alien Internment Camp. This is the fourth of nine letters that my German-Jewish grandfather wrote from a very different kind of lockdown. He had been shut inside an Alien Internment Camp, and was writing in English, his second language, because this meant that the letter would reach its destination more quickly.

To

Mrs Elizabeth Berndt

2, The Cottages

Old Hutton

near Kendal

Westmorland

From

Siegfried Fritz Berndt

17 Parbrook Close

A.I.C Huyton

near Liverpool13/7/40

Dear Lisbeth,

I have just been seen by Mr Woods, the friend of Kleys who had a Visiting Permit. Mrs Mott has sent him to tell me, that all of you are well thank God and that she is doing for me all she can. That has cheered me up a lot more as I am still without mail since I got your first postcard. Don't stop writing often and in detail! Finally I will get it. That’s my 4th letter. Did the others arrive allright? I hope you didn’t worry too much about my last one. It was a bit dark-coloured as a result of the wild camp rumours about imminent transfer to overseas under only roughly outlined conditions and of the impossibility to discuss matters with family. Meanwhile the general anxiety has settled down a good deal. The provisional list for such a transport doesn’t include names of British qualified doctors and I have been told today by a Camp Office that our cases are being reconsidered by the Home Office. After rainy spell weather improved and humour too. Newspapers authorised to be admitted! That’s fine. Twice reassuring. No weariness. Going on well together. Kley and Moser my house companions, Fatty Adler vis-à-vis. Peter nearby. I am in best of health, doing exercises, house cleaning, washing, mending without a grumble. Whistle while you work! All will turn out well! Weekend – would like family swim in Windermere. Be happy to have the children! Use my blank check to limit. Love! Kisses from Fritz

Siegfried Fritz Berndt.

The Backstory

During the 1930s Siegfried ‘Fritz’ Berndt had practised as a dermatologist in Berlin. Though life changed for all Jews once the Nazis took power, he had some protection in his job because of his army service from 1914-18. But his wife Liesbeth’s medical practise had dwindled and the future for them – and their children - looked doubtful. They decided to come to England.

Quite apart from the obstacles – in particular a heavy tax that had to be paid – that the Nazis created for Jews who wished to leave, getting permission to settle in the UK was far from easy. During the Depression of the 1930s the British Government was not disposed to offer help to those German-Jews who were being squeezed out of employment and from German society generally. They were only admitted if they had sponsorship from individuals in the UK or from Jewish welfare organisations – which guaranteed they would not be a drain on public funds.

For my grandparents a further difficulty lay in the fact that The British Medical Association did not recognise their German qualifications, and wouldn’t permit them to practise unless they went through the time-consuming and expensive process of requalifying.

Luckily Fritz’s wife Liesbeth (later anglicised to Elizabeth) had also gained a qualification in Jungian psychotherapy. There was no shortage of analysts in London, but people with her skills were in demand elsewhere. After having made a couple of exploratory visits to this country, she gained the offer of unpaid work in a clinic that was being set up in Liverpool

So Liesbeth was able to obtain a visa from the Home Office giving the family permission to reside in the UK. The conditions were that she couldn’t practise in London, and that the stay was to be of one year only. The Government’s rationale was that they would admit a very limited number of refugees from Germany, but on the basis that they were simply passing through, before settling elsewhere. In practise though, such visas were normally extended.

The family emigrated in October 1937. Liesbeth‘s voluntary work went well and before long she began seeing private clients, bringing in a little much needed income.

Meanwhile Fritz Berndt prepared himself for practising in the UK by enrolling at an Edinburgh medical college - one of the few institutions open to refugee doctors. He was 42 and didn’t find it easy to start studying again. Nevertheless he completed his course in five terms rather than the usual six. By the summer of 1939 he had applied for provisional registration with the GMC. As soon as his full registration had come through he would join Liesbeth in Liverpool, and resume his career as a dermatologist.

Fritz and Liesbeth had come to England because they were opposed to everything the Nazi regime stood for. Nevertheless, on the outbreak of war, they were automatically deemed to be ‘enemy aliens’. They had to attend a Tribunal in order to establish whether their presence in the UK constituted a security risk. Some hundreds of people fell into the most dangerous Category A and were interned straightaway. Liesbeth was put in the lowest Category C. But for some reason – the Tribunals had been put together in a hurry and were not consistent in their decision making - Fritz was put into category B. This meant he was seen as someone whose loyalty might be in doubt. He wouldn’t be interned, but would be restricted to travelling no more than five miles from his home, and he would not be allowed to own a camera,car or bicycle.

As Fritz was away from home during the early months of the War, his B classification would have had little impact. What really mattered was that he had secured a houseman’s job and would soon be eligible for full registration with the GMC.

But things were to take a serious turn for the worse, for Fritz, Liesbeth and many other ‘enemy aliens’ – not only German-Jews but also the UK’s large Italian community. By May 1940, the war was going very badly for the Allies. There had been shortcomings of military intelligence and strategy. But then as now, Governments are averse to narratives which suggest they might be to blame. Hunting for scapegoats can appear preferable.

Before the war, the British tabloid press barons included Viscount Rothermere, owner of The Daily Mail, who stirred up support for fascism in Britain.

So the popular press spread the news that the Nazi advances resulted from the presence of a Fifth Column. Countries had fallen – and the UK itself might be about to fall – because of a network of spies who were busy passing intelligence to Germany. Suspicion of enemy aliens began to grow and Winston Churchill decided the best move was to ‘collar the lot of them.’

Collaring The Lot

It might seem obvious that foreigners fleeing persecution, who had been vetted by the Home Office before their visas had been granted, were unlikely to be spies. Perhaps it would be better to look more closely at some British men and women who, like many of their compatriots in the 1930s, had pro-Nazi sympathies.

But in a crisis we may lose sight of what’s obvious. Instead fear tends to lead to a tightening of boundaries. Barriers are put up separating those who belong from those who can be excluded.

Not quite everyone got ‘collared’ – women and children were often spared - but 27,600 people were taken to internment camps and this change of policy affected many more ‘alien’ lives.

So in June 1940 my grandmother had her radio taken away, along with all maps. The children’s bicycles were removed and the family was given just four days to get out of Liverpool. Being German they could not be permitted to live near a major port.

Fortunately Liesbeth had a few influential friends and one of them knew someone with an unused cottage in the Lake District. My grandmother left her work and the modern semi-detached house which the family had rented. Together with her two children and her mother who’d left Berlin just before war broke out, Liesbeth moved into a two- up, two-down cottage, with a communal water pump, earth closet – and just a couple of buses a week to the nearest town.

Meanwhile the authorities had been grappling with the issue of where to put the ‘collared’. A great many internees were sent away to the Isle of Man, which was full of convenient empty hotels and boarding houses, nobody was taking holidays. On the mainland a variety of spaces were commandeered. These included a disused factory, a race course and an almost-finished housing estate at Woolfall Heath, in Huyton.

These destinations were only meant to be temporary. The Government had never been keen on giving refugees a permanent home. Negotiations were begun with Australia and Canada, on the basis that shiploads of internees – many of who had distinguished professional and scientific backgrounds - could be put to use doing agricultural work in labour camps.

Fritz Berndt was arrested on 21 June at the lodgings near the hospital where he was working. The police tended to arrive early in the morning, so as to maximise the chances of finding the enemy alien at home. Only short time was allowed for the packing up personal possession. It is probable that he was held in a police cell – maybe for more than twenty-four hours, before was taken to the Alien Internment Camp at Huyton.

The May 1940 decision to ‘collar’ all enemy aliens proved disastrous for everyone who fell into that category. A lot of refugees had professional and technical skills that would be useful in the War Effort. But those who were seeking jobs could no longer get them as employers – quite reasonably – did not wish to hire workers who might be interned at any moment.

When Fritz Berndt was taken to Huyton he was one of twenty-six German doctors there who held British degrees and were practising in this country with the Home Secretary's permission. Overall the population of the camp consisted of nearly 2,800 people, including Austrians and Italians, during his time there.

At the outset Huyton, like all internment camps, was run by the military. One internee there described its Commandant as ‘a very old colonel who spent his time in organising his little troop of guards.’ The Conservative MP Viscount Wolmer was similarly disparaging about Huyton, asking Parliament why internees should ‘be kept behind a barbed-wire fence, with the public allowed to stare at them as though they were beasts at the Zoo.’

Rather paradoxically if the camp inmates had been Prisoners of War, they might have fared better. They would then have been protected by the Geneva Convention which stated that captives should be ‘treated humanely and with respect.’ POW status would also mean being given ‘adequate food, clothing, housing, and medical attention

But these conditions did not apply to Huyton. There was one army doctor for the whole camp. The ‘hospital’ was a makeshift affair that lacked beds or specialist equipment. For those internees who were elderly or suffered from chronic illnesses, the situation was dire.

It is fortunate that Fritz enjoyed good health. He was also lucky to have been placed in one of the houses at Woolfall Heath – though luck in this case is a relative term. His room at 17 Parbrook Close was shared with three others – and there were a dozen people crammed into the modest semi. The house was unheated and unfurnished. Fritz and his companions had to sleep on paillasses which they’d stuffed with straw themselves. Many other internees were housed in tents: whenever it rained the camp became a sea of mud

Fritz’s first letter to my grandmother was sent on the 26 June. For their first few days in camp internees were not permitted to write to anyone. After that they could correspond twice a week. The letters could not be more than 24 lines long, and were subject to the attentions of the Censor.

Though the ordinary postal service was quick and efficient, it typically took many days for post from Internment Camps to reach recipients. Liesbeth had made influential friends through Liverpool’s Refugee Committee, who were making enquiries on her behalf. But until this letter reached her she would not have know where – and how – he was.

Knowing how anxious his wife would be, Fritz is keen to reassure her. He refers to having ‘blankets enough.’ Food is described as ‘no luxury but perfectly satisfying. ‘ Yet as the letter proceeds we sense he may be being somewhat economical with the truth, because he requests ‘some Marmite and margarine, a meat tin, sardines and some fruit for a change.’

Fritz assures Liesbeth that he has access to books and chess partners but adds that he is hoping for ‘useful work too.’ He mentions friends in the camp and even a relative – the son of her first cousin. What he does not mention is that Huyton like other internment camps, also contained Nazi sympathisers, who were billeted indiscriminately alongside refugees.

In a 10 July debate in the House of Commons, the Independent MP Eleanor Rathbone, who came from Liverpool, described the military authorities, somewhat acerbically as people who ‘may know a great deal about the needs of national security, but to whom one refugee is as good or as bad as another and who make no distinction'.

In the first few weeks of Fritz’s internment newspapers were not allowed at Huyton. This increased the internees' sense of being cut off from the outside world. This made letters a matter of particular importance. Typically Fritz instructs his wife and daughters, ‘You all should write much much more!!’

Another serious consequence of not being able to have updates on the progress of the war is that suspicions began to multiply. In Fritz’s words, ‘No newspapers means plenty of rumours.’ And though my grandfather was a resilient man, an optimist by nature, after a few weeks at Huyton he was very seriously worried about his – and his family’s - likely fate.

Because the authorities had only intended the camp to be a stopping-off point, internees were being pressured to ‘volunteer’ for transports abroad. For some single Jewish internees this may have represented a chance to get away from a country where invasion appeared imminent . But men with families were more dubious, despite assurances that - at some point in the future - wives and children could join them.

When news began filtering through that the SS Arandora Star – a ship that was taking internees to Canada - had been torpedoed on 2 July with the loss of 700 Italian and German lives – the prospect of being ordered on to a transport became very frightening indeed

On 10 July Fritz wrote to Liesbeth in some agitation ‘Transfer to overseas can’t be excluded. May be no time to correspond about details. Families will probably be allowed to accompany internees or to join later. My definite wish, stay with children where you are if you will not be forced to go too. Even then leave children at Windermere. Journey and later accommodations involve far too much risk for them.’

But public and Parliamentary opinion was starting to shift. Concern the treatment of internees was becomingmore widespread. Just hours after Fritz had written to Liesbeth, Graham White the Liberal MP for Birkenhead got up to speak in the House of Commons. This is what he said.

‘There has been cruelty. Cruelty was to be expected from the Nazis because they had adopted a policy which ruled out any considerations of common humanity. We expected cruelty there, as a type of disease and there was, in fact, sadistic cruelty which could be understood; but the kind of cruelty which comes from bad administration, from disorganised procedure between one Department and another, or from sheer stupidity, is intolerable.’

Ten days later Fritz wrote to Liesbeth in a more cheerful vein. ‘General spirit in camp much improved. Newspapers and visits by apparently sympathetic official visitors help a lot.’

Those official visitors were almost certainly Eleanor Rathbone and Graham White who came to Huyton on July 20. Having met the Commandant first, then a committee of internees, they emerged to find that the inhabitants of the camp had gathered outside to greet them. White recalls Rathbone ‘speaking to them with moving sympathy of our concern for the state in which they were living and our anxiety to do everything that we could to improve conditions in every way possible'.

According to Rathbone’s biographer, one of the internees had a briefer recollection of the event. He recalled just four words of Eleanor’s speech, 'You are not forgotten’ and the sight of her face flanked by soldiers with fixed bayonets, beaten by the pouring rain….

Eleanor Rathbone MP, a visitor to the camp, addressing a public meeting.

Picture: National Portrait Gallery (unknown photographer).

It became clear that the Home Secretary would have to address rising concern about the internees treatment. On 23 July Fritz writes, ‘We are all waiting for Mr Anderson’s speech in Parliament tonight.’

When that speech was delivered, the internees must have felt there were grounds for hope. Anderson announced that responsibility for managing the camps would pass from the War Office to the Home Office and that ‘rapid progress will, I am sure, be made both in arranging for the release from internment of many Germans and Austrians who can properly be set at liberty.’

Fritz was released from Huyton on 8 August. But the camp remained at Huyton until mid-1941, by which time the threat of invasion had subsided.

'You Are Not Forgotten.'

Is there a similarity between what Fritz Berndt experienced, and what we are living through now? To my mind there is.

When we are separated from the communities which normally sustain us, there is fear that no one cares for us any more. The thought of being ‘out of sight and out of mind’ is hard to bear. It should not surprise us that Eleanor Rathbone’s words, ‘You are not forgotten’ made such an impact on one of Huyton’s internees.

Once he was freed, I believe my grandfather would have put the negative experiences at Huyton behind him. He could rejoin his loved ones, and carry on with ‘useful work.’ After doing a couple of locum jobs, he was able to get his GMC registration - and eventually he acquired a practice of his own

Other internees will have wanted to forget the internment camps, rather than dwell on past suffering. Yes, some internees been reduced to such despair that they took their own lives. Many more had perished on the Arandora Star. It would become known that others, who had been transported to Australia on the SS Dunera, had been treated with appalling cruelty. But by the spring of 1945 German-Jewish refugees, would also know what that they had been spared

In the post-War decades, the UK has largely opted not to remember internment. It doesn’t fit with the sanitised version of history we prefer, the one in which heroic ‘British values’ were diametrically opposed to those of the Nazis. But internment has received increasing attention from UK academics, for whom it forms a significant episode in the story of our attitudes towards race and immigration.

As lockdown goes on I continue to think about Fritz. I would so much like examine his (undigitised) files at the Public Record Office. Going to look at the Rathbone papers in Liverpool might tell me more about his likely involvement in the struggle to improve medical facilities at Huyton.

If I feel impatient about staying at home, I remind myself that my house is infinitely better than the accommodation provided for my grandfather at Huyton.

But perhaps there’s something Huyton-like about the way in which under Coronavirus means we are having to improvise, find new ways to entertain ourselves. While the camp internees put together lectures and concerts, we now hastily organise Zoom events and webinars…

And what never changes is the pain of separation. Internment and lockdown hit some groups with special ferocity. It is worst for those who don’t have family to send messages and gifts, people with disabilities, those with past experience of trauma, those whose physical and/or mental health is poor.

I’ve found reading Hansard debates about internment in the summer of 1940 hugely moving, because it’s clear how deeply some of our representatives cared about the fate and conditions of internees. At a time when the country’s future was in doubt they refused to silenced by secretive and authoritarian elements within the Government.

Perhaps this journey into family history has affected me so much because this seems to be another period in which many people in the UK are at risk of being forgotten. Our Government argued for herd immunity. Was this because they felt that we, the governed, are a herd - and the individual lives of herd members are of relatively little consequence.

I think it is up to all of us to ensure we are not forgotten. My hope is that in writing stories of our past, in exploring who we are today, we can hold our Government to account.

Sibyl Ruth is a writer and poet. Her translation of a poem by the German-speaking Czech writer, Peter Kien, comparing the plague with conditions in the Terezin concentration camp, was published here on April 1st 2020.