Harwell and Hamburg

Living in a house that resembles a small aluminium tool-box in a row of identical containers is a curious experience. When the row runs along a ridge curved like the top of an amphitheatre, overlooking scores more of these self-same shacks, it is rather like finding yourself right at the back of ``the gods''. You are exposed to scrutiny, while having an excellent, opportunity to observe every detail of the other occupants' lives. You might as well carry a price-tag too, for the quality of your furnishings, your clothes, your children's toys, even the car (if you own one) standing at the bottom of your short concrete path, are an indication of what you are worth. I suppose this is true of high density estates anywhere, but in this sloping spread of Harwell ``prefabs'' the closeness of the serried ranks made it all the more noticeable. Although ours was situated among those most exposed to the elements, it was also in one of the more enviable positions. Behind us was a large corn-field, so our backs were not wholly available for inspection except by those who went hiking along the little track behind our wire fence.

For a short time, life in a prefab could have been amusing, but I would recommend it only to childless midgets who also happen to be hard of hearing. Even the most resilient nervous system goes into spasm every time a metal cupboard is closed, and a clash of cymbals reverberates through the confined space. I couldn't complain about the internal design, which was surprisingly well thought-out and even imaginative. Manufactured in three parts, with all the plumbing and heating incorporated into the central section, these dwarf-like dwellings could be bolted together, set on concrete foundations and erected in a matter of a few hours. The kitchen and bathroom were adequate, and a plethora of drawers and cupboards completed the percussion band. But it was as cramped as a ship's cabin. I am always reminded of the prefabs when the better parts of South African native townships are shown on television. The sameness was frightening. I once walked into my neighbour's kitchen, but only when I started to peel the potatoes did I realize that I was not using MY sink nor were they MY spuds.

These houses were a common sight in post-war Britain, where air-raids had laid to waste so much urban space, and countless families needed a roof over their heads. Nowadays, you can see small sections of the sort of home so many were grateful for at the time, preserved for posterity in museums.

I tried to arrange the space at my disposal in the most economical way I knew. We were warm and dry if we took the trouble to stoke the little anthracite stove in the living-room. Unlike the monster I had scorned in the house we had just left, it was manageable and we were not expected to cook on it. There was no shortage of electric outlets, and the water could be kept constantly hot. The kitchen was just large enough for four slender people to eat their meals in. Using every scrap of ingenuity I possessed, I even found it possible to arrange buffet suppers. As soon as we were settled, I threw a few small parties for children and for grown-ups. Genia Peierls recalls the day she was invited to one that I gave for about twenty people, at which, in order to maximize every square inch, I had put the boys to bed in the car outside. They were within ear-shot, and they loved it.

Before many months had passed, my father's business had picked up from the war-time limitations, and he made a small capital transfer to each of his daughters. I was anxious to use my share as part of the purchase price of a small cottage in one of the pretty nearby villages, but Oscar was no more enthusiastic about that than he was about the prospect of living in Abingdon. I indulged in all manner of day-dreams about a rural life in thatched, rose-covered cosiness with a country garden. Alas, they had to remain flowery fantasies.

Although I shut my eyes to all the symptoms, I was becoming aware that my marriage was crumbling. Gradually, as with the walls of an unsound building, cracks were beginning to appear. Foolishly, I did little to investigate or remedy the situation. I felt that if I ignored the signs of impending disaster they would go away. The fabric of companionship was giving way under the pressure of diametrically opposed attitudes and aspirations. In spite of my yearning for a permanent base, a place where I could really put down some roots, I was restless and wild. Maybe it was because I lacked the security of a real home, but more likely it was due to sheer immaturity, that I became over-adventurous, forever flitting from one project to another, seeking the sort of experience that my life could not provide. Henry Arnold shook his head in amusement that was tinged with anxiety: ``You are an intractable young lady,'' he observed, ``and I wish you would look where you're going on that bicycle.'' The way he said the last word implied that it wasn't just the speed at which I rode on two wheels that was becoming too fast for safety.

Added to all this, the naturist way of life was becoming more and more central to Oscar's existence, and he spent long hours working in the nude under his ultra-violet lamp. Every evening he would persuade me to join him, but this type of sunbathing never suited me. My skin was sensitive, and my eyes were irritated, even through goggles, by the harsh heliotrope light. An acrid smell emanated from the reflector, which I grumbled about continuously as it filled our small living-room. Although I have always believed passionately in the freedom of the individual to choose the life-style most suited to his needs, this particular one held no appeal for me whatsoever. I found the nudist clubs in England uninspiring, their rules annoying. No alcohol was allowed, and no-one was expected to divulge their surname. Unlike California, it was usually too cold for comfort. I remained, despite my disregard for the commonly accepted standards of behaviour prevalent at the time, inhibited about shedding my clothes among people I didn't know. In no circumstances was I going to be converted. But here I shall stop. Matrimonial strife is an ugly subject, and dirty linen washed in public extremely boring as well as distasteful. The muddy water of mine has since flowed under innumerable bridges and has almost been lost in the ocean of experience.

To make the best of life I started to throw myself into the spare-time activities that I had helped to organize. Although my slow-witted nursemaid's mother removed her from my employment, after I had criticized her for serving the children cold Heinz beans straight from the can, and helping herself to my precious face-cream, it was no serious blow. The neighbourhood, teeming as it was with young couples and small children, made it easy for us to take turns in caring for each other's, and the houses were far too small to necessitate, or even accommodate, more than one person doing the cleaning.

There was more music, and plays were rehearsed and performed. Brian Flowers was getting a small orchestra and choir together under his baton. He frequently came round to my prefab with his girl-friend to discuss the possibility of performing a certain choral work or an idea for a play. Apart from being another 'cellist, June was pretty and adaptable on the stage. I thought them an ideally suited couple, and when they announced their engagement I was one of the first to run over to Ridgeway House to congratulate them. I felt quite sad when, after some disagreements, they called it off.

Apart from the Arnolds, there were several amongst our number who had a little professional, or at least skilled, amateur experience of the theatre, and they helped to inspire and encourage us. There was a large corrugated zinc gymnasium not far away, which had been part of our legacy from the RAF. It had a stage of sorts and seated about two hundred. It was dingy and cold, but was just what we needed, and soon a lot of us were hard at work building scenery, making costumes and rigging up lighting. It was the most enormous fun except when the weather was bad and the noise of rain beating down on the roof drowned all other sounds. Audiences had their patience stretched to the utmost as intervals were prolonged in the hope that it would ``blow over''. Although I had no notion how to set about it, I helped to produce J.B. Priestley's ``Dangerous Corner''. That the production came off was due more to good luck and the enthusiasm of the players than to my directorship.

As the atomic research gathered momentum, and another reactor, BEPO - British Experimental Pile, O for euphony - was planned, more staff were recruited, and we found ourselves with a number of interesting new neighbours. Every day brought fresh developments whether at work or at play, and gradually facilities around us improved. A nursery school opened five minutes walk from our front door, and Michael liked it enormously. It was well subsidized, and we paid twelve and a half pence in to-day's currency for the snacks and milk provided. If I forgot to send the necessary sum at the beginning of the week, I would receive an order from my small son: ``Teacher wants a half-a-crown''. ``Teacher'' had all her charges well organized.

There was a barber's shop, a ladies' hairdresser, a small grocery and a first-aid station. Although Katherine Williams, whose isolated prefab was below ours at the foot of the hill, was not registered as a family practitioner, she soon organized her small sick-bay in such a way as to provide a first-aid station. This was invaluable, as most of the children played among builders' rubble and regularly fell off their bicycles.

Henry and Eva Arnold lived next-door but two, and that, because of the minute distance between our houses, was very near. In no time at all they produced a harvest of strawberries from their garden which Eva would gather while Henry looked down at Katherine's garden making bawdy remarks about the knickers hanging on her washing-line. ``Passion-killers'', he would chuckle, as he dug his spade into the chalky earth.

We also became friendly with Heinz London, who had done so much significant work in low temperature physics. He and his young wife, Lucie, were just embarking on what was to be a large family. She and I did some mutual baby-sitting and a great deal of girlish giggling. Heinz would have us near to hysterics with his ``English'' swearing. Such phrases as ``blutige Hölle'' (bloody hell), which is meaningless in German, would be heard when he was frustrated. He had embarked on fatherhood rather late in life and was about forty when the first of their four children was born. Sometimes, when interference from small hands impeded his work on the typewriter, he would move himself, the machine, the table it stood on and his chair, into the play-pen, leaving the children to their own devices outside its protective bars. Lucie had learnt much about sewing, pressing and finishing garments from her mother who was a skilled dressmaker in their native Vienna. When Christian Dior revolutionized fashion by bringing out his ``New Look'', she gave me invaluable advice as I squatted on the floor endeavouring to cut out a long, flowing skirt that was essential if one were to follow the latest style. Material was expensive, and it was quite difficult to get the pieces of the pattern to fit into the old bedspread I was trying to convert.

Another young scientist, who had worked on radar but later became involved in the study of cosmic rays before turning to defence research, B.T. (Terry) Price, later Director of the British Uranium Institute, brought his musical and acting skill, as well as that of his fiancée, into our midst. He was one of the many unmarried youngsters, contemporary with me, who dropped into my house and were glad to be offered a meal rather more flavoursome than those produced in Ridgeway House. He was pleased to avail himself of my ancient upright piano that took up almost one wall of the small living-room.

Despite the slightly increased distance, we kept in touch with our friends from the larger houses. The Skinners called frequently, often bringing their ``paying guest'', John Dunworth, the rotund and cheerful physicist in charge of BEPO, who preferred lodging with them on this basis than submitting to life under the Battleaxe administration. He was greatly in demand by those of us recruiting instrumentalists for Brian Flowers's orchestra, as he was the only viola player we could lay our hands on.

One of my most frequent visitors was Klaus Fuchs. He would drop in frequently, grinding up the hill in his ancient, square-backed little Morris. (Since those days the media have paid him so much attention that his registration number, TV 9555, might be thought to have borne a prophetic message.) His calls were casual, but he would often join us for a meal. It is quite extraordinary in the light of what was to happen later how many subjects we discussed: politics, philosophy, psychology and the arts, usually finding ourselves in agreement. He could not master English pronunciation adequately, and his guttural, German accent never left him. His kindly appreciation of home-cooking and a warm fire to sit by, his gentlemanly ways and his generosity, particularly to children, endeared him to many of us. However, I could not understand why this quiet, soft-spoken and seemingly timid man was so reluctant to talk to Oscar alone, except over matters concerning the running of their Division. They had, on the surface, so much in common. Their back-grounds were tremendously similar. Both were non-Jewish refugees from Germany, and both came from austere, deep-thinking families of intense moral convictions. Klaus's father was a committed Christian, Oscar's a dedicated socialist and reformer. Oscar had served his term of imprisonment under the Nazis; Klaus told us that he had escaped arrest by twenty-four hours. Yet they seemed poles apart, and I gradually came to the conclusion that the reserve was not on Oscar's side. It was almost as if there was some intangible barrier which prevented a closer rapport between these two colleagues, a little mistrust perhaps.

In spite of this, he and I formed quite a close friendship. But there would come a point when, if anything hinted, however indirectly, at too close an emotional involvement, he would withdraw like a snail into its shell and batten down the hatches of his soul. He was not going to let slip any word or facial expression that might betray his innermost feelings. I clearly remember him looking tired and spent in a way that does not result solely from a hard day's work. Instead of going back to Ridgeway House for an early night, he would stifle his yawns and stay on, as if reluctant to have to spend any more time in his own company than was absolutely necessary. Then, ruefully, he would look at his watch (a surprisingly expensive-looking one, worn on his right wrist because of his left-handedness) and say the same unwilling words: ``I had better be getting along.''

The following spring, I felt it was time I made an effort to see Oscar's parents. I had been their daughter-in-law for nearly five years, and it occurred to me in an odd, nebulous way, that if I were to get to know them it might help strengthen my marriage. At the time it was impossible to get permission for them to come on a visit to England, so I resolved to get to Hamburg by some means or other. Characteristically, my craving for fresh adventure drove me to find a way to obtain an entry visa for that particular zone of the defeated, but as yet formally undivided, Germany, the part that had been occupied by the British forces. I hit upon the idea of asking a friend of my father, who edited a small provincial newspaper, if he would be kind enough to supply me with a reporter's credentials on the understanding that I would promise to pay all my own expenses and write him a couple of articles about conditions in and around Hamburg. He agreed, and very soon I was an my way from Northolt in a cramped DC3, the work-horse of immediate post-war air transport, an unpressurized twin-engined rattletrap that sloped steeply upwards when on the ground because its tail rested on the tarmac.

I was armed with a press card, a suitcase full of canned food, tea, coffee and clothing, plus one thousand cigarettes. The last were extremely important as they had become a currency in Germany with which one could purchase almost anything, from a Leica camera to a lump of margarine. Even Klaus admitted sending cigarettes to his father in rolled-up periodicals. The Mark had little value and barter was freely resorted to. Quite simply, there were no consumer goods in that country that were not in desperately short supply.

All my friends were helpful and co-operative over the venture. Eva Arnold and other neighbours offered to accommodate the children between school and Oscar's return from work, the Skinners heaped useful things into my suitcase, and Professor Oliphant agreed to my taking a warm over-coat which he had left behind in their house.

My arrival in Hamburg was startling in many ways. I had never set foot on German soil before, and although I had seen and heard much about it, I was in for a shock. The first thing I saw when the aircraft made a bumpy landing on the temporary metal mesh that substituted for a runway, was the swept-up top of a German official's flat cap. Although stripped of its swastika, I associated that shape solely with the Nazis. When I passed through customs I was asked how many cigarettes I had. Fearing that I had overdone my consignment I said I didn't know. I added that as I was a heavy smoker I had quite a lot. ``You are allowed three hundred,'' I was told peremptorily. Then my suitcase was opened and two hundred were sternly confiscated. I thanked providence that I had acted on a hunch - one could hardly call it foresight as I knew nothing of the restrictions - and crammed the remaining five hundred into my overnight bag and my various pockets including those of Oliphant's coat. I offered as a diversion the four or five ``Players'' in my small silver case, with an apology for not having looked up the regulations, and was graciously allowed to keep them. Never has a customs shed seemed so long nor my clothes so heavy. I felt as if I were carrying gold bullion, and in many ways I was, because the old Bünemanns were able to exchange those eight-hundred cigarettes for all manner of food and useful articles that would otherwise have been unobtainable.

It is hard to imagine the desert of brick and rubble to which the fine old city of Hamburg had been reduced. Twisted girders protruded from fallen concrete walls, and crushed vehicles lay torn where the blast of bombs had hurled them. I saw a metal swastika that once had graced a proud building lying tortured on the ground in a heap of dust, symbolic of the crushing defeat of Nazism. People who had lived there all their lives wandered around, dazed and bewildered, still not quite sure exactly which street they were in or whether their street even existed any more. The main roads had been cleared to allow traffic to pass, and such trams as were running, more often than not, were crammed to capacity. Men and women were thin and dispirited. Children sifted rubbish tips in the quest for something to eat or a cigarette butt. Long queues formed, and waited with resignation for every necessity of life.

I had booked accommodation in the War Correspondents' Mess, which was in an ostentatious, white wedding-cake of a house overlooking the Alster. Once the opulent and ornate property of a prominent Nazi, it had been requisitioned by the British occupying forces along with its furniture, and staffed with servants. The rules governing fraternization with the local people by the armed forces, the Control Commission and other officials, had but recently been relaxed. As I was technically a journalist with the nominal rank of lieutenant-colonel, I didn't want to cause disapproval and get myself dismissed from my temporary post by going straight to the Bünemanns' flat. I need not have worried. The press-agents and writers I found myself among cared little for the regulations. So long as you could get away with something, you went right ahead and did it. When I enquired whether I could exchange my ``Baafs'', as the occupying forces' currency was called, for their equivalent in marks, I was laughed at. ``You must be out of your mind,'' said a man from Reuters. ``Give Fritz behind the bar a couple of cigarettes and you'll have all the marks you want.'' ``But what about paying on the trams and trains?'' I enquired naively. ``You don't PAY. Show your press-card or your passport, or just tell them you're British.'' This was not the only thing that I found reprehensible about the behaviour of most of the people in the mess. Some were inexcusably rude to the German staff, others encouraged and joined in the singing of the most hated Nazi songs, such as the ``Horstwessel Lied'' and ``Wir marchieren gegen England''.

I did manage to get myself a small measure of revenge against the man from Reuters, though. On the second evening of my stay he was very drunk, swaying on his feet, and clutching alternately at the bar and a brassy young woman he referred to as ``Annelise, my fiancée''. He poked his finger in my direction and asked me what sort of assignment I had, or whether I was engaged in some lucrative racket such as smuggling. When I told him that I had made up my mind to prepare an article on the plight of the orphans of concentration-camp victims, he let fall a small gem of information about a new reception centre that had just been opened, and described, despite the state he was in, some of the work that had been started to care for these children and help trace their relatives. Realizing his gaffe, he kept trying to extract a promise from me that I wouldn't cable my paper. I told him I wouldn't cable, and I didn't cable, but I sent a letter with the first person I met who was about to fly home. I have never in my life experienced anything so near to professional success as when this news reached a little-known periodical before being released by one of the largest press agencies in the world. Unhappily my one and only copy of the short article was mislaid, and all enquiries concerning it have revealed nothing.

However nasty the journalists may have been, I experienced nothing but courtesy from the local people, particularly when I made the effort to speak German. I was helped and escorted on my way, and even given a long lesson on correct Hamburg pronunciation, although I have to admit that I frequently heard them being rude and curt to each other, and no wonder. Had I been as hungry and hopeless as they were, I should have been equally ill-mannered.

The Bünemann parents were prematurely aged, constantly depressed and undernourished. He was white-haired and stoop-shouldered, and had lost so much weight that his neck emerged from its loose collar like that of a tortoise. She was minute and fragile. Her skin looked like rumpled paper, and her eyes were perpetually full of tears. Both of them were obviously overjoyed that I had made the effort to come to see them, but I doubt whether they approved of me. I feel sure that they would have preferred a more serious-minded and studious daughter-in-law who shared their convictions and interests, to a frolicsome young extravert in makeup and high heels. They made a courageous attempt at trying to like me. After all, there was nothing much they could do. I was their son's wife and the mother of their only grandchildren. Their flat in the solid, middle-class district of Klosterstern was spacious, and could have been elegant but for their disregard for material comfort which, coupled with the difficulties of the times, gave it a dark, uncared-for appearance. They showed me what was left of their city, and as they described to me how everything looked in the good old days, I found it doubly distressing. There were quite a number of my own compatriots who would have said: ``Serve the blighters right. That's what you get for starting a war''. But I was now seeing Germany through the eyes of that sizeable, silent section of the population who had never supported Hitler, nor indeed any war-monger.

There was not only the destruction that is part and parcel of war, but also that which is necessitated by its aftermath. The mature chestnut trees that had once lined the streets had been chopped down to provide fuel, and there were no materials for any but the most essential repairs to the ancient buildings of which Hamburgers are so justly proud. But I was heartened, having seen so many pictures of it, to find that the sky-line round the river Alster, with its fine green steeples, had been but minimally damaged. The bombs dropped in that area had been mainly incendiary, not high explosive. Further away, however, the destruction had been horrific. The docks were no longer recognisable, and the residential areas surrounding them were reduced to the same giant, mounds of uninhabited ruins that had shocked me when I first arrived. One day, with the aid of an old map belonging to the Bünemanns, I found what was left of the Ritterstrasse where my grandmother's cousins had lived. I had no need to enquire how they had fared under the bombardments, for they were deported in 1941 and had died in the gas chambers of the notorious concentration camp at Majdenek in Poland.

I visited many of the famous buildings that remained in the Hanseatic trading district, such as the Chile and Balenhaus, where forlorn office workers in worn-out clothes were trying to salvage what remained of their business transactions. I walked along the famous Jungfernstieg and saw the pathetic selection of goods on sale in the shops. I saw the University, and the Johanneum where Oscar had received his education, and was invited to the Helene Langeschule where my sister-in-law, Gertrud, was the music teacher. Although she had a class of half-starved and listless pupils, I was riveted by the enthusiasm she awakened in their pallid faces, and by the volume she extracted from the voices in her choir.

I was also taken to Bergedorf, a suburb where many of Oscar's relatives lived. A family gathering at the home of the oldest uncle had been arranged so that they could all meet me. They were welcoming and kindly, but struck me as old-fashioned in their bearing: more like my grandparents' generation than that of MY parents. Their clothes were sombre and their manners formal. The old uncle believed whole-heartedly in male supremacy. The fashion for feminism hadn't started, but I found myself becoming furious with him a few weeks later when he wrote to my father that he had found me congenial and pleasant, ``but I do not know how she dares to offer painted lips to her husband's kiss''.

They had saved much out of their meagre store of provisions to produce a festive meal. It was difficult to accept their food when I had access to so much, yet it was impossible to refuse their generosity. Afterwards, in the face of all the privation around me, I found it almost painful to eat the plentiful meals put before me in the Mess. I started applying Robin Hood's tactics. I scooped up everything I could lay my hands on, from mashed potatoes to toilet paper, and took it all round to the Bünemanns' flat concealed in my over-night bag. I borrowed a press car, which was meant to be used solely for conveying senior personnel about their business, and took my parents-in-law for their first drive into the country for a long, long time. All caution was thrown to the winds. It must have been the prevailing atmosphere. With the countless shortages of everyday essentials, stealing was a commonplace, if not an accepted activity. When the electric-light bulb in the stair-well of the block of flats was removed - an almost weekly occurrence - I managed to find a replacement. I have often wondered who got the blame for the one that was missing on the landing outside my room in the Mess.

On subsequent visits to Hamburg I have been amazed at the speed and efficiency with which the population restored the appearance and dignity of their city, but it was a sobering and saddening experience to pay a visit there in 1947. I don't know whether my articles were of much use to the newspaper I represented, but I felt something had been achieved, if only by increasing my understanding of people and their reactions to cold houses and empty bellies. I learned, too, of the psychological differences between those who had won and those who had lost. Britain had entered the war with a sense of purpose. Apart from those who, like the Bünemanns, had never been misled by the boasts and promises of the Nazis, most of the Germans I met in the course of my fact-finding ventures seemed bewildered and cheated. Everyone I spoke to protested their innocence of membership of the party that had brought about the defeat of their country. Whether they were being truthful or not, they all felt demoralized and degraded.

I ran into more trouble when leaving from the airport. Oscar's mother had given me a small diamond ring and his father a sample of merchandise for a potential customer. I had also managed to retrieve some of a friend's family jewellery by making contact with her erstwhile maid, a wizened little creature wrapped in shawls, who told me how she had hidden them in the false bottom of an ash-bucket. All these little treasures, strictly speaking, were contraband. The rings were too large to stay on my fingers, and I should have been quite unable to convince anyone that they were my own property. I also had a bulky gold watch and chain entrusted to me. As I had never been blessed with an ample bosom I stuffed them into my bra, but when passing through immigration was startled to see a notice which read: ``All passengers on this flight are liable to search''. I held my breath. Happily I was not stripped, and my bra remained undisturbed until I reached home.

Back in the prefab I found everyone fascinated by my adventure. All my friends came to call. The weather was warm that Whitsun, and we sat in the garden while I recounted my experiences. So many of our friends had originated from, or had lived in, Germany, but Klaus was the only one who had been back. A few weeks before my trip he had used his official position to obtain permission to make a journey, the real purpose of which was to visit his father. I also remember meeting Otto Robert Frisch when I was returning from the local shop. That day it happened to be pouring with rain, but nothing deterred him from peppering me with questions. After a bit, when I pointed out that we were both getting soaked to the skin, he said reluctantly: ``OK, I'll have to squeeze you some other time''.

During the summer we drove across France to Switzerland. The roads south of Boulogne were still full of pot-holes and lined with endless cases of ammunition - shells that no-one had found time to move. At the charming, if battered, Hôtel de France at Montreuil-sur-Mer, there were still German notices scribbled on the wall, evidence that it had been the local army headquarters. Life wasn't easy in post-war France either. Their rations were not enough to keep body and soul together, and the black market flourished. Nevertheless, such is the admirable sense of priority shown by the French that we had tasty meals contrived from whatever was available, be it a dish of lentils spiced with garlic or a creamy turnip soup. It taught me a lot about culinary improvisation. The opulence of Switzerland was almost an obscenity by comparison. In Zurich and Lucerne we were able to do a modest amount of shopping. It was the first time since leaving America that we were able to buy clothes without producing a ration book, and the children acquired delightful embroidered velvet trousers of the sort still sold in tourist shops to-day.

Early in 1948 our prefab received some German visitors. First, Klaus brought his father to see us. Emil Fuchs was small, rotund and bald. The white wisps of hair which fringed his shiny scalp matched his long white moustache perfectly. He not only seemed kind, but a saintly look shone from his tired old eyes. Nonetheless, anyone with an ounce of intuition could see that he had endured immense suffering. He had witnessed the suicide of one of his daughters when she leapt from his side during a train journey, just one of many who died indirectly as a result of Nazi brutality. All his other children had been forced to emigrate. One of his sons, Gerhard, who was in frail health, lived in Switzerland, his other daughter in the United States. His unquestionable Christian faith, although not shared by his son, had undoubtedly sustained him. Although he had started his theological career as a Lutheran pastor, in more recent years he had became a Quaker and had written many articles and professions of faith. He was as out-going and communicative as Klaus was reserved and withdrawn, an example of courage and dedication.

In April 1948, after several postponements and disappointments, Oscar's parents finally got the necessary permission to come to visit us. We arranged and bought their tickets as they were unable to obtain foreign currency or to travel to Britain without our backing. They were obliged to be totally dependent on us. It was just before Peter's fifth birthday when they finally arrived at our prefab. A family of four, plus two elderly people in poor health and broken spirits, in so small a space more than taxed my capabilities. It was not made any easier by the fact that they still clung to their dietary scruples. Moreover, they didn't like to be in a room where meat or fish was being served. So much tolerance was required on both sides that I think we were all worn out with the effort. Our attitudes to life were drastically different, and I feel sure I could have been more tactful had I had some prior experience. They had little patience with my flippancy, my interest in pretty clothes and the latest fashions. I remember a beautiful French copy of Vogue, which my mother had sent me, nearly causing Oscar's father to have an apoplectic seizure. ``This is not beauty,'' he snorted. ``These are nothing but females.'' The only way I could soothe him was by pointing out that fashion was a valuable export upon which much depended. If I found the month-long situation difficult, they must have found me quite intolerably superficial.

Once again I was indebted to my friends. Erna had a friend who farmed, and she scrounged two dozen eggs to help me supplement the vegetarian meals I had to provide. Although the old Bünemanns spoke fluent English, they enjoyed meeting those of our neighbours with whom they could converse in their own language. We went up to visit my parents, and I think they enjoyed getting to know people who had also spent their lives involved with international trade. My father greeted them with the story of the old spinster who looked under her bed every night, to see whether or not there was a man hiding there. One day there was. ``Na ja,'' she exclaimed, ``da sind Sie endlich''. (There you are at last.)

We toured the country as much as our petrol ration allowed, and they were pleased to renew friendships made in England long before the war. They were both taken ill during their visit, and I called our doctor. I remember him prescribing halibut-liver oil to provide the vitamins necessary for their recovery. These they refused to take. I nearly lost my patience. Were they determined to go on suffering from malnutrition through an obstinate refusal to bend their self-imposed rules to this small extent?

After their departure I collapsed with exhaustion. Depression engulfed me and I suffered severe loss of weight. At one point the doctor found it necessary to put me under sedation for forty- eight hours. The prefab was becoming more and more restrictive, particularly as I could see no way in which I could live somewhere with more space for the children. All our neighbours were gradually moving to Abingdon or buying houses in nearby villages. In spite of all I had to do, I became paralysed with dejection and frustration.

Finally, I took the children on a prolonged visit to my parents' home in Manchester. They were always delighted to see us all, and because they knew what a struggle the recent weeks had been, they didn't question me too closely about the possibility of emotional or marital difficulties. I had obviously been ill, and my mother was only too happy to help me regain my strength.

I joined Oscar in Birmingham for the first peacetime international conference on nuclear physics, but such was my turbulent state that I took in little of what was going on, except for the vitality and enthusiasm emanating from a group of young physicists who were obviously deriving great inspiration and motivation from Brian Flowers. He seemed to stand out among the younger delegates. Wherever he happened to be there was always a lively discussion and a lot of laughter. Before long I was to find his enthusiasm and sense of humour irresistible.

Oscar and the children and I were to have taken a holiday in Denmark that summer, but our funds were not sufficient. I dreaded returning to the prefab. Half my furniture was stored in an unheated garage behind the staff club, and I wondered how long it would be before I could use it again, and what state it would be in. The thought of another winter in the bleak wilderness appalled me, and I kept postponing my return from Manchester on the flimsiest of excuses. While in my parents' home, it was easier to escape from the real problem confronting me, of which all the other difficulties were symptomatic.

That autumn Oscar must have realized that my dislike of the prefab was no transitory mood, for he gave in and asked for a house on the new estate in Abingdon. Whatever else was going to happen I was thrilled at the thought of having a home at last.

Although it would not have the countrified charm of the cottage of my dreams, at least I could regard it as permanent; something that I could equip, decorate and enjoy. The children could have a large room in which to play, and perhaps I could turn over a new leaf and settle down to the serious task of being a wife and mother.