The Start of the Blitz

In the years prior to Britain’s declaration of war, Nazi Germany, that country had invaded and overrun many countries in Central Europe, such as Austria, and Czechoslovakia, causing major disruption therein, particularly in the Jewish communities. It is not commonly known that this resulted in a very serious situation for students from those countries who had been sent by their parents to English colleges to acquire a university education. These students were supported financially by regular cheques from their parents. Suddenly, their home countries overrun, their families interned, killed or in hiding, the students were destitute. The colleges continued to house and educate these young people, and their welfare was overseen by a society which most people now have probably never heard of. An offshoot of the League of Nations in Geneva, this society was known as the British University League of Nations Society, (BULNS) and they helped these students during the university vacations. I was around seventeen years old at the beginning of this period and my sister, two years my senior, worked for the society. War was declared and the work of the BULNS was expanded to include French, Belgian, and Dutch students now marooned over here. Also some Asian students came under their umbrella.

In the summer of 1940, my sister was instructed to find a school which was empty during the summer vacation and take a party of students from London for a holiday. She asked me if I would be willing to take my annual two weeks holiday and spend it with the students. This I was very happy to do, and spent one week in a school in Keswick, sampling the Lake District with them, and the other in Stratford upon Avon, taking in the Shakespeare theatre and other local places of interest. They were very happy times. We spent the evening singing, (there was always someone who could pick out a tune on the piano, and I was well known for my willingness to sing whenever encouraged a little.) Happy days.

At the end of my stay in Stratford, a group of us made an arrangement to meet at Marble Arch and play an afternoon’s tennis on the courts in Hyde Park, after which we would have a meal together before dispersing to our homes or lodgings. We spent a most enjoyable day, the weather was beautiful, and in due course we were all assembled (about ten of us) in an underground restaurant in Oxford Street.

It must have been about 10pm when I decided I must get home - my mother would be worried. I lived in East Ham, some half hour bus ride away. Two young Indian men had become very friendly and took me under their wing, insisting on leaving the party and coming to see me safely on the bus.

We made our farewells and climbed the staircase into the street. This, to my amazement, was almost deserted. As we emerged onto the pavement a couple of figures, policemen or air raid wardens, shouted “Take cover, there’s an air raid on”. this was like a strange language to me; so far we had erected air raid shelters in the garden, and heard air raid sirens being tested regularly, but nothing else. We ran round the corner to the bus stop where more police or wardens materialised, also shouting to take cover. I replied that I had to get home, my mother would be worried. Someone said that there would be no buses now, but within a few seconds a red double-decker bus appeared coming towards us. We waved, it stopped, and the conductor called, “we are going as far as East Ham Town Hall then turning right.” This’ll do me I called to the boys and jumped on, but they jumped on behind me because they wanted to see what was going on. The sky was now bright red, bombs were falling, planes were caught in floodlights; absolute mayhem somewhere to the east of us - my way home, and the way the bus was facing. The boys called “Go upstairs, we’ll be able to see what’s happening” and I followed them. We sat in the front seats of the bus and drove right through the East End of London along the East India Dock Road. It was an awesome sight. The docks were ablaze, and the roads strewn with thick hoses which were carrying water to fight the flames consuming the houses and shops opposite. Fire engines, ambulances, policemen, firemen, air raid wardens were all valiantly doing what they could to help the bombed out victims. Frequently our bus was stopped but the driver diverted through broken side streets, determined to get home to his family. I have seen scenes of this in old news reels, once in colour, and it is exactly as I remember it - total devastation.

We heard the driver call “East Ham Town Hall, we’re turning right, stay on if you want to” but I needed to go forward so, with my escort, I jumped off the bus. We were immediately greeted by figures running out of doorways, “Take cover, take cover” but I had to go on. I knew my mother was alone, my little mother (4’ 10”) in our air raid shelter alone, I had to get home. My sister was in Oxford, (her work had evacuated there) and I knew (or was practically sure) that my father, a West End night taxi driver would have left home and could be anywhere.

We ran down the High street and turned left into Wall End Road, cries of “Take cover” still echoing in our ears, and finally reached no.67, the last in the street. My key already in my hand, into the lock, switch the switch by the door up and down - my father, ever practical had fitted an electric light into the shelter with this switch so that, when he came home after his night’s work at three or four in the morning, he could signal to us in the shelter so that we knew he was safely home.

We ran through the house, down the garden, and into the shelter. My mother’s relief to see me must have been enormous, but who were these two gentlemen with me. Introductions were made, hugs and kisses for me, and with bombs and guns booming, and aeroplanes filling the skies we settled down to see the night out.

My mother Lizzie was an East End lass, my father also from Bethnal Green. To their great credit they had bought our house new when I was three years old, and had got away from their old environment. My sister and I, and my older brother were all given a secondary school education (the girls in a convent) but my mother, I know, felt strongly her lack of education and ‘class’, and here she was, half undressed, (it was a scorching night) with these two dark, exotic looking young men in tennis whites who had brought her ‘baby’ home to her. She was truly at a loss for words and very unsure of herself. After recounting our adventures she finally said, “Well, we’d better make ourselves comfortable for the night and try to get some sleep…..Take your shoes off boys and make yourselves comfortable.” The boys, leaning against the back of the shelter, put their feet up on the end of the two little bunks my father had made, on which my mother and I were crouched. A few moments passed, then my darling mother plucked up courage and said “Boys, don’t be shy, you can take your socks off as well, it’s so hot”. There was a deathly hush until the boys and I burst out laughing. “they’ve got their socks off Mum” I said and her embarrassment filled the little shelter. It was the best laugh of the whole war, but not for poor little Lizzie.
Sadly the boys left after breakfast the next day, and I never saw them again.

Family history

My name: Irene Dorothy Macdonald nee Higgins
Sister: Elizabeth Mary, married U.S. soldier, now living in California
Brother: George E.J. Joined the Royal Artillery before the war, given a commission during the war, ended a Major. now deceased.

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