On September 7 1940 I was four years old living with my parents in Sidney Street, in London's East End, on the first day of the London Blitz.
I recall that it was a hot evening and my mother had set three salads on the kitchen table when I noticed out of the window that on the neighbouring flat roof there was a man stripped to the waist washing his face in an enamel bowl.
On spotting me he waved, and then I heard the sound of an air-raid siren, which immediately brought my parents running into the kitchen to collect me. My father picked me up and hurried us down the several flights of stairs to the ground floor.
No sooner had we reached the front hall than there was an enormous explosion bringing debris pouring down on us. Thankfully we did not appear to suffer any serious injury.
When the dust began to clear we attempted to exit through the front door which we discovered was blocked by a mountain of rubble.
We then made our way through a demolished supporting wall which led us into the outside yard.
My father then lifted me through a window which I discovered was the adjoining confectionary store, where I saw was a large wooden counter supporting a row of sweet jars, some still intact. My immediate thoughts were to help myself to their content!
We were soon aided by the helping hands of helmeted air-raid wardens who led us out into the street.
Among the hundreds of people, I witnessed policemen and firemen plus numerous items of furniture strewn amongst the street's rubble.
That night I was held in my father’s arms we took cover in a standing-room only street shelter, I remember hearing the continual loud explosions surrounding us, until a bomb fell close by, causing us to be moved to the basement of a nearby home.
The following night we were accommodated in a school, the women and children in several classrooms while the men were in others.
I slept on a camp bed next to my mother, I was haunted by the woman on the bed to my left who hysterically continued to scream: “I’ve swallowed a bomb. I’ve swallowed a bomb.”
The next day, along with other destitute survivors we were put on to double decker buses out of London to the comparably safety of the countryside.
My parents made the decision to alight outside the police station at Egham, Surrey. My father carried a small suitcase that contained our remaining belongings.
After making inquiries at a nearby newsagent, we walked several miles until reaching a small asbestos clad cottage where my parents explained our plight to the elderly Scottish couple who readily agreed to take us in.
My mother later worked in a munition factory for much of the duration of the war. My father continued as a waiter at London’s Savoy Hotel, visiting us on weekends.
I clearly remember that first night of evacuation, witnessing my mother in tears as we looked towards London burning some 18 miles away.
My Polish born father was classified as an alien, unlike most of his fellow Savoy Hotel staff, Italians who were classified as "enemy aliens”. They were deported to Canada on the SS Arandora Star, which was torpedoed with great loss of life.
My “alien” father had been brought to the UK as a young child. Consequently, he was not conscripted but was under severe restrictions regarding his movements, plus he was not allowed to possess a radio, camera or bicycle.