One of my earliest memories is of being rebuked by a bullet-headed neighbour for trying to make him laugh.
Whatever I said, he remained stony-faced. ‘We Germans may have our faults, my boy,’ he informed me, ‘but I’m happy to say that a sense of humour is not among them.’
As a little boy, I never had any difficulty in seeing the funny side of almost every aspect of life. This naturally caused suspicion in Nazi Germany, where gravitas counted for far more than mirth.
These days, of course, I’m best known as a much-abused Spanish waiter called Manuel, who somehow landed a job at a surreal seaside hotel called Fawlty Towers.
But my beginnings were far away from either Barcelona or England — in the increasingly dark world of Thirties Berlin, where I spent the first eight years of my life.
During that time, I saw my father being arrested by Nazi officers, and even witnessed some of the atrocities of Kristallnacht — literally, ‘the night of crystal’, because so many Jewish properties had their windows shattered before being looted and burned.
My parents were — and still are — my heroes. Father had won the Iron Cross in the 1914 war.
With his solid-gold Prussian ancestry, he even had blue eyes and almost blond hair. But none of that counted because he was a Jew.
As for my mother, she was an Aryan who ought to have produced blond, blue-eyed, tall members of the Master Race.
Instead, her three bonny German toddlers turned out to be dark-haired, brown-eyed and smallish. Oy vey!
Once, during some bureaucratic wrangle, she told Nazi officials that she loved my father. The officials hesitated for a moment. Could it be that their hearts were touched?
They nodded benignly. ‘We are human.’ Her spirits perked up. ‘Of course you are! Haven’t I always said? Tell me what I can do.’
Their superior features cracked into a smile. ‘Get a divorce,’ they said.
I was seven when I realised that I was neither one thing nor another — neither fully Jewish nor fully Aryan. But, before long, I learned that there were thousands of other children like me, and that our rulers had given us the title of ‘mischling’.
Apparently it meant half-breed — something like a mongrel, according to Mother. That made me glad because it gave me an affinity with dogs, the most excellent creatures in the world.
It was the next best thing to having one of my own. I glowed with pride.
I didn’t think much of Adolf Hitler. Far more to my taste was that other dictator, Joseph Stalin, who was always in the papers and looked like everybody’s favourite uncle. There was really no contest.
I vowed to embrace Communism until death — even if I didn’t completely understand what it meant.
One day, a military parade swaggered past our home in full fascist brio with a brass band, swastika flags, shiny leather boots, glittering insignia and crisp uniforms with black or brown shirts specially designed never to show the dirt — or even blood.
Starry-eyed bystanders cheered while the goose-stepping Hitler Youth belted out songs of glory.
While all this was going on, I was leaning out of our front window and shouting at the top of my lungs: ‘Hitler isn’t funny!’ And, even more recklessly: ‘Workers of the world unite!’
This earned me a clip round the ear from my sister, who knew that the likes of us had to keep a low profile.
Herr Plischert encouraged his pupils to do their bit. So my best friend Ralph and I were given the patriotic task of going to each home in our Berlin suburb to persuade the householders to contribute metal items for the ‘peace’ effort.
We collected milk-bottle tops, silver foil, crumpled toothpaste tubes, empty food tins, unwanted saucepans and plumbing paraphernalia. Money was especially acceptable.
Both of us were armed with official swastika-stamped notebooks in which to record the names and addresses of all donors, together with a short description of their contributions.
A second list had to be made of those who contributed nothing, and thus failed to honour their National Socialist obligations.
Then Ralph and I handed in boxes and boxes of goodies to our teacher, plus our notebooks recording the loyal and the traitors.
Our efforts got us a glossy certificate, decorated with colourful Party-approved artwork, and signed by Hitler himself as a special mark of his gratitude.
We were very impressed that the Führer could devote so many hours of his precious time to signing personal autographs for thousands of schoolchildren. It had been a good week’s work.
But confusion tugged at my conscience. What about my Communist loyalties? Was I faltering?
If so, exposure as a defector would surely invite severe punishment. It struck swiftly, but in an unexpected way.
One morning in the playground, Ralph blurted out that his parents had ordered him not to play with me again.
I asked him why, but I already knew the answer. ‘You promised not to tell anyone I’m a Communist,’ I said, getting ready to hit him.
‘I didn’t. It’s nothing to do with Stalin. It’s your father,’ he replied. I was puzzled.
‘Well, you know, he’s a Jew. That’s why I can’t play with you any more.’
I couldn’t follow his logic. ‘But I like Hitler,’ I said.
‘No, you don’t.’
‘Well, neither do you.’ I was struggling a bit. ‘Only we do, really, because we collected all that stuff for him and he gave us his autograph, so the three of us are mates now.’
In the end, I managed to convince Ralph, but he didn’t convince his parents. They were — I realise now — normal. Everyone in Germany was scared, and everyone felt they were being watched.
So Ralph and I stopped playing together. This created a sad, empty space in my world. And one in his, too, I think.
In 1938, while my brother and I were away at summer camp (where I won second prize in a competition for building a U-boat out of sand), my parents were trying to plan our future.
Father had studied law, but worked as an insurance broker. Alas, new laws had come into force and, often reluctantly, his long-standing clients found it necessary to take their business elsewhere.
‘Nothing personal you understand, Herr Doktor Sachs . . . but our position . . . family . . . children, you understand . . .’
Our best hope was getting to London, where some former business colleagues of my father had offered him a job. But there were many other requirements before a UK entry visa could be granted.
Crucially, Jewish refugees had to be sponsored so that they wouldn’t cost the British economy one penny.
Then there was a debilitating obstacle course through countless German government departments that involved expensive exit visas, property and wealth assessments, hefty tax demands, interrogations, certificates, and other documents.
'The officers decided to do their Nazi duty. They hauled Father to his feet. Then, turning to my mother, one of them said: ‘You will not see your husband again.’
Somehow, my parents managed it all. And, shortly after I came home from our summer break, our emigration date was set for December.
It was time for a cautious celebration, so we walked to our favourite restaurant for supper.
By now, notices had begun to appear that forbade Jews entry to various places. And, sure enough, our neighbourhood restaurant had just put up a sparkling new sign.
Jewish patronage, it stated, was no longer willkommen (welcome). Father sighed and lost his appetite. My mother didn’t.
‘What nonsense!’ she said. ‘It makes one ashamed to be German. I’m not going to stand for it. Wait here.’
‘Can’t we just . . .’
‘No, we can’t. We’re old customers. I know Gustav will look after us.’
She marched in and, a few moments later, returned with Gustav, the apologetic restaurant owner, who mumbled something about regrettable new legal requirements.
Then he whispered, ‘It’s a disgrace! Especially where innocent children are involved. Exceptions will, of course, be made.’
Soon Gustav had led us to a discreet corner table, and we were tucking into good food. Even Father regained his appetite.
But, as bad luck would have it, soon after we started eating, two officers in shiny black leather arrived to inspect all the diners’ papers.
It was always a bonus for officials when they found a capital ‘J’ for Jude stamped in bright red on someone’s papers because it allowed them to indulge in their favourite pastime: bullying and terrifying Jews.
My father was made to empty his pockets as the other diners politely turned away and got on with their chatter.
Among the contents of father’s wallet was a newspaper cutting of a satirical version of Little Red Riding Hood, in which the innocent heroine represented the German people and the Big Bad Wolf the Nazi Party. Oh dear.
A leather-gloved finger tapped the offending article: ‘This is a serious violation against the authority of the state.’
The blood drained from Father’s face but not, luckily, from his nimble brain.
‘No question about it, officer,’ he said, with a confidence that surprised his wife. ‘It’s a scandal that this seditious nonsense was, as you see, actually published in one of our most popular national newspapers.
‘Furthermore, it reveals gross negligence on the part of the government censor appointed specifically to prevent the dissemination of subversive material of this nature.’
Father had their attention now.
‘You’ll see from my papers that I’m a doctor of law. Yes?’ He pointed to the cutting. ‘This article is the one vital piece of evidence needed for our proposed legal proceedings that will swiftly bring the offenders to justice.’
The officers looked confused. ‘But you’re a Jew.’
As pompously as he could, Father returned to the attack. ‘I believe it would be in your interest, gentlemen, to prioritise my academic distinctions as the relevant ones in this matter.’
Then he started pocketing the cutting. The officers, however, decided to do their Nazi duty. They hauled Father to his feet.
Then, turning to my mother, one of them said: ‘You will not see your husband again.’
There was a bewildered silence.
This was broken by the good Gustav, who — at the risk of losing his catering licence — offered his best waiter to accompany Mother home. ‘Dear lady, what can I say?’ he murmured. ‘It’s unforgivable!’
A few minutes later, we were back in the street — where Mother promptly collapsed with an awful cry.
But her spirit was by no means broken. Back at home, she enlisted the help of friends and family.
A decision was taken to approach a high-ranking officer in the Berlin civil police, who’d been a long-term client of my father’s — until, of course, he’d had to withdraw his custom.
Amazingly, we struck lucky. Ignoring the risk to his own career, the officer gave the necessary orders and Father was released a few days later.
But the danger had hardly gone away, and the priority now was to get him out of Germany — fast.
Mother took charge. While Father stayed indoors, she marched along endless corridors of power to battle with an army of stony-faced officials.
Nothing could daunt her. By turns bullying, cajoling, shouting, crying, bargaining or charming, she forced the bureaucrats to agree. ‘Get your damned Jew out of the country! Schnell! Schnell!’ she was told.
‘Heil Hitler,’ she said. It choked her, but she said it with a happy smile.
So Father bought a one-way ticket to freedom. Armed with his UK entry visa, he packed his bags and saved his life.
We still have his old passport, stamped with ‘J’ for Jude, and imprinted with a German eagle and five swastikas.
The rest of us had to remain in Berlin, waiting for Nazi bureaucracy to release us.
Meanwhile, I witnessed the start of Kristallnacht on my way home from school, as men wielding clubs shattered the glass of a Jewish shoe shop and made off with the shoes.
That night, November 9, 1938, our local synagogue burnt down and neighbours had to stop Mother protesting angrily in the street.
Finally, the day of our exodus arrived. I was a bit excited by then, because we were taking a train ride all the way to Hamburg, where we planned to meet an old school friend of my mother’s.
Auntie Mimi, as we called her, must have been very rich. She took us shopping and bought me a gold- coloured watch with a luminous dial.
Afterwards, she treated us to a sightseeing boat trip round the harbour to see the big ships.
We drew up alongside the SS Manhattan, the huge American liner that would take us to Southampton. I was even allowed to touch its hull with my bare hand.
When the time came to leave, Auntie Mimi hugged and kissed us. We stayed on deck for a long time, watching Germany get smaller and then disappear. It was one of the most exciting days of my life.
It would be years before I even considered what my mother’s feelings were that day.
She was leaving behind brothers, sisters, nephews and nieces, aunts, uncles, both her parents, many close friends — and a tragic number of in-laws, most of whom would not survive the war.
Having lost her home, she was now facing an unknown future in a foreign land.
Yet she refused to despair, and her gratitude for even the smallest blessings would never desert her.
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