(The following article appeared originally in The Journal of the Fitzwilliam Society, Volume XI, no 3, March 2002 issue. It is a publication of Fitzwilliam College at Cambridge University. We gratefully acknowledge the permission of the editor, Dr. D. M. Thompson to reprint these reminiscences.)

My British Council research scholarship, awarded in early 1939, was put on hold at the beginning of the war. When the outlook improved, the invitation was renewed and I left the then peaceful Estonia to go via Stockholm and Bergen to end up on a smelly fishing trawler in fog and drizzling rain at Tynemouth.

On 2nd November, in the blackout, worried and hesitating, I knocked at the front-door of Fitzwilliam House. What else could I expect than directions to go to a nearby hotel by the Cam (as I later learned) where they had better facilities to welcome odd foreign strangers? A good night’s sleep later, a splendid breakfast, and so to work. Some paperwork, some advice. A ‘set of rooms’, as they called it, was found for me within easy walking distance. Mrs. XX, well used to catering for young lost ones, tactfully explained all the ins and outs, including that I need not worry about her weekly report to the College - particularily any late night homecomings. The windows were, of course, doctored so as to prevent surreptitious entry. (Nowadays, in Toronto, we limit window openings in student residences to four inches to prevent jolly students getting out rather than in.)

Next, a cap and gown were needed for the matriculation ceremony. With the help of a fellow student and one pound, I became the owner of a bicycle - complete with a basket on the handlebars and brakes that worked. (Two years later I sold it at a better price). Thus properly equipped I joined a small group of late arrivals to hear the Censor (of Fitzwilliam House), W.S. Thatcher, deliver a short address on the importance of such ceremonies, however much one might dislike them. We had to take off our cap upon entering the Senate House and be quiet and wait until called to sign the book (to confirm that we knew and honoured all the University regulations, rumoured to run to 700 pages), and to take particular care to sign our names in full. On a mild November day, a small procession followed the Censor along Trumpington Street, a short distance to the Senate House. I had a difficult time trying to suppress a grin as I pictured myself with that mortarboard on my head, long tassel dangling and an oddly-shaped black gown adding dignity, in a funny way. I still have it, that mortarboard. The ceremony was exactly as described. I learned later that (at age 28) I enjoyed ‘senior status’ relative to undergrads. My gown was longer, and the tassel also more meaningful. Did it matter how it fell to the side of my head? When going out after dark, seniors need not wear gowns. One dinner a week in the Hall, with gown, was to be taken. I imagined that dinner in the Hall would command more decorum at the undergraduate tables. “There is a war on!” was an oft-heard response. Was there? Superficially it was not obvious. But there were fewer students around; some Faculties were on other assignments; many activities were limited. Many colleges were taken over to house airmen. Taking photographs of those colleges was prohibited. Blackout had its effect, too. My bicycle had a front lamp, but its glass was covered except for a hole smaller than a farthing. The same treatment was meted out to the street lamps. There were some restrictions on larger gatherings, but I had my first taste of English-style Christmas shows. I thought Cinderella a bit irreverent for the season but enjoyed it nevertheless, and the lively participation of the children in the audience was new to me. Watching a Shakespearean play left me feeling that Cambridge students had a particular capacity to perform Shakespeare properly. Needless to say, I understood very little of what they said. The story had to come from translations remembered from school textbooks.

Everyday life? Before the first Christmas of the war, there was much talk around of how the boys (the Tommies) on the front in France were to be comforted with Christmas pudding and cake. My landlady treated me in the same spirit. It took a long time to get used to that black sticky pudding.

In the end I was quite happy that the supply lasted far into January. Food rationing - official or limited by supply - crept in slowly, sometimes causing surprise. In my second year, living in digs round the corner from Fitzwilliam, I disappointed my landlady and fellow students alike when I confessed to having declined my quota of Spanish onions. Cold bedrooms, helped by a hot water bottle, did not bother me, but a bath did not quite replace the pleasures of a sauna. I enjoyed the after-dinner visits for tea and biscuits. I don’t remember much about the pubs, but I do know that one could not get a snack in town after 8 in the evening. Sunday was particularily quiet. But I still think fondly of having a Sunday paper.

Mail home - Estonia - was censored, of course. Self-censoring seemed to be sufficient; occasionally there was a note: ‘Shorter letters are likely to pass more quickly’. The ID number on the reseal sticker seemed quite personal and I came to know them after the war. In time, Russian censorship became quite risky. Estonian broadcast radio was fairly audible in Cambridge, until soon after the Russian occupation, when they became aware of this information leak and closed the high power transmission (from a British made tower). During the German occupation of Estonia, you sent your unsealed envelope in another envelope to an address is Spain which somehow pretended to keep the origin a secret. In its time, the reply came the same way.

I was lucky enough to find an Estonian family living in Cambridge. Apart from brushing up on my native tongue and sharing news, I learned to play tennis on their reasonably flat grass court. The British Council also looked after its beneficiaries well. They paid for my fees, food and lodging and a further ten pounds per month for incidentals. (By comparison, this was as good as two weeks’ pay in my first job in Newcastle-on-Tyne. The British Council also organized special two week holiday courses in different colleges. There were lectures on a wide variety of subjects; visits and excursions and the use of college recreational facilities. Most instructive and enjoyable. This care continued after my two years’ residence in Cambridge, probably for as long as it took to get my PhD (1943). I wonder whether I ever wrote a decent thank-you letter for all this. Let it be said now.

(To be continued)

Märkmed: