We lived in a small town in Germany in Offenburg Baden. My father was yanked out of his bed at seven o’clock in the morning of November 10, 1938.

He was taken to Dachau concentration camp. His only crime was that he was a Jew. He returned to us on the 20th of December, which happened to be the last night of Chanukah.

You can imagine my mother’s elation when all five of us were sitting reunited at the table with the Chanukah candles burning brightly. The shock came when Daddy told us that he must leave Germany within six months, or they would hurt the whole family.

How can a family of five uproot themselves at such short notice? Where could we go? My father managed to get a transit visa to England for Palestine, as it was known at the time. The family consisted of three children: Esther, 13; Myriam, 11; and me, Eva, 9 years old.

Father left for England in June of 1939. He landed in the Kitchener Camp in Deal, along with thousands of other Jewish refugees from Germany. He wanted to bring the family over, but war broke out on September 8th, so we were stuck in Germany.

My mother and sister Esther were murdered in Auschwitz, two years apart from each other. Myriam and I were rescued by the OSE (Oeuvres de Secours aux Enfants). They helped us escape to Switzerland, where we stayed in a kinderheim in Ascona. After the war, we reconnected with our father and joined him in Victoria in October 1945.

In England, I met my future husband, Walter Mendelsson, also a refugee, and we got married in Egerton Road Synagogue. I have three lovely children: Susie, 65; David, who lives in Israel, 63; and Jonny, 52. Thank G‑d, I have been blessed with seven grandchildren. My husband died 20 years ago, and I left London in 2016 to be near one of my children. I now live in Ross-on-Wye, where I found a lovely, small congregation. The group and the support of Chabad has been great for me.

Chanukah has a special meaning for me, as it was the last holiday that my family celebrated together.