Michaela Merz


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What do you do when it rains in Ticino? – Sasso San Gottardo


I’m not an anxious person but the strong wind that woke me up during our holidays at night did have an effect on me. It didn’t feel like a view out of the window but more like watching a movie about natural disasters on the telly. Somehow everything was moving even when it was meant to be still. When branches, lots of leaves and clothing items flew through the air it was still understandable, but when I saw how the wind lifted the metal deckchairs up into the air and threw them into the swimming pool, I started to feel a little queasy.

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The story of Leon (Lev) Roznanski


OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAHis parents were from Russia. Leon was born in Romania and as they were a very wealthy family, Leon learnt German from his German speaking nanny. During the Second World War the family had to flee to England and on top of his three languages Leon also learnt English. Continue reading


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Erika’s story


OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAErika was 14 when in 1942 the Nazis brought her and her family into the Warsaw ghetto. She had long, curly fair hair, a much too serious expression and an endless will to survive. She was small and very delicate, one could have easily taken her for four years younger.

The family had suspected that this day might come. They had agreed that whatever happened, after the end of the war they would meet in the house of the father’s oldest brother. Continue reading


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The six dead soldiers from the bus stop


All my school holidays I spent in a tiny village at the Czech-German border. In this village three houses were occupied all year round and three only during the summer holidays. But in the three houses occupied all year round, lived 10 children. A little Bullerby. There was never any lack of playmates. The rest of village were ruins. Before the Second World War the village consisted of 36 houses, one school house and one guesthouse, in the surroundings were four mills. Continue reading


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The story of the “old lady” in Sudetenland


As I child I spent part of my long summer holidays in a small village. For me it was a paradise. Many dilapidated houses, endless forests, cherry trees with sweet cherries, which did not belong to anyone and a crowd of children of the same age.

Before the Second World War the village consisted of 36 houses, a school house and an inn. Continue reading