I’m English because I was born and raised in Bradford in England, but I feel ‘foreign’ inside. It’s probably down to my colourful ancestry and being surrounded by different languages as a child growing up in the 50s and 60s.

My grandfather on my mother’s side was born and raised in Argentina and came to the former Yugoslavia in the late 1800s. So, mum and all her siblings, though born in Yugoslavia, had Argentinian nationality and passports. My great grandmother was German but her daughter, my grandmother, was born and raised in Yugoslavia. They settled in what is now northern Croatia, in a town called Rijeka (Rijeka means river) which was an important port also. Rijeka was formerly known as the Free State of Fiume as part of Yugoslavia, but under Benito Mussolini’s rule, it was annexed to Italy. Mum often used to talk about how one side of the river was predominantly Italian and the other side Yugoslavian. The Yugoslavs recaptured Rijeka in 1945.

All schoolchildren at the time had had to learn Italian during the Italian occupation so mum and her siblings became fluent Italian speakers and to this day, at the age of 93 she continues to speak it when she can. Her life was hard during the war, her town was occupied by Italians first then Germans and food was scarce and like most of the Yugoslav youths at the time, she desperately wanted to ‘do her bit’ for her country but was too young. she managed at least to help take food to the Partisan fighters sheltering in the nearby mountains, so once she turned 16 she immediately volunteered to help rebuild railway lines. The German bombings had destroyed parts of the infrastructure and mum was sent to Bosnia - the Brčko to Banovići section was built in about 7 months, possibly less, and completed by May 1946, solely by Yugoslav youths. The weather in the winter months was harsh and there was also an outbreak of typhus which luckily mum escaped.

When mum turned 18 she was recruited to work for the national newspaper and she began to train as a journalist. She was really happy; the war was over, life was improving, but she soon became disillusioned when she was asked to be a spy and betray those who spoke against the state, many of whom were her friends and colleagues. Realising that Communism was taking over, and she did not want to be a part of this, the only option available was to emigrate and because her nationality was Argentinian, the reason she gave the authorities was that she wished to return there to be with family. So, mum and her middle sister had all the applications filled out but their elder sister who had been a political prisoner in Italy, had managed to run away to England and settle there, and she persuaded her younger sisters that the grass was definitely greener in England and that they should live here rather than in Argentina. In 1952 they finally arrived in England ready to start a political free life, full of hope. She was determined to earn enough money to send to her relatives who were stuck in Yugoslavia. The guilt of leaving her family behind and living a comfortable life by comparison continued to haunt her. I remember we used to drive out there every year with our car packed to the rafters with English goodies and all clothes pockets in suitcases stuffed with English bank notes!

Mum met my dad in England a few years after her arrival. She was living with her sister and working in a factory in Keighley where lots of Italians, Yugoslavs (Croats, Serbs, and Slovenes) and Poles had settled post-WW2. There were frequent dances held at weekends and ‘mixed’ marriages became common. Eighteen months after the birth of my brother they bought their first house in Bradford, which is where I was born. Goodness knows how they communicated as neither my mum nor my dad spoke English nor each other’s language. My mother very quickly picked up Polish however, and was determined to teach her children Polish so that they would easily communicate with their father and also to impress her haughty Polish mother-in-law. And, of course, Serbo-Croat was taught.

Mum also taught us two versions of her mother tongue, the formal language and Rijeka dialect, so we could freely communicate with our relatives. There is a lot of Italian influence in the dialect which is useful as I can understand bits of Italian as a result. There is no doubt a fair few of us tri-lingual speakers out there, born in the 50s (all my cousins on mum’s side in England had Polish fathers so to this day speak English, Polish and Croatian). Today my brother and I feel blessed to have been raised by a woman who was fluent in four languages and was able to pass this linguistic talent onto us.

My father’s background is quite sad to start with. He was forced to leave his homeland when he was sixteen in 1942. Dad had joined the Partisans but had to flee from the Nazis who were after him, as someone had informed on him. He was on the run with his cousin, dodging bullets, and his cousin tragically was killed by a single bullet to the head as he pulled himself up over a mound to check on what was happening. Dad lay there hiding under his cousin’s body, waiting until dark when he could safely go on the run again. I can only imagine the trauma he must have endured. He managed to get to a safe place where he met up with his mother who was carrying false documentation for him - my great aunt was a professional forger so was able to draw up a false identity document for dad, a Kennkarte, under an assumed name so he could ‘lose’ his real identity.

Saying goodbye to his loving mother and carrying a suitcase full of Polish bread and sausage, this would be the last time he would see her until the mid 60s when he was able to go back safely to visit Poland (although upon arrival he was immediately subjected to a police interrogation regarding his disappearance from Poland during the war). He was somehow caught by the Germans on his great escape travels and was made to endure forced labour in a hotel kitchen in Austria. He was technically a POW, but not captured as a soldier and with no connection to the Partisan fighters. Thankfully, he managed to work his way up to being a waiter, having been able to apply for an Arbeitsbuch (workbook) with his false ID and therefore was employed legally in the Third Reich where no one could find that Polish Partisan fighter. He simply disappeared. Dad fitted the part beautifully with his natural blond hair and blue eyes, he was the perfect Aryan. His command of the German language was also fast improving!

Dad kept a secret diary recording his work but, more interestingly, his thoughts and feelings. I came across the diary about five years ago and his writing was so poignant and beautiful for one so young, that it brought tears to my eyes - he describes leaving his mother:

‘We had a quick handshake and kisses (maybe the last in our life). Mother has tears in eyes and so do I (but it’s not good for me to show this) I am turning away fast and leaving. Last look at mother, which I will keep in my memories for ever. Goodbye my beloved and dearest mother, only you can love so honestly and always be so faithful. I will never forget you and my thoughts will always be with you. I am not worthy of you. You have suffered so much because of me. So much good you have done for me, so many worries you have gone through and so many of my wishes you have always tried to fulfil. I will owe you forever and until my death, and even after that, how can you ever be repaid? Goodbye one more time, my train is there, and I am all alone going into far and unknown regions in a faraway world.’

Such moving words written by a mere teenager.

The war ended while dad was still in Austria. At a loose end, and with no family to advise him, he did what many of the Polish workers there did once Allied forces arrived and joined the Polish army. Dad was told there was a desperate need for workers in England, so he ended up being stationed in Scotland, then went to Cambridge where he was demobbed and asked if he wished to choose engineering or textile work. Choosing textiles since he was interested in a more creative career, he went to West Yorkshire, studied hard, got his City and Guilds qualifications, and eventually became a textile designer.

As a child growing up in the 50s, I couldn’t speak English properly until I started school and picked up choice language from the kids playing out in our street. I was told my first English words were ‘you dirty pig’. How lovely!

Primary school in Bradford was hard at first and because I didn’t know the language, I was in a class below my age group. But I quickly progressed as language learning was clearly in my blood and I soon caught up on English. My brother and I used to cringe with embarrassment when we were out with our parents, or when dad came to collect us from school, as Polish was spoken. I once disowned my dad when he came to school one day. Another pupil asked me in the playground if that ‘fat foreigner’ was my dad and I replied, ‘no way, it’s my uncle’. To this day I feel terrible about this!

I remember my brother and I often hid from our parents when they went shopping in their favourite department store in Bradford, the iconic Brown Muffs. We made it worse for ourselves as they would warn us of sanctions in Polish at the top of their voices if we didn’t show up soon! They didn’t realise we were embarrassed by their language, they just thought we were being naughty kids playing and trying it on. How we hated hearing anything other than English, we so wanted to be what we considered ‘normal’ and hated being singled out as ‘foreigners.’ If I could go back in time, I would tell those silly kids to get a grip and be proud of their roots!

As we grew older my brother and I soon realised that our parents were actually a tad legendary! What they had suffered and endured in their homeland, forced to leave it, how hard they worked in this strange new country and with the sole aim of providing a good home for their children, well, it’s simply mind blowing. They saved up every penny they could to be able to move out of Bradford and buy a house in a Leeds suburb where they felt there was more opportunity for their children to get into a good Catholic grammar school and get the best education out there!

By our mid to late teens, my brother and I started to appreciate just how useful a skill it was being able to speak two other languages (useful too, when you could talk about someone behind their back in Croatian in particular, as that’s not a language that was commonly spoken in Leeds!) We certainly used our language skills in later life - my brother went on to work in the international aviation trade and I became Head of Modern Languages in a local Leeds school.

Thanks to my parents, I grew to love language learning and travelling abroad to experience new cultures and I think back to those times when we felt that being foreign was shameful. And then to today, when being foreign and knowing different languages is actually quite cool!

Thank you, mum and dad, for being ‘foreign’!