At around the age of 10 I was told that, as a boy aged 12, my father had been put on a Kindertransport out of Vienna in late 1938, taken to a camp in England, fostered by an (unnamed) English headmaster and his wife, and then evacuated to Yorkshire where he was boarded at a school until the end of the war. To say this story is brief is an understatement. The details of it were not discussed, and as a child I gleaned these few memories and this truncated version of the story from my father only once, and at the direct urging of my mother.Yet after my father died in 2017 I discovered a trove of objects, artefacts of a life I knew almost nothing about but which he had had in his possession for decades. These artefacts-books, photographs, letters, and other documents 200 -had survived World War Two and the bombing of the flat in which his family had once lived in Vienna. But I do not, and will never, know