I was five years, six months and seven days old when I first fell in love. It was to be for life. Owuor was his name. He swept a stunned, frightened little girl — who until then had thought all people were white-skinned and everybody talked German — off her feet, threw her into the sky and called her a toto. That was the first word of Swahili I learned: it means child.In June 1938 my mother and I arrived in Rongai in Kenya. For the previous six months my 34-year-old father had been working out there as a farm manager, trying to forget that in his former life he had been a respected barrister and notary public. Having studied only Latin and Greek, he neither knew English nor anything about cattle or crops. It took me years to understand why my parents told friend and foe that they hated farming, but “we owe our lives to Kenya”.We were Jews — in our home country in fear for our lives, in Kenya “bloody refugees”, and after the outbreak of the World War II “enemy aliens”. By 1938 the Nazis had robbed my father of his profession, his dignity and all hope that he would be able to stay in Germany.Concentration camps were a Jewish reality. Whoever could and had the foresight and the money, emigrated to other countries; that we escaped to Kenya was mere coincidence. When my father was advised to do so by a friend, he did not even know that Kenya was a British colony in east Africa. The colonial authorities only demanded £50 a head for an entry permit. The low price decided for him. Even so, without the assistance of the Jewish community in Nairobi, he would not have gathered the sum in time to get his wife and daughter out of Germany.Having learned Swahili with the speed and eagerness of a child longing to talk to people other than her parents, I loved everything about Kenya. I loved its beauty, sights and sounds, the animals and birds — but most of all the gentleness of the African heart, the people’s wit and their laughter. Owuor, a man from the tribe of the Luo, our “houseboy”, sensed my parents’ bewilderment, grasped their hands and guided our lives from the first day to the last. He left Rongai with us, accompanied us to Ol Joro Orok in the so-called “White Highlands” and, while my father was in the army, he stayed with my mother in Nairobi. At that time this was a most unusual decision for an African.Africans were seen by the majority of the Europeans as “natives” with no sense of loyalty, and were frequently abused as dumb and lazy. Knowing nothing of the country’s prejudices, my parents felt the same about Owuor as he felt about us. My autobiographical novel Nowhere in Africa is not only dedicated to my father, but also to Owuor. He taught me to see, smell and hear.In 1939 school became compulsory for Europeans. Because the war broke out at the same time, I blamed Hitler for the heartbreak of having to leave my parents and the farm. The Nakuru government school was 320km from home and I hated it. I was an only child, pampered by adoring parents, homesick, shy and speechless — I could not speak a word of English and I had no idea what was expected from me. Having learned the language, I thought it my filial duty to be top of the class — school fees were £5 a month, my father earned £6, and I wanted him to feel that he was investing his hard-earned money well. It complicated my life that swots who were not good at sports were extremely unpopular at Nakuru.Loathing boarding school and its rigid discipline did not keep me from loving the English, their literature and history. I had an unforgettable teacher who fed the insatiable 11-year-old with Dickens, Thackeray and Shakespeare. Hamlet was the second man of my life. To this day I read Shelley, Keats and Robert Browning. To quote Rupert Brooke, one of my first idols: there is some far corner of a foreign field that is forever England.Unfortunately for me, I had to learn far more than my teachers were prepared to teach me. By the age of 10 I knew where Auschwitz was and what “not getting out of Germany in time” meant — my grandfather and two aunts were murdered in concentration camps. I never talked about that at school.Neither did I let my parents know that I worshipped British fairies, and dreamed of waking up one day and not being a little refugee girl, embarrassed by a mother with a horrible accent and by a father who had no idea who Wordsworth was. Only when he joined the British army in 1944 and visited me at school in his sergeant’s uniform was I reconciled with having been born in Germany and having a surname that tied English tongues.I knew early in life that my dearly loved father was pining for his old profession and a country that did not brand him a foreigner the moment he started talking. So it did not come as a surprise when immediately at the end of the war he announced that we were going back to Germany, but I still feel the shock. Now it was I who had to give up home and language, tradition, loyalty and love.In April 1947 we arrived in Frankfurt. The Allied bombs had left the town in shambles, people lived in rags and houses without roofs, woke up hungry and went hungry to bed. Electricity was rationed, good manners and decency even more. It took us (my brother was one year old) 10 months to find a place to live. Till then we were lodged in one room at the former Jewish hospital, spending our days hunting for food and our evenings wondering why nearly every German we talked to told us that they had always hated Hitler and had felt pity for the persecuted Jews. Even my father, appointed as a judge immediately after arriving in Frankfurt and happy to have his only wish in life granted, got to wondering whether the Germans had lost not only the war, but also their memory and sense of shame.I was never top of my class again. Having only talked German to my parents during the holidays, I had to start with a new language for the third time in life — at the age of 15 far less keen to do so than at the age of five. Learning German so that I could read and write and get rid of my English accent took me a couple of months; the assessment as to which is my mother-language is still going on. I count in English, adore Alice in Wonderland, am best friends with Winnie the Pooh and I am still hunting for the humour in German jokes.All the same, I did not keep language from deciding my future. For 40 years I was arts editor at a daily newspaper in Frankfurt, longing to be a freelance writer. I never dared, but comforted myself by writing children’s books. In 1994 the most successful of them — A Mouth Full of Earth — was awarded a prize in The Netherlands for best children’s book. That encouraged me to write my first novel, the story of a courageous father who taught his daughter not to hate. Nowhere in Africa was published in 1995. Till then I had no idea that I had remembered every scene of my childhood.Although I had been to Kenya twice and knew that I still spoke Swahili, I was astonished how the language flooded my memory while writing. Hoping that the book would at least find a publisher (which it did within 10 days), I am still amazed that it was a best-seller.Having written reviews all my working life, and knowing that a book and the film it inspires are not to be compared, I did not even try to be involved in the making of Nowhere in Africa. My contact — and friendship — with director Caroline Link began after the film was done. When I first saw Nowhere in Africa and Africa’s beauty swept the common sense out of my head, I did not shed a tear. I resolved to forget everything that I had remembered.But that very moment the actor Sidede Onyulo, a man from the tribe of the Luo, threw a stunned little girl into the sky and called her a toto. Then I knew what I had always presumed: my love story was a never-ending one. — Â