In the spring of 1939, my family were living in Germany, and the Nazis arrested my father. He was on the point of being sent to the German concentration camp Dachau, but my mother miraculously managed to obtain a single visa so my father could go to England. The idea was that my brother, mother, and I would follow. Unfortunately, two weeks after my father left, the Second World War began, and we were trapped.

Approximately 5,000 Jews lived in our town, Kassel, among a total population of around 250,000. In December 1941 approximately 1,000 Jews were selected for deportation, including my mother, brother and me. We were transported around 1,000 miles to Riga, the capital of Latvia and were housed in the Riga ghetto. Transports of Jews from other German towns arrived every few days and eventually around 35,000 Jews were crammed into this small ghetto.

One teacher, Herr Bacher, who had taught me in primary school was deported on the same transport as us. Several months after our arrival in Riga he approached me one day, saying, “I know that your father is not with you. Your barmitzvah is approaching. Would you like me to teach you?’ I confess that I really had no idea what he meant to teach me but agreed. In our religion it is the father’s duty to ensure that his son is taught. In my case this dedicated teacher volunteered to take my father’s place.

The Nazis had occupied Riga in July 1941 and all 30,000 Riga Jews had been compelled to leave their homes and move into the ghetto. Most likely the local rabbi took a scroll with him into the ghetto, as no one had any inkling what lay ahead. In November 1941, the SS had told these Jews that they were being transferred to another camp and they were marched in groups to a nearby forest. There three enormous pits had been dug and as each group approached, they were shot and either fell or were thrown into one of these pits. Many were quite likely buried alive. We, the transports of German Jews, arrived within days of this massacre and were moved into the houses vacated by these murdered Jews. Among all their belongings we found one of these precious scrolls.

On the Saturday of which I speak a prayer service was held in a private room. I was not aware of any prayer services before that week, nor did I experience any subsequently during my three and a half years in various camps. My teacher had somehow organised the required quorum of ten men, and I read the portion he had so kindly taught me. Organising the quorum was a major achievement, as practically everyone had to do slave labour daily, seven days a week. It is now 77 years since my bar mitzvah.

We were sent from Riga to our next camp in August 1943, leaving Herr Bacher behind. Incredibly, around a year later, standing on a platform waiting to be loaded into a cattle truck to be moved again, I spotted Herr Bacher standing with another group, also waiting to be sent to another camp. We waved briefly to each other.

I searched for him post war but believe he did not survive. I have great reason to be grateful to him. He taught me so well, that I, in turn, have taught my four sons, as well as four of my grandsons, their barmitzvahs.

I will never forget him.