Some people pass by on the other side when people are being unjustly persecuted, some are heroes and accept the adulation of the crowds and there are some, like the late Sir Nicholas Winton, who are heroes and do not ask for any recognition.

Sir Nicholas Winton who has died at the age of 106 was someone who could not bear to pass by on the other side when the Nazis came to power. He could see that the Nazis were a storm like no other and one that could not be weathered by Europe’s Jewish population. Rather than take an ambivalent attitude to the rise of Hitler, as so many did, Sir Nicholas did something, the right thing, and rescued hundreds of children from what was then Czechoslovakia.

He brought these children to the UK as part of a series of operations that became known as the Kindertransport and many, 600+, of these refugees and their families owe their lives and their existence to Sir Nicholas. Some of the children brought over on the Kindertransport have gone on to contribute much to the United Kingdom in the fields of mathematics, genetic science, politics, journalism, and the arts.

There is little that I can say about Sir Nicholas that hasn’t been said much better by others, even the Guardian, a newspaper I normally despise with a passion, has for me got it right with their obituary of Sir Nicholas and I have reproduced it below. I will conclude my input on this story by saying only that this is the tale of a long life well lived and may Sir Nicholas’s memory be for a blessing.

Guardian obituary of Sir Nicholas Winton

It is not always true that the good die young. Sir Nicholas Winton, who has died aged 106, became known belatedly as “the British Schindler” for his part in rescuing more than 600 children in Czechoslovakia from the Nazis in the months before the outbreak of the second world war. His was a good deed performed by stealth, and it was not generally known about for nearly 50 years until revealed on the BBC’s That’s Life! TV programme.

Winton – who always rejected the idea that his actions were heroic – had approached the BBC to try to trace some of those he had helped bring to Britain in 1939. He was moved to do so by the discovery by his wife, Grete, of a scrapbook in which he had inscribed the names, addresses and birthdates, together with photographs, of the children at the time of their rescue. The book had lain untouched at the family home in Maidenhead for many years.

When the programme was broadcast in 1988, Winton found himself sitting in the front row of the audience. Unbeknown to him he was surrounded in the audience by the adults whose lives he had saved – their whereabouts having been traced by the programme’s researchers. On a command from the show’s presenter Esther Rantzen – “Stand up if you owe your life to Nicholas Winton!” – they all did so. The emotionally reserved Winton found himself embraced by the survivors and struggled to maintain his composure, tears welling behind his spectacles.

His actions as a 30-year-old stockbroker had finally been recognised as he approached his 80s, and he was subsequently honoured by the Czech Republic, receiving in 2014 its highest award, the Order of the White Lion. Having been appointed MBE for other charitable services, he was knighted in 2003.

Winton came from a wealthy Anglo-Bavarian Jewish family that had emigrated to England in the 19th century. By the time he was born, to Rudolph and Barbara Wertheim – the surname was anglicised only in 1938 – the family had converted to Christianity. He was one of the first pupils to be educated at newly founded Stowe school in Buckinghamshire. After leaving he joined a bank and then, in 1931, became a stockbroker.

In December 1938 he received a call from his friend, Martin Blake, a schoolmaster, asking him to cancel their planned skiing trip to Switzerland that Christmas and urging him to meet him in Prague instead. Winton arrived on New Year’s Eve and was introduced by Blake to the organisers of the recently formed British Committee for Refugees from Czechoslovakia. The city was filling up with an estimated 250,000 people, many of them Jewish, who were fleeing Germany, Austria and the German-speaking Sudetenland, which the Nazis had annexed the previous October. Others were from political families and opponents of the Nazis. Their living conditions in camps were pitiful and most were clamouring to get away.

Winton became determined to at least help the children of some of the families. He started taking names, and found his room at the Europa hotel in Wenceslas Square was besieged by families, queuing all day in the freezing cold to get their names on the list. Winton and his colleagues, Doreen Warriner, organiser of the committee, and Trevor Chadwick, took photographs and details of the children and began to organise their evacuation. The first flight of 20 left in January 1939, sponsored by an organisation called the Barbican Mission, whose intention was to convert them to Christianity. Winton, who was not personally religious, saw his priority over the coming months as helping to get the children out rather than converting them, but he would subsequently brusquely ask rabbis who lobbied him whether they would prefer the children to be dead or alive.

Winton went back to London after three weeks with a long list of children and, after his day’s work in the City, returned home to Hampstead each evening to organise permits and travel warrants for them to leave Prague and come to England. It was not a straightforward matter: the British bureaucracy was complacent and slow, believing there was no urgency as war was deemed unlikely, and the government demanded bonds of £50 – no small sum in those days – to sponsor the children. The arrangements were, nevertheless, better than those of countries such as the US and Australia, to whom Winton appealed in vain. “If America had only agreed to take them too, I could have saved at least 2,000 more,” he said.

Frustrated by the slowness of the British authorities, Winton made newspaper appeals and personally organised the children’s placements, with no time for checking suitability or haggling over who should go where. As the situation in Czechoslovakia grew more desperate following the German occupation of the entire country in March 1939, he took to forging the Home Office entry permits. That summer eight rail transports were conducted. A ninth Kindertransport, which was due to leave on 1 September 1939 with 250 more children, was cancelled by the Germans, and most of those who would have been on board were subsequently transported to concentration camps. Nevertheless, Winton and his colleagues had saved at least 664 children: 561 of them Jewish, 52 Unitarians, 34 Catholics and 17 others.

Among the children were the future film director Karel Reisz and the Labour politician Alf Dubs. Most of them, sent across Europe alone or with their brothers and sisters, would never see their parents and relatives again. Virtually none had any idea at the time who was instrumental in saving them.

With the outbreak of war Winton put his scrapbook away and became an ambulance driver in Normandy, but was evacuated at Dunkirk and then joined the RAF. After the war he worked for a time for the International Committee for Refugees and took charge of selling Nazi booty to aid Jewish organisations. He later worked for the International Bank in Paris, distributing loans to the war-ravaged countries of Europe, and it was there that he met his Danish wife, who was a secretary at the bank. The couple had three children, one of whom died in childhood.

He was able to retire early and devoted himself to fundraising for Mencap and the Abbeyfield charity, which provides sheltered accommodation for elderly people: it was for this work that he was appointed MBE in 1983. It was not until five years later that his wife discovered the scrapbook and the family found out his story.

Winton, known to family and friends as Nicky, received many awards from the Czech authorities, including the freedom of Prague and the Order of Tomas Masaryk, presented to him by Vaclav Havel. He was the subject of a Czech documentary, The Power of Good, in 2001, the year that his story, Nicholas Winton and the Rescued Generation – co-written by Vera Gissing, one of the children he saved – was published. He also received the freedom of Maidenhead, and a bronze statue has been placed there on the railway station platform.

Vera Egermayer, a survivor of the Terezin camp, said: “Nicky is a national hero here in the Czech Republic. In England you don’t know about him but everywhere else we do. He did a kind act and never told anybody.” Winton himself insisted he was not a hero because he had never been in danger, merely “working from the safety of my home in Hampstead”.

He modestly insisted that it had been his colleague Chadwick, who had stayed in Prague to organise the evacuations, who had been the real hero, but in writing to Winton to award him the Order of the White Lion the Czech president, Miloš Zeman, said: “You gave these children the greatest possible gift: the chance to live and be free. You did not think of yourself as a hero but you were conducted by a desire to help those who could not defend themselves, those who were vulnerable. Your life is an example of humanity, selflessness, personal courage and modesty.”

Grete died in 1999. Winton is survived by his children Nicholas and Barbara, and by two grandchildren.

• Nicholas George Winton, stockbroker and humanitarian, born 19 May 1909; died 1 July 2015