When Time Stopped

by Ariana Neumann

  From then on, she even sat next to me when we were in the same shelter during the raids. She also lived alone. The apartment was stark, the walls mostly devoid of decorations except for a shelf by the table which held a few ornaments, postcards from the Black Forest, and a framed photo of the führer. As I worked to endear myself to her, he observed us with his dark eyes and expression of strained formality. It struck me then that I had rarely seen the führer smile. He was always shown shouting or fierce and unforgiving.

  I mentioned this to Zdeněk, in part to allay his concern that I was spending time with a true Nazi and to change the subject from his anxiety for my welfare. We agreed that the only people smiling in German propaganda seemed to be little blond girls, their faces illuminated by laughter, their hair in two perfect braids, and their hands clutching wildflowers. It seemed to Zdeněk and me then that it was only German girls who were genetically capable of smiling. My assurances made little difference; Zdeněk continued to fear for my safety.

  I had learned the useful skill of appearing to listen without letting the words get past my ears. I had to be able to hear without letting it affect me or betray my feelings. Inge was adamant that I understood her views on the war. She believed all killing could be justified as a means of establishing an empire governed by the superior Aryan race. She believed that this would ultimately be for the benefit of all people, as they would be led by the wise Nazis. Of course, it was true that those dominated would be serfs and subservient, but then they would all have the advantage of living in a world of order and general well-being. She claimed that the British and the Americans, who were not as pure of thought as the Germans but made of similar stuff, would soon see the error of their ways and align themselves with Nazi interests. She explained gravely that the Anglo-Saxons were currently fighting the Germans only because they had been conned into doing so by the wily Jews. She seemed entirely serious when she explained that Roosevelt’s name was originally “Rosenwelt,” and she suspected that Churchill too might have a few drops of Jewish blood circling in his veins. I tried to focus on the fact that she apologized before saying that the Slavs were so inferior as to not belong fully to the rest of the human race.

  “Of course, there are exceptions, Jan. In some rare cases, Slavs can have a similar mental capacity to Germans. You, for example. I heard Dr. Högn say that you are quite bright. But in that case, it must be because your Czech ancestors had the foresight of mixing with Germans to improve their stock. Do you understand what I’m saying, Jan? Lots of Czechs have mixed in the past with Germans for this simple reason.”

  I endured this imbecilic drivel in the hope of picking up a morsel about developments in Nazi technical capabilities. I tried to get her to move on from her racial pontification and talk more about her boss.

  “Von Straelborn seems worried lately. You are always working late. I hope he is not making your life too difficult. Is he all right?”

  “He is just busy and under a lot of pressure. They are in the middle of developing some finishes for new planes that will fly faster than anything before.”

  Having gotten my morsel, I immediately started rambling on about office gossip. I did not want her to think I was too interested in her boss. And then, as usual, I escaped as quickly as I could.

  * * *

  I asked Dr. Högn what innovations the Germans were accomplishing in aviation. He got so excited he decided to draw me a diagram of a jet plane. I kept this paper and put it together with some notes of the new camouflage system that the company was developing and passed it on to the Dutch contact after work the next day. He seemed very pleased. He never spoke to me much, to avoid arousing suspicions, but I could see gratitude in his eyes.

  With Traudl in Bavaria, it was easy for me to stay late at the factory and try to get more details for the Dutch student. Dr. Högn was so pleased with me he almost treated me like one of them. One evening as we were finishing, he announced proudly: “Now it is true that we are going to win this war. The führer is finally going to have vengeance weapons that will make us unstoppable, and we are working on their development. You will work with me on this project. We must develop a finish for the weapons that will only allow high-pressure gases to escape from the exhaust.”

  A few days later some men that I had never seen before brought a cylinder containing a dark solid mass. We covered it with our experimental concoction, leaving the bottom part uncovered. We left it to dry. The next day when I arrived, the men were already there, chatting with Högn. The youngest held a notepad and looked at me studiously. The other brusquely asked me to light up the uncovered base of the cylinder. They took a step back as I held out the flame. As I focused on the cylinder, they disappeared from my sight. The cylinder seemed to need a lot of heat and initially would not ignite. As I looked around, I realized that I was standing alone. The two men and Dr. Högn, the brave Germans, were in the corners of the room, on their knees, crouched under tables. I was aware of the danger of an explosion and the fact that I was being used. Being a Slav made me disposable. For a second, I hesitated. Could I refuse the role of guinea pig? But of course, I didn’t have that choice. I pretended to be calm and lit the flame. The cylinder finally ignited with a flame so intense the whole thing propelled forward and fell with a crash to the floor. It hadn’t lit properly and yet the force was extreme. I turned off the gas ignitor that was still in my hand. I spoke loudly with an attempt at authority.

  “It is clear that this is an effective coating for a propellant rocket with liquid fuel.”

  The other men rose to their feet and walked grandly toward me, somehow inflated by my assertion, as if they had never been cowering on the ground. “This is excellent,” the one with glasses boasted. And then to Högn he said triumphantly with a chuckle: “Wernher von Braun was correct. We will carry out proper, bigger tests in Peenemünde. Perhaps your team will be sent to help with the application of the lacquer there.”

  That same day at lunch I signaled to my Dutch friend to meet me. As we walked aimlessly on the Berlin sidewalks, I told him about my morning. I had no papers for him, but it was the first time that his face betrayed intense surprise and interest. We agreed that next time I would obtain whatever documents I could and pass them to him folded inside a book.

  A portrait of my father, composed and elegant, was among the papers in the box. A historian in Berlin in 2018 pointed out the pin on his lapel. It was the official corporate insignia of Warnecke & Böhm that was positioned to the left above his heart. The photograph was taken in 1944, when Hans was twenty-three years old. It would have been the photograph for his employee file with the firm. His head is held upright and proud, and he wears that perfected half-smile of Jan’s.

  It seems to me, though, that if you look closely, you can see fear in his eyes.

  CHAPTER 15 Charades

  One document from my father’s box seemed problematic as I worked on a time line of his life during the war. The yellowing form, issued by the German District Court in Prague, stamped with the swastika on October 5, 1944, made no sense. It was addressed to Johann (the Germanized version of Jan) Šebesta, chemist at Tassostrasse, his registered address in Berlin. The form stipulated that a fine was to be paid as a result of the court case against him. Jan lived in Berlin from 1943 onward. Why would a case have been brought in Prague in 1944 against a man who did not officially exist?

  His writings explained.

  Dr. Högn called me into his office. As I entered, I was struck by the bumptious grin. His chubby fingers clasped in self-importance, he seemed very proud as he muttered, “Ahh. I have a task for you that will bring you great pleasure. We have some issues with suppliers in Prague. This is not really your field and I’m sure they could be sorted out by someone else here, but I thought you’d like to take the opportunity to visit your home.”

  I tried to absorb the news with the open joy that he expected. In reality, I was terrified. I could not go to Prague and pretend to be Jan. There were lots of people t
here who would recognize me. Under what name would I stay and where? I could not possibly spend time near the factory. I could not risk being seen. People there knew I had absconded from a transport. They knew I was wanted by the Gestapo. There would probably even be a reward for information on my whereabouts. Someone, anyone really, could turn me in. But I couldn’t betray my terror, so I smiled broadly and countered, “Dr. Högn, thank you, it is truly so kind of you. But I don’t think it’s my area of expertise. I am no good with people.”

  “I know,” he said, coming toward me. “But you’ve been doing a good job, and I think you’ll enjoy going to see your old Bohemian friends.”

  He patted my back. I felt like I was going to collapse.

  “You will travel as the company’s official envoy next week and you can stay for a whole week.”

  “Thank you, Herr Dr. Thank you for the great news.”

  I could see no way out. I had to go. I shared my fears with Zdeněk. He was scared for me too but agreed that there seemed to be no avoiding it. Jan Šebesta would have to return to Prague.

  As before, I decided to travel on the night train. This time, though, I could not travel first class. The carriages were more than half-empty. People didn’t really want to move unnecessarily in the middle of a war. It was safer to stay close to home. When I had taken my seat, I put my head down and then strained to peer up to scour the other faces for familiarity. I grew calmer as I realized that I had not seen any of the people in my compartment before.

  I had an official travel permit and a German identity card. I kept on telling myself there should be no problems this time. There was no need for the cyanide capsule to be taken out of my briefcase. Everything went smoothly, and I managed to sleep a little after we had passed through border control. As we had agreed in our brief telephone call, Míla was waiting for me at the station. She tried to embrace me. I pushed past and grabbed her hand to leave the terror of a public space as quickly as possible. She drove me directly to the small apartment where I had hidden with my brother and Zdenka after my parents had been sent away. There, Zdenka met us and greeted me with an enormous embrace. She handed me a bundle of letters and assured me that my parents, Lotar, and she were all fine. She whispered over and over that I must be careful. We determined it would be best if she and Lotar stayed away. We were desperate to see each other, but simply could not take the risk of someone following them or spotting me. I phoned them every morning and evening, to reassure myself that they were well and close.

  The first day I called the two suppliers and explained that I had just arrived from Berlin and fallen ill. I asked them whether we could deal with our business over the phone and offered to send my assistant to their offices to collect any paperwork or materials that needed to go back to Berlin. They both agreed. Míla, always helpful, played the part of my assistant and went to their offices to collect the papers and chemicals.

  I stayed a week in the apartment without taking a step outside. I barely dared to look out of the window. I longed to walk along my old streets, visit my parents’ house, see Lotar and Zdenka, but even thinking about it made me nervous. Míla came only at night, to minimize the chances of running into acquaintances along the way who may ask too many questions. She brought me food that she’d prepared at her parents’ apartment. She left some pâté, bread, and her rohlíčky sugar cookies in the shape of crescent moons. I could barely touch them, and they had always been a favorite. The constant knot in my stomach left no space for food. I was careful that there were no smells or noises to create any unnecessary reminder of my presence. We moved around barefoot, spoke in hushed words as we played cards and shared stories. We wanted to spend time together, but I was an anxious wreck. I tried to remain positive to get through it. Things in Prague did not seem to be worse than in Berlin. At least there were no bombs and one could sleep, albeit fitfully, at night.

  I read and reread the dozens of letters from Terezín that Zdenka had given me. I imagined my parents’ tones and voices and was happy to feel them with me despite the conditions they described. They knew I had left Prague and had only been addressing the letters to Lotar and Zdenka. But I knew they were for us all. My mother’s letters were usually addressed to “My golden ones.” She had always called us that. One of my earliest memories was of falling down the stone steps at Libčice. My mother had cleaned my cuts, and as I flinched at the sting of the powdered antiseptic, she comforted me with murmurs that I was her golden one. My father, as I expected, filled his letters with lists and detailed descriptions. Stern as always, he had decided that my mother was having an affair. He had always been enraged by the fact that men adored my mother. It seemed to me that men couldn’t help but be happy in her presence; all men, that is, except my father.

  I spent the noiseless, lonely days writing letters that I hoped would reach my parents. I played solitaire with the old deck of cards and peered out of the window. I tried to write poems, but nothing came out. Jan was not a poet. I felt like a prisoner caged in the apartment. At least I was able to see Míla and hold her. She was so gentle and thoughtful, it almost made me forget what was happening around us.

  The night before I was due to return to Berlin, Míla and I went over my documents as we ate dinner. I thought my eyes were failing me as I stared in horror at my permit. Dr. Högn had said that I could take a week. In my alarm, I had failed to check my papers. My permit was not valid for a week but for four days. I should have returned to Berlin three days earlier. How could I have been so foolish and not checked it before? Travel was restricted, and Jan’s permit to be in Prague had expired. I was there illegally.

  Legally, I was required to seek an extension of the permit from the Gestapo, but that would have been suicide. Míla agreed. She tried to calm me and said we’d come up with a plan, but she too was frantic at the discovery. She left me with a plate of half-eaten food and said she would find Lotar and Zdenka to get their advice. She didn’t feel the phone was safe. She promised to be back as soon as she could. She left and I grew more desperate. In a complete panic, I decided to alter the ink on the permit and change the date from a 24 into a 29. Once done, there was no reason to wait around in further agony, there was nothing to do, no point in putting it off or saying goodbyes. I penciled a short note for Míla, telling her not to worry and that I would write from Berlin.

  I pulled the brim of my hat down low and walked quickly to the station without glancing up at the streets I knew so well. Once again, I took my seat on the night train and braced myself. This time I put the cyanide capsule in my breast pocket and eventually transferred it to my mouth. Then I waited.

  After a while, the inspector came. He asked to see my permit and began to study it with care, turning it in both hands. He looked at me without a hint of humanity in his eyes. Then he walked away. I pressed the tiny vial in my mouth nervously with my tongue until he came back.

  “Your return date is irregular. The authorities need to check your document. Come with me.”

  Numb, I climbed down from my carriage and followed him into the border station. The train sat entirely silent on the tracks, as if asleep. The world around me seemed frozen. Another guard on duty pointed me to a room. I went in and stood against a wall, frail with fear. Too weak to bite into the vial.

  The second guard asked where I worked and why I had been in Prague. Before I could answer, he looked steadily at me and asked why I had altered my permit. I pushed the capsule to the side of my mouth. I started to tell him the truth.

  “I was sent by Warnecke & Böhm, where I am employed, for a week to fix some matters with suppliers back home.”

  Much to my surprise, he seemed to believe it. I nudged the cyanide with my tongue and spoke slowly and more nasally. “The company organized it all. I had not read the date until tonight and I just panicked.”

  It was always hard to speak while holding the vial, but I’d had a lot of practice by then.

  “And you’ve taken this opportunity to see your girlfriend,
right?” He winked at me. I tried to smile weakly, unsure of him, careful not to commit to a response. He continued. “I know how you feel. A few extra days with your girl, and she makes you brave enough to change the date. You rascal!”

  Still in shock, I realized that he almost approved, as if he would have done the same. And then I saw that he was my age and had no wish to be stationed there. He probably missed his home too. He laughed as he filled out a form. Reassured, I coughed the vial out into my hand and pretended to laugh too. I pocketed the poison. When he looked up at me, he seemed to have cheery tears in his eyes. I smiled back at my fellow conspirator.

  “Unfortunately, this is a matter for the tribunals, not for us. Get back on the train and go to your job. I am sure they’ll need you there. The authorities will get in touch with you in due course to sort this out.”

  The incident must have taken less than five minutes, though it felt like hours. I ran back and was taking the seat in my carriage as the train started to pull out. The journey was sleepless, there was only adrenaline running through my arteries. I was so relieved to arrive in Berlin that the incident seemed a faraway dream.

  I told no one about this other than Zdeněk. We convinced ourselves that the whole thing would be forgotten in the chaos of the war, but a few weeks later a letter arrived from the Czech police. The usual bureaucracy: forms to fill out, a description of my offense. When I read the last part, my heart stopped. I was summoned to appear in front of a tribunal in Prague in three weeks.