There had been a political crisis on 20 February, and twelve ministers had resigned, members of the Czech National Socialist Party, the Catholic People’s Party and the Slovak Democratic Party. In effect, it had been a Communist coup. Alice knew this, but the fact that Jan Masaryk, son of the first president, had remained at his desk had comforted her.
He was the best-loved politician in the country, seen as a guarantor of democracy and the continuation of his father’s far-sighted policies. It was easy to believe the rumors that he had been murdered. It was said there were signs of a struggle in the bathroom. There were razor blades on the floor and a pillow in the bath. It was said that the Russian secret service had thrown him out of the window. Others maintained that the so-called Czech state security, the new communist organ of repression, was responsible for the crime. A third school asserted that he had committed suicide to tell the world of the growing dangers of communist dictatorship.
The newspapers were celebrating a “victorious February,” but as far as Alice could see, it was no more than a communist takeover; a bad omen for social progress. To her astonishment she learned that one of the government’s official policies was to fight anti-Semitism. Alice could not believe her eyes when she read Kopecký’s statement of 12 March. He had always been a communist, but up to now he had also voiced the sharpest anti-Semitic comments. Now he assured Prague’s Jewish community once and for all, “that the developments which were taking place in Czechoslovakia would prove the final defeat for the fascist anti-Semites in their midst. The new regime wants the Jews to enjoy the broadest range of religious, social and civil rights.”8
When the communists seized power they stopped talking about compensation. Any hope harbored by the surviving Jewish population that they might see their property again proved illusory. Far from returning people’s possessions, the new government went a stage further: the state dispossessed all homeowners. The block of flats in which Alice and Stephan had been living was appropriated by the state. Pavel Fuchs’s parents were robbed for the second time.
A few weeks later, Alice received a report that her friend Michael Mareš had been arrested and charged with treason. She immediately asked for permission to visit him, which was granted. She tried to console her friend; his arrest must have been a misunderstanding; he was not guilty of anything. Nonetheless, he remained in prison for many years before being rehabilitated. He died in 1971.
* * *
FEAR AND distrust now governed Czechoslovakia. Alice always had to ask her visitors to refrain from saying anything critical about the state in the fear that Stephan might pick something up and air it at school. She became so insecure that she hardly dared open the door, convinced the comrades would come and take the boy away from her if anyone heard of her critical opinion of the regime. “Gigi says it is now a thousand times worse than it was under the Nazis,” Ruth Weltsch reported at the time.9
Although Alice found it extraordinarily difficult to work out the contradictory events and tortuous developments in the country, she had decided that she had to leave. She wanted to leave Prague as quickly as possible and go to the newly founded state of Israel; she wanted to go to Marianne and Irma, but, according to Ruth, “she didn’t know whether she would get there.”10
There was a pro-Israeli faction within the Communist Party that planned (or so the rumor had it) to deliver large consignments of weapons to Israel. During the Protectorate the Germans had made Czechoslovakia their weapons store, and the factories and storehouses had been left largely intact. The stock of weaponry was in part already old and not worth that much, but even so, with access to these supplies Israel could possibly guarantee its survival. They needed to fix a price; the delivery dates needed to be settled; there were instructors to be found; there were secret transport routes to Israel to be worked out: all measures that were in clear contradiction of UN guidelines, and things that could not be undertaken if the Czech leadership had acted alone. The green light for the weapons deal came from the USSR. They were hoping that Israel would become a willing satellite of the Soviet Union. After all, there were many Soviet sympathizers in Israel, because of the Russian contribution to the victory over fascism.
The rumors were confirmed when the heads of the Prague Jewish Community asked Alice to give a benefit concert at the Rudolfinum at the end of November. She was to play works by Beethoven and the profits were to be used for the defense of the new state. The money was earmarked to buy Czech weapons, which nobody bothered to keep secret anymore.
When Alice’s brother-in-law in Israel heard the news he decided to use a professional trip to Switzerland to visit the World Health Organization as a pretext to go on to Prague for the concert. It was an impressive occasion. There were more than 1,000 people sitting in the imposing concert hall of the Rudolfinum. Representatives of the Jewish Community introduced the concert, followed by speeches given by representatives from Czechoslovakia and Israel. Then Alice played her inspiring interpretation of selected Beethoven sonatas. The evening raised a sum of money far higher than that expected by the organizers. It was also a personal triumph for Alice. She had rarely played before such a large audience.
Immediately after the concert Alice and Emil talked about the steps she needed to take in order to leave the country. Her brother-in-law impressed on her the need to hurry. It had been clear to him for a long time that Israel would never develop into a satellite state of the Soviet Union. When the Russians began to understand that, Emil feared they might refuse to grant any more visas.
“Have you got our visas yet?”
All week Stephan pestered his mother with the same question, but the granting of permission to leave was a long drawn-out process. It lasted from November 1948 to January 1949. “PS: has anyone heard anything from Gigi? The story goes that they are not letting anyone out of Czechoslovakia anymore,” Alice’s niece Ruth wrote to her father on 25 January 1949.11
It was a race against time. Many of the necessary committees were unhelpful. When it was clear that the communists had forbidden the export of valuables to Israel, Ruth had an idea: she was going to make contact with a volunteer pilot who had flown from America to Jerusalem to train the Israeli Air Force and to fight in the war against the Arabs. He readily agreed to track down Alice during a planned trip to Czechoslovakia. The young man was called David Herschl, and he was being instructed on how to fly Czech aircraft somewhere near Prague. Once he had been given a plane he could fly to Israel, taking some of Alice’s valuables with him.
Herschl flew to Prague, and began his training with Czech instructors, reporting to Alice on his first free weekend. She was suspicious of him at first, but after he showed her Ruth’s letter she trusted him. The pilot lived for a week with Alice and Stephan and became a friend to both of them. Alice decided to give David two rings, the Toulouse-Lautrec and two other pictures to take to Israel; because it was strictly illegal to take stamps out of the country, he took Stephan’s stamp collection, which he loved above all else. It was hidden among the weapons.
Alice’s wish to take her Steinway Grand to Israel looked as if it would prove impossible. The new regime had decreed that all valuables being exported were subject to a levy, so not only had she to get permission for the Steinway, which seemed less and less likely with every passing day, she also had to find the money for the substantial bribe—in effect, she had to buy her own instrument from the state. Once again, though, Alice was lucky.
Evidently informed by Ruth of Alice’s difficulties, their old friend Max Brod, who was also now living in Israel, wrote to the President of the Republic, Klement Gottwald. Brod’s words continued to carry weight in Prague and about two weeks later Alice was summoned to the ministry. A high-ranking, but foul-mouthed official had been told to deal with the case: “That’s what it’s like with you Jews, you still want to rob us,” he blurted out in greeting, without so much as looking up from his desk.
The piano had never been the property of the Czechoslovak state, b
ut had belonged to a Jewish family murdered by the Nazis, was Alice’s reply.
“You don’t want to work, but you want to suck the blood from the state.” At this Alice lost her temper. Without reflecting on the consequences she hurled these words back at him: “Very few Jews survived the Final Solution, but despite this we are suffering as much under the communists as we did with the Nazis. It won’t be like this forever, one day it is going to be just as bad for you Czechs and then you will think of me, and then you will reflect that you pitilessly slandered a survivor of the Final Solution. And you will finally see how inhuman your arguments were.”
Alice fled in tears. For a week she heard nothing. Then, to her surprise the postman handed her a letter granting her permission to export the Steinway. It was signed by President Klement Gottwald. The price was a sum that she would not have been able to save in ten years. Salvation had come from her family in Israel.
Felix Weltsch had a bank account in Prague, and Alice now had to withdraw the money. There were mind-numbing weeks negotiating the usual minefield of bureaucracy, and Alice’s attempts to withdraw the money were checked at every stage. Eventually, she got it and entrusted her piano to a transport company.
A few days before her departure, Alice went across the road to the grocer to buy bread, milk and other necessities for the journey. Over the past four years the shopkeeper had always been decent toward her, but now she could feel the enmity of his customers all around her. Many Czechs resented having a Jewish survivor in their midst.
It was her last day in Prague; she had nothing to lose anymore. She suddenly felt the desire to tell the unfeeling people around her in the shop what she thought of them. On her way out she made a half turn: “I would like to say goodbye to all of you today,” she said. “I am leaving, going to that place where you Czechs always wanted us Jews to go: Palestine.” Most of the customers looked at their feet in embarrassment. One of those present, however, surprised her by saying, “Frau Sommer, if you would allow me to hide in your suitcase, I’d gladly come with you.”
That evening Ilonka Štěpánova came round. In the years since Theresienstadt the friendship between the two women had grown by degrees; their last hours together were steeped in memories, but above all in sadness.
“Now you are going to a land where only Jews live,” Ilonka said as she left. “What are you looking for there? But if they were all like you, however…”
Alice was perplexed and deeply hurt. “That is the worst insult that you could say to me on leaving. Do you really think the Czechs, the Russians, the Hungarians or any other race is better than the Jews? Isn’t it true that there are good and bad people everywhere?”
FIFTEEN
Zena
“Don’t look back now, just straight ahead.”
“AND WHAT happens if they take my cello away at the border?”
“No one will take your cello away,” Alice calmly told her son. “We have it in writing. The official papers say that the cello is your property. No one is going to take that away from you!”
They were both standing at Wilson Station, the Kaiser-Franz-Joseph Station of Alice’s childhood. It was 1 March 1949. Ten years before, Alice had said goodbye to her sisters Irma and Marianne at this station. Now, at long last, the time had come to be reunited with them again. There were several hundred people milling about, all beginning the journey to Israel that day. At least as many friends and relations had turned up to say goodbye, Paul and Mary among them. Alice did not refer to the fact that this was goodbye forever.
The Jewish Community had even set up a podium on the platform and prepared a farewell program. A representative of the community gave a speech about the Jewish dream of their own land, long desired and littered with sacrifices, which had finally become a reality with the foundation of the state of Israel. When a group of young people broke into the Hatikva many people burst into tears. It was the Zionist hymn which most of those present knew from their childhood and it was now the Israeli national anthem. Alice was moved and looked at Stephan, who was holding his beloved cello. He was almost twelve and still half a head shorter than her and, as he had done so often with his father, he was singing a descant.
When the train set off at around midday the anticipation of arrival began to mask the sadness of parting. The dreadful experiences of the last few years had driven a wedge between Alice and her beloved Prague. Would her heart find another home in Israel? She did not doubt it.
Mountains of luggage blocked the corridors and carriages, with some families traveling with as many as fifteen bags and suitcases. No one who found a seat was going to give it up. In a compartment for eight, at least thirteen people had to find a place. Stephan was distrustful of the situation and clung on to his cello, but in order to provide some more room Alice tried to convince him to put it in the corridor right next to the door to the compartment so that he could see it when he wanted.
“They are not going to take it away from you,” she repeated; but Stephan would not be talked round: “They wanted to take away your grand piano.”
When Alice had come home in despair after the battles she was having over the piano, it was Stephan who distracted her and cheered her up. Since he had seen with what injustice and cruelty the Czech state had behaved toward his mother, he was understandably worried about his own instrument. In Theresienstadt Alice had tried to shelter Stephan from the harsh realities of life, but now, Alice realized, Stephan was old enough to deal with them himself. While it had taken Alice four difficult months to organize their departure from Prague, her friend Edith Kraus seemed to be losing her battle with the bureaucracy for the right to leave with her piano. Edith, too, wanted to leave for Israel in the next few weeks and was in despair about her instrument.
“Why is it that we can take our grand but Edith cannot?” Unequal treatment like this bothered Stephan all his life.
“It is probably because Max Brod interceded for us,” his mother replied.
After an hour and a half the train came to a halt at the border town of Gmünd in the Upper Waldviertel. The Austrian side of the divided town fell under the Soviet Zone of Occupation. From there the journey would take them through Vienna and occupied Austria, then over the Brenner Pass to Genoa. The passengers were in good spirits. They were comforted by the fact that the journey had been organized by the American Jewish relief organization, the Joint, which had partly funded it, as well as dealing with all the additional traveling formalities.1 When the train was taken into a siding and kept in an open field on the Czech side of the border, the passengers were, at first, not worried.
A lot of Czech customs officers got on board, together with Russian soldiers, and began an extensive inspection. After waiting for two or three hours the travelers began to grow anxious. Suddenly one of them said there was a rumor that the train had been refused entry into Austria and that the plan was to take them back to Prague. Another suggested that there was a gang of smugglers on board, and as soon as they were arrested the train would proceed.
Many of the travelers consisted of young families with small children, most of them born after the war. It was cold and wet, the temperature in the train fell to 14°C and the water ran out after a few hours. The discomfort soon affected the adults as well as the children, many of whom were crying and screaming.
Hours elapsed and the waiting paralyzed the travelers with boredom. To keep Stephan occupied Alice made up puzzles that he had to solve, giving him only the first and last letters of a word, which he had to work out by asking the right questions. Stephan loved games like this.
The games provided a temporary distraction but as darkness fell the mood in the train also darkened. Alice covered Stephan with her scarf and laying his head in her lap she endeavored to stroke him to sleep. He was unable to close his eyes, however, and she, too, remained wide awake thinking about the cold night, the discomfort in the packed compartment, and the dreadful anxiety that they were about to be seized and imprisoned again.
When morning came and the train was still standing in the siding, she thought of a solution. She took Stephan’s hand and got out of the carriage with him. It was raining heavily. “We are going to those houses over there,” she told him and pointed to the railway workers’ dwellings on the other side of the field which could be seen on the horizon. “There we shall wash and fill our water bottles.”
It took more than half an hour before they reached the houses and they were soaked through. Alice knocked on the first available door. The occupants were helpful, they sat them at the breakfast table and heated up a big pot of water so that they could give themselves a good wash. When Alice and Stephan returned to the train with their full water bottles, the situation was the same as when they had left. No one could say why the train was not moving.
Suddenly, after a twenty-nine-hour delay a piercing whistle came from the train and it shunted forward with no more explanation than why it had stopped. Alice stared out of the window. In which direction would they go? Once she was sure that they were heading into Austria she was seized by an overwhelming feeling of happiness: after the years of privation, dictatorship and tyranny she was finally bound for freedom.
The journey through the snow-covered Brenner Pass was some compensation for the hours of anxiety, but more misfortunes awaited them in Genoa. The ship that was due to take them to Israel had left the port a short while before and was now only a distant spot on the horizon. The crew had clearly decided to take other people who wanted to get to Israel: hundreds of them were constantly waiting there, often for days on end.
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