We waited until dark, and she took us through the side streets to a pretty whitewashed house where a woman called Mrs. Němcová lived. When she saw us, she let us in immediately without asking anything and put a loaf of bread and a knife on the table. Hanička and I and the other two sat there, astounded at how someone could give strangers such a loaf of bread. That was our first proper meal in all that time. When she finished feeding us, she said: “We’ll wait ‘til night time, and I’ll take you across the border. There is an old man who minds the border barrier, and he’s good. I know him well. We need only to be careful not to be caught by a Kraut.”
We waited until nightfall. She took Hanička by one hand and me by the other – she was such an astute woman – and Zuzka and Máňa ran behind us. We ran across a field with large frozen lumps of soil. It was very difficult – we had such scarred feet. Suddenly we came up to the barrier, and a scraggy voice said: “Ahh, only women. I won’t get any fags again.” In those days during the war it seems only men gave out cigarettes, and he was disappointed. But he let us through, and we went over to the other side.
Zuzka had come from the town of Slaný, which we finally reached. She was from a mixed family and the non-Jewish members lived there. They invited us all in. We bathed and put ourselves into a bit of order; they give us old shoes and fed us. The next day Hanička and I continued toward Prague. It was quite difficult because we hadn’t realized that some Czechs might have been informers. The Czechs living abroad were usually friendly, but on the home territory we could have encountered anyone. We were in luck though because there was a former collaborator who had decided to make good, and he offered to take us to Prague. He loaded us into his van and left us at the outskirts of Prague.
A German soldier spied through a balcony railing during the final days of the occupation of Czechoslovakia, circa 1945.
Courtesy Česká televize.
IX
TEN LUMPS OF SUGAR
A SEARCH FOR PRAGUE REFUGE
I can’t describe the great feeling of being in Prague again. After all those years in the camps there was no other vista more beautiful. It is interesting that I longed terribly for Lazarská in the New Town. There was a broken pavement surface that held a large puddle from which a bird usually drank, and I remembered this puddle more than Hradčany Castle or Charles Bridge. I thought, “When I stop again by the puddle I will be home again.” And that happened in February 1945.
Hanička and I got to Prague at the terminal tram stop in the suburbs – I am not sure where now – possibly in Dejvice at the last stop of the Number 11 tram. In Slaný they gave us some change for the journey, but we had no idea how much the fare was. We knew nothing; we had been away for such a long time. We were afraid we would give ourselves away, not just because of the way we looked but because of our lack of familiarity with of any of the laws and regulations of Prague since our departure. Somehow we managed it, and Hanička got off the tram in the center of Prague. The main thing was not to talk to each other – if they captured one, at least the other would be safe. Hanička was very tender hearted; she secretly pressed my elbow and left. She was very lucky because she went straight to see friends who immediately shut her in their cellar. They stuffed her with so much food for the rest of the war that afterward no one could recognize her because she looked so chubby.
On the other hand, as it is true in my life, a bad penny turns up for me always, but nevertheless I have managed somehow to get out of it every time. I had enormous difficulties before finding a safe refuge. I didn’t need to be locked up in a cellar; I never thought of that. I wanted to find a way to join the local resistance group of partisans and be useful. By then it was clear to us that the war was substantially over, that it was a question of several months. Even so it took a bit longer than we expected.
The same tram took me to the suburb of Vinohrady, where I had been born and most of my friends lived and where, most importantly, Rudolf’s friend Jiří, his best mate since childhood, lived. They served together in the military and studied at the same law school – basically they were inseparable friends. Before we left with the transport he had visited us and said: “Both of you must rely on me. I’ll be your support center. Should anything happen, should you get separated or need help, turn to me. I’ll be here for you.” Hence, I confidently went to see him. Also, because he was a former officer in the Czechoslovak Army, I thought as such he would participate in the resistance movement against the Nazi occupation, which was his duty.
He lived on the top floor of an apartment building on Blanická, and I walked up the stairs without hesitation and rang the bell. He opened the door, and when he saw me – I will never forget his expression of terror. He said: “What are you doing here, good God, what are you doing? Were you seen on the stairs?” He took my hand and dragged me inside, and I said: “I escaped from the camp and need to find a safe refuge.” He started babbling and making excuses, so I turned around and left because I saw that he couldn’t help me in any way – and I was only making him terribly embarrassed and uncomfortable.
Later, after the war, when Rudolf returned from Dachau, I thought I wouldn’t tell him because he had already lost so many friends. I didn’t want to take away his best childhood friend whom he had trusted so much. But this man came to see him and literally on his knees begged Rudolf to forgive him for not helping me then. He said: “I am such a coward. The whole time of the occupation I lived in terror and could never overcome it.” Finally, of course, one had to understand him, and even though their friendship went colder, it still existed.
We were invited by Jiří and his wife to go to a movie. They showed the British film Odd Man Out (1947) about an Irish terrorist who was wounded and was being hunted by the police. He was trying to find a safe house where he could hide and tend to his wounds. He also made the rounds of all his friends, but nobody helped him. I sat next to Rudolf and felt his entire body tense up, and from then on their friendship was dead.
At that time I thought I could rely on this man most, but when it ended badly I remembered that my father had a secretary, a very nice older lady we called “Auntie” despite the fact she wasn’t a relative. She kept some of my clothing, which my mother gave her to keep for me. I was afraid to walk the streets in that camp coat, despite the fact that we had taken the square out; our clumsy repair still stood out. I thought I would at least get some normal clothes from her. I went to see her, and the old lady was very courageous and pulled me inside, sat me on the sofa and started to feed me and said: “You stay here tonight. We’ll decide what to do in the morning.”
I stretched very gratefully on the sofa, and she covered me with a warm blanket. In the morning she prepared all the clothing and shoes because I waddled in broken ones, making my feet very painful; also a coat and a hat, which was very important because my short, not fully grown hair could easily betray me. And off I went again.
I could describe for a very long time my journey from one friend to another, so I limit myself to the important encounters. I then went to another of Rudolf’s friends, who in comparison with the first one, didn’t get horrified or collapse in front of me. Franta persuaded me with very clear arguments that it didn’t make sense for him to put himself in danger on my behalf because the woman standing before him was the very same madwoman who put herself in danger escaping the camps, thinking she could save herself that way. I wasn’t very pleased with his moral lesson.
Afterward, for the whole day until the late afternoon, I tried to find someone from our friends who rather than taking me in would at least be willing to arrange a contact with the resistance underground. Such people would definitely accept me. It was peculiar. While in the camps, I had imagined that everybody was in opposition to the occupation, that they were doing something against it, but it was such an unrealistic romantic notion. People were horrified once they saw me, so nothing happened.
In the late afternoon I visited my best friend from my school days who lived near G
eorge of Poděbrady Square in Vinohrady. Milena accepted me with opened arms and was extremely pleased to see me. She invited me in and said: “You have to stay with us.” Since I had last seen her, she married and had two little daughters, and her elderly mother lived with them. Her mother was very kind and made me a bed on the sofa, covering me with a blanket. And I lay down and thought: “Now everything is solved; her husband will help me.” He was called Ota Richter. He would help me make some contacts to find a refuge where I could stay until the end of the war – because it was clear the war must end soon. So I lay there and suddenly thought: “Am I a total idiot? What a stupid idea. Here are two small children, and a grandmother; I can’t stay here.” I had tried to find single male friends who used to be soldiers, whom I presumed would have the duty to defend people such as myself from the enemy; but here was an old granny and two small kids. I jumped off the sofa, dressed myself quickly and went out. Milena cried that I must stay, but I had to go.
I remembered other friends of ours who lived in the Prague suburb of Pankrác. Their name was Musil. They were older people living in a small flat but were very kind and loved my parents. Perhaps they could help me. It was nearly dark when I got there. On one hand there was joy at our reunion, on the other there was fear. Mr. Musil said that one tenant in the building was often away traveling the country and had given him keys to his apartment, for safekeeping. Mr. Musil would lock me in, and I could stay until the morning. That was wonderful. I ran up the stairs, and he opened the door for me. I imagined myself to be like a wandering cat – I jumped on the sofa and slept like a log.
In the morning while it was still dark I left and started to doubt that I would ever succeed because I had become very tired. I wasn’t used to walking in shoes. My feet were scarred from the change of walking barefoot on snow to suddenly wearing normal shoes; it became very uncomfortable.
Slowly I realized that I didn’t know what to do next. Then I recalled some acquaintances that I used to meet, and one of the group, a bit older than me and a painter, was a good friend. I gathered the strength to go and visit her. By chance, they lived at the top of the suburb of Střešovice, in a villa; perhaps they would let me stay for couple of days while I found another place.
Marta was very pleased to see me. She settled me down and said: “It’s great that you’re finally here.” I said that I had been wandering around Prague for three days. She said: “You’re in the right place now. My husband is connected with the underground and will be home any moment. He does some secret things, which he doesn’t talk about, but I know he’ll try to help you.”
I was very happy; suddenly the doorbell rang, and her husband entered. She said: “Look, Heda’s here. She escaped the camp, and you’re the one who can help her.” And he instantly went white with fear: “Marta, are you mad. Don’t you know the punishment for harboring camp escapees?” She said: “We have that den in the attic; no one will ever go there.” He: “Impossible, we’ll do nothing of the sort.” And she replied: “Well, someone like you, who‘s constantly placing himself in danger shouldn’t speak like that!” He suddenly collapsed onto the chair, and I realized he had lied to her all that time; he wanted to show off to his wife how courageous he had been. Again I turned around and snuck out of the house because I knew that there would be repercussions that didn’t require my presence.
Before Marta’s husband returned home, I had asked Marta about another friend of ours named Rudolf Brada – we called him Ruda; in fact, he was a relation of my Rudolf, the husband of his cousin Marie who was the daughter of Rudolf’s aunt on his mother’s side. Ruda was a brilliant man, a professional commissioned officer, who worked for the army as a construction engineer. I asked if she knew how I could get in touch with him, and she said: “You won’t find him because he’s been out of Prague for over two years; he is with his whole family in a village of Seč on the Chrudimka River doing some engineering work there.”
So I said to myself that there was nothing to be done and went back down to the center of Prague. The weather was beautiful; Prague looked really fantastic, despite being February. All that time while we were in the camps, I longed for Prague, to walk again on Prague’s streets. However, I saw I had no chance to save myself, and I think I began to feel feverish as I wandered around and around. I remember stopping in a small church, and a priest was giving a sermon, telling people to aid each other, about practical help – potent repentance. I thought I could approach him and ask: “Please could you hide me in your church for a few days?” But then I thought I couldn’t risk it if I didn’t know anything about him.
Milena had given me a bag with some changes of clothing and some food, and I carried it with me – it wasn’t very big. I went down to the river Vltava and thought about how I could finish it; I stood on the bridge and thought: “I swim like a fish; if I jump, I won’t drown.” I had a belt on my coat – with it I could tie the bag full of canned food around my neck, and that would pull me down. I turned around and saw people walking past and realized that it wouldn’t be possible. I kept looking down into the water, and suddenly two German soldiers stopped and made fun of me. I got angry, pushed them away and, like a crazy woman, started running off. I heard them laughing, howling and shouting, and I sped away across the bridge to the western side.
I knew that Ruda and his family – they had one daughter then – lived on Plzeňská in the nearby suburb of Smíchov. I thought: “That’s stupid, why should I go there? There isn’t anyone there. And it’s possible that when they moved away to the country the flat was taken over by some Germans, and I may get even into greater trouble than I am at the moment.” After our wartime experience we weren’t afraid of death, but everybody was frightened of pain. And if they had captured me, the Nazis would have made quite a mess of me. They always wanted to know who helped people escape, and it could have been extremely unpleasant before they got it out of me. Of course I was afraid of that.
A view of Prague and the Hradčany Castle on the other side of the Vltava River, circa 1940s.
Courtesy Česká televize.
Despite feeling a bit weak from my fever and because I used to visit there often, I decided to continue on to the Smíchov flat on the western side of Prague. The flat was on the second floor. Slowly I climbed the stairs and saw a light coming out of the peephole. I decided to risk it and rang the bell. The door flew open, and Marta stood there and said: “My God, I’ve been here all day waiting for you. Ruda hasn’t been here for two years, but today he came to collect some paperwork. He gave me the key and told me to bring you here, and he would take care of the rest. I’ve been waiting all this time, going mad, wondering where you’re gallivanting and what possibly could have happened to you …”
I could hardly speak, and when she left I collapsed onto the bed. It was a miracle then, simply another miracle. Whoever survived the escape from the camps, it was only due to a miracle; it wasn’t from being stronger, more clever or healthier – that didn’t make a difference. You had to have luck on your side.
This situation solved part of my problem because Ruda was a leader of a partisan group in Seč and was in contact with a larger group led by Captain Jaromír Nechanský, the same man who fought with Karel Kutlvašr in the Prague Uprising of May 1945. After the war, the poor Nechanský was imprisoned and assassinated by our dear Soviet conquerors.
I stayed in that flat for about a week. I had to be very careful because it was very small, and because the neighbors could hear every step, I had to move quietly and be crafty to achieve that. There was a small jar with about ten sugar cubes, and a larger jar, formerly used for pickled gherkins, which was half full of dried peas. In each pea was a worm. Every morning I took a bowl, cut each pea in half, removed the worm, washed the peas and put them in a pot to cook; later I was told that I had missed out on my diet as the worms were a good source of protein. There was also salt and herb tea; so I survived handsomely and after few days, felt much better.
After a week, be
ing quite comfortable, I received a letter. Suddenly after all those years I received a letter. It wasn’t addressed to me though, and someone must have pushed it through the letter slot of the front door of the flat. I opened the letter, and it said: This evening at six o’clock come to the park. I shall be wearing a black coat and a brown hat and carrying a briefcase. When you see me, say that we must have met somewhere before.
I got dressed, combed my hair and put myself together to look a bit like a proper human being. In the evening it began snowing; I took my bag and went to the park. There a smallish man stood, and when he saw me slowly approaching, when I got nearer, he said: “Don’t say anything; I came for you.” He was also called Rudolf, Rudolf Syrovátka. He was a friend of Ruda and also a partisan, a very courageous man. In Dejvice he had an apartment, but, like Ruda, he lived with his family in Seč. I survived the rest of the war in his flat until the end of Nazi occupation.
Today, when I recall all this I keep saying what a fool I had been. At that time, without identity papers no one even dared to cross the street. And I had nothing; I looked like I had come out of hell, and whoever looked at me closely must have seen that there was something terribly wrong with this woman. And I was scuttling all over Prague without any care. I couldn’t stand being closeted without being able to get outside. And again miraculously no one ever stopped me. I didn’t like crossing over the river bridges or traveling by tram because they were often controlled by the Germans, so I just walked. When I first arrived looking for help I sometimes used the trams without realizing how dangerous they were – there was no possible escape when the identity card control came. But I was never stopped.
Hitler, Stalin and I Page 6
