Happy was definitely not it. Astonished, perhaps—by such nonsense—by such foolishness. By this idea of apologizing to the expelled Germans, an idea cooked up by Blanka and her friends. As if she didn’t know from Gerta herself that to fight for such a thing was pointless. No one would go along with it. The city officials in the town hall would sooner cut off a leg than allow such a statement to be publicly released.
“Such nonsense,” Gerta said, shaking her head and trying to calm her wildly pounding heart.
Blanka in her disappointment was silent.
“Have another piece of Stollen,” Gerta offered, and put the kettle on the stove, striking a match to the loudly hissing gas and only then realizing that she hadn’t filled the kettle with water—the aluminum clinked against the faucet, and the water fizzled on the bottom. The flame around the burner flared. She stuck the whistling cap onto the kettle’s spout and set it back on the burner.
“They’ll never do it. It’s pure nonsense.”
“But, Gran, the moment is now! The time is finally ripe, and that’s why they should do it now—if not now, then when? Why aren’t you happy about it?”
“I would be happy about it. But first they’d really have to do it.”
Blanka was silent.
“Until they actually do, I don’t believe it. Nothing will come of it. All you’re doing is baiting the wolves. When they get annoyed, they’ll bite.”
“You’re such a pessimist, Gran.”
Gerta shook her head and made a cynical face.
How long had it taken, before she finally became resigned to it? Her whole life—from the moment the war ended, as far back as she could remember. Her entire stay in Perná, during which she tirelessly tried to prove to everyone that none of it had been her fault and that she was as worthy as the rest of them. Pointless. And then again throughout the seventies, after the first wave of normalization swept her away and she felt those sharp fangs inside her, biting, shredding her insides, and not just figuratively, as that was when she’d had her first attack of gallstones. It took a few more years before she’d finally been able to tally it all up, underscore it with a big fat line, pack up her things, and go off into retirement, burned out like a cinder after years of must-nots and imposed need-nots. Only then did she manage to make a clean break—tie everything up in a compact bundle, toss it behind her, and begin to enjoy having unstructured and uncontrolled time, during which no one derided or insulted her. Her pension was laughable, that was true—after twenty years of demotions and working for minimum wage, there was no place for money to come from, but she was free. For the price of having given up.
And now, here was Blanka, telling her that they had formed some kind of group, Youth for Intercultural Understanding or some such thing, and that they were seeking reconciliation with the past. Now, when Gerta had at long last found peace—when she finally felt ready to forget everything and let bygones be bygones.
But the third generation must have woken up or something, thought Gerta, because Blanka simply wouldn’t let it go. Gerta resisted as much as she could. This time she was defending her hard-won peace, the four walls of her kitchen and bedroom, and she had no desire to let in a world that had slipped out of her grasp and no longer held any interest for her. But Blanka was poised to attack and overflowing with determination and exuberance. And eventually also with disappointment at Gerta’s lack of enthusiasm for something that Blanka felt she was doing mainly for her grandmother’s sake. Gerta saw her dismay. It stuck in her mind after Blanka left, along with some of what she had said. About reconciliation. Reconciliation with oneself and with the collective whole. And that it was not impossible. Again she saw the resolve with which Blanka stood up and said, whether with Gerta or without her, it was no longer possible to remain silent about these things. And if nothing else, then at least, she, Blanka, and others like her, were prepared to make an effort and try to set things right.
“And you think an apology would set them right? Those fifty long years when I was different from everyone else? You think I could forget? At a time in my life when memories are all I have left?” asked Gerta on the phone when Blanka called her the following day.
“That’s the point, Gran. You don’t have to forget. You just have to forgive. After they’ve offered you an apology. Publicly. You’ll see how much better you’ll feel. And what’s more, the whole question will then be out in the open, fully exposed—just wait until you hear them say that a part of Brno belongs to the Germans too. Or that they expelled people who all through the war had been on the Czech side. Like you. And, Gran, in some other countries, there’s even talk of reparations.”
Gerta caught her breath. This was of interest to people abroad? To those on the other side, like Teresa? And they wanted not just an apology, but reparations? It sounded dizzying. An apology that would be substantiated by reparations? A rewriting of their destiny as the eternally guilty party, which would be noted around the world—words of apology that, after fifty years of inner turmoil, would soothe her soul and put an end to her perpetual lack of trust. An apology would mean the admission of guilt and repentance, the bowed heads of dogs whose muzzles, for fifty long years, had been snapping at her heels, chasing her down in her dreams, and confiscating everything she ever painstakingly acquired: her apartment, her work, her freedom. They would bow down before Gerta; before Hermína, who had become a milkmaid; before Johanna, who in spite of her university degree had spent her whole life working as a seamstress; before Anni, who instead of studying literature was sanitizing test tubes at Lachema; and before Rudi, who instead of studying engineering had learned to be a car mechanic.
Blanka had sown a seed of hope inside her that germinated even in the barren soil of Gerta’s fear of yet another disappointment. She resisted as fiercely as possible. But then, from a certain point onward, Gerta could think of nothing else.
VIII
They even invited Gerta. Johanna was there, as well as lots of people from their German culture club, including the parish priest and Antonia, joined by her children, whom Gerta hadn’t seen in almost twenty years, as well as her second husband, whom none of them had laid eyes on since their wedding. There was Rudi, who had aged quite a bit over the years, and Anni with her husband, proudly gazing over at their son, the young doctor with his university degree. He was exuding self-confidence as he stood in a corner next to a baby carriage with his newly baptized infant, gesticulating with his hands, deep in animated conversation. Even Barbora and Jára came, because Blanka wouldn’t have it any other way. They sat beside Gerta, and Gerta felt inwardly triumphant. All thanks to Blanka, who had brought them back around to her. All of a sudden, Barbora was interested. In Gerta, in others whose plight had been similar, and finally even in the German blood flowing through her own veins. About which it was best to keep quiet, Gerta thought to herself as Blanka placed her palm over her own two wrinkled hands that lay folded in her lap.
“So, are you curious?”
Gerta smiled. “I’m not sure. I’m a bit nervous.”
“You, Gran?” Blanka beamed.
Maybe she felt nervous because it was her own life that was somehow about to be reconciled. Satisfied. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves, she chided herself. Nothing had yet happened. And still might not happen, given that the new, post-revolution town hall was full of people like Mr. Novák, whose real name was Mr. Rozrazil, and who had worked for State Security but was now a member of the Civic Forum. Mr. Novák, who had once dragged her out for a coffee at the Friendship Restaurant and afterward sought her out from time to time, always with the same questions. Have you seen the folks from the German culture club? And how’s Miss Teresa doing? Has she written? She had written—back then, he was in a better position to answer that question than she was, since all the letters Teresa ever sent to her ended up on his desk. This became evident one year after the revolution. Suddenly, three letters arrived all at once, in yellowed envelopes that had obviously been opened and res
ealed. Recently enough that the paper still smelled of glue.
Meine liebe Gerta,
How are you, my dear? Why haven’t you been in touch? I heard what happened over there. How are you managing? Are the Russians still the same as they were back then? I wouldn’t be able to stand the sight of them. My poor dear, I think of you so often. Whatever happens, don’t let them get their dirty paws on you, not on you or Johanna or Hermína, living all by herself in Bergen. Please write, so I know you’re okay.
Thinking of you, Teresa
And next:
We are pleased to announce that on September 27, 1970, Teresa Bayer and Jan Jelinek will enter into marriage . . .
Gerta burst out laughing at the thought that she would be sending wedding congratulations twenty years after the fact. But better late than never, and at least she finally had some news about Teresa. Whom did she have to thank for reposting these letters? She didn’t know. But she was as thrilled as if she had found Teresa all over again. Suddenly, she seemed so close. At long last, after all these years during which Teresa, Gerta realized, had never received a single word of news back from her. And then there was that third letter, which, once again, took everything away.
Dear Frau Schnirch,
Forgive me for the great delay with which I write to let you know of the death of my wife, Teresa Jelinek, born Bayer. It’s only now that I’m getting around to putting her final affairs in order, among which was also her wish that you be informed of her passing and of her last thoughts.
Jan Jelinek, Vienna, July 19, 1973
So Teresa was dead. Without ever having had the chance to say goodbye, the chance to exchange a few more words, the chance to go back to Pohořelice once more, to the place where Gerta would go from time to time to lay a wreath of flowers in memory of her mother. Teresa had been gone now for years, and Gerta never even had a chance to shed a tear for her. It was with a heavy heart that she shared the news with Johanna and Hermína, and then telephoned to tell Antonia. She felt as if she had been robbed of something. By someone.
That someone had been hiding behind that scab Novák’s handsome face. It was obviously thanks to him that she hadn’t received a single one of those letters in time. And now he was strutting around the Brno magistrate’s office, posing for photographs and wearing a self-satisfied smirk. If they were going to make the appeal to him, Gerta thought to herself, or to someone like him, who had simply traded in his old coat for a new one so that the old regime could work hand in hand with the current one, then Blanka and her friends would never succeed.
Johanna snapped her out of her thoughts when she pulled up a chair beside her and dropped heavily onto it.
“So go on, read it. I could go on listening to it over and over again.”
Barbora and Jára moved in closer, closing the circle around Blanka.
Blanka pulled a piece of paper folded over several times out of her blue jeans pocket, smoothed it, and held it up right in front of Gerta. For years now, Gerta had needed one pair of glasses for reading and another for distance, and all she could make out was a blurry, black-and-white rectangle.
“We sent it already on Wednesday, Gran. What I’m reading from here is a copy,” she explained.
“Honorable Mr. Mayor and Honorable Members of the Council of the City of Brno:
On the thirtieth day of May of the year two thousand, fifty-five years will have passed since the forceful expulsion of the German residents of Brno. This so-called death march was not merely a spontaneous outburst of hatred accumulated over the years of German occupation, but a consciously planned action organized also in part by the political representatives of the city of Brno. The action was carried out on the basis of a decree issued by the National Committee for the Greater Brno area dated May 30, 1945, which ordered the assemblage, still on that same day, of all German women, children, and elderly persons. During that night and into the morning, they were then forced to start marching in the direction of the Austrian border. This procession, numbering some twenty to thirty-five thousand people and escorted by armed overseers, proceeded under the direst conditions to Pohořelice, from where the expellees later continued on. According to eyewitness accounts, many dropped dead right on the road from sheer exhaustion; others were beaten or shot to death. The overall number of victims of the Brno expulsion is estimated to be from several hundred to one thousand people.”
“There were that many of us?” Gerta said, lifting her head to look at Blanka.
“Don’t you remember?” Johanna said, patting her on the shoulder.
“Please, how am I supposed to remember the number of people?”
“Well, after all, you know the procession dragged on for almost three days before everyone made it to Pohořelice. And then what about that camp? Don’t you remember how many people kept on streaming in? Masses of people. There was no room for them to sit, let alone sleep—just remember.”
“Well, it’s true that we weren’t just a handful; even Karel said that.”
“We tried to get an exact number by examining the records from Pohořelice and from Austria, to see how many actually got there. In the end, all we could come up with was a rough estimate, also partly based on wartime and post-wartime statistics. But that should really be the task of some commission that could also verify everything. But hold on, that comes later.”
Blanka looked back down at the piece of paper and read on:
“It is important to realize that this violent action was directed specifically against women, children, and the elderly, who made up the majority of the participants and the victims. The basis for this was that, according to the aforementioned decree, all German men between the ages of fourteen and sixty were required to remain temporarily in Brno to do forced labor. Among the expellees, there were also many Czechs and German anti-fascists. This act of retribution, however, only marginally affected those who had been active participants in the Nazi atrocities.”
“That’s very well written,” noted Johanna, nodding her head affirmingly, “and you should add that it separated families that had managed to stay together all through the war. Ula was there, marching with just her daughter. Her husband and her son had been forced to stay behind somewhere. Who knows if they ever found each other. And same with us!”
Gerta nodded, turned back to Blanka, and gestured for her to go on.
“The Germans were already expelled from Brno before August 2, 1945, when the terms for the deportation of German residents from territories belonging to Czechoslovakia were agreed upon at the Potsdam Conference; thus, the conference participants were presented with a fait accompli that was no longer possible to rectify. We are well aware of the incomparably more extensive crimes committed by the Nazi regime. At the same time, we realize that suffering is suffering, no matter who is the perpetrator and whenever it takes place. Even with the expulsion of Germans from Brno, the unacceptable principle of collective guilt was applied, and crimes were perpetrated against a group of residents purely on the basis of their ethnicity. In view of the fact that the application of such principles to this day leads to the perpetration of acts of cruelty in many parts of the world, we know the value of rejecting them outright. For this reason, we are turning to you to request that as the current representatives of the city of Brno, you declare that you categorically denounce these events, for which the political representatives of Brno at that time were responsible. We believe that an adequate way to deliver this declaration would be in the form of an apology to the expelled Germans of Brno, formally issued by the town hall. Why an apology, and what purpose would it serve today? This is not just a matter of a single symbolic act. An apology by the town hall of Brno, in our opinion, would serve rather as a means for delivering two important and timely messages. The first would be a message of reconciliation directed to those who were affected by the forceful expulsion. The second would be a message directed to us, today’s residents of Brno, who for the most part have nothing to do with the expulsion that t
ook place here fifty-five years ago. An apology does not imply a self-indictment, but rather a responsibility for the coexistence, today and in the future, of persons from the most diverse cultural and ethnic backgrounds. It offers the hope that as long as we cultivate an awareness of the unacceptability of the aforementioned crimes and are able to assume an open and honest attitude toward them rather than making them taboo, no such thing will ever be repeated.
“Signed by the members of Youth for Intercultural Understanding and twenty-one prominent Brno citizens. What do you say to that, Gran?”
Gerta was struggling to catch her breath. She didn’t have a heart attack back when Blanka first came to her with this idea, but she thought she might have one now. Just a tiny bit more, and she’d be in convulsions, falling off the chair, rolling on the carpet, clutching her chest, and giving up her ghost.
So.
This was how it sounded in writing. When it was written down on their behalf, for someone who would now have to deal with it because it could no longer be ignored. This was how it sounded to someone who realized what it must have been like. And that wasn’t even taking into account what it had meant to stay here, stigmatized as a German. That would probably look good on paper too, she thought, looking around at everyone gathered there for the christening. Considering what it had done to them—all of them, not to mention others whom she didn’t know and who had also stayed here after the war. And what it did to the ones who hadn’t stayed—to Teresa and all the others unable to feel at home anywhere.
It sounds nice, she said to herself, very nice. It sounded like history holding its nose, finally ready, through the mouths of those whose fathers were running around on the sidewalks of Brno, to apologize. And what would it cost to apologize, anyway? This was a polite letter, a hand offered in reconciliation by those who had done nothing, by those who after the war had stayed, by those who had lived it all firsthand and now finally wanted to forget. All that was left to do was to accept it and, naturally, try to save face—but that could be done even while apologizing.
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