Engineer František Langer, having been liberated from Terezín in 1945, never mentioned either Otto or Ella Neumann to his daughter. Like so many survivors, he never spoke about the camps as he remade his life in Czechoslovakia and then Australia. His family keeps a portrait of him painted in Terezín by the renowned artist and painter Petr Kien. Kien died in Auschwitz in October 1944, but many of his drawings and paintings survive and are on display in Terezín. This oil, dedicated to František Langer, is simply inscribed gratefully.
Petr Kien’s portrait of Engineer Langer
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By September 1943, most of Prague’s Jews had been deported. Of the 118,000 who had been in the city in 1939, about 36,000 had fled, and almost 70,000 had been deported. Only those of mixed heritage or those protected by intermarriages remained. This meant that the duties of the Council of Elders in Prague had diminished greatly. Yet the offices were filled with files of identification documents, declarations, paperwork concerning bans from public work, seizures, confiscations, deportations. An average transport generated five hundred files of paperwork. Around a hundred transports departed Bubny between 1941 and September 1943.
At that time, the Prague Elders were in charge of all those Jews in the Protectorate who were not already interned in camps but to whom the Nuremberg Laws still applied. The Prague Elders operated under a complicated organizational structure with several hundred participants. Since most of the “full” Protectorate Jews, including most of their own staff, had been deported by the summer of 1943, the organization was in need of resources. Against this background, Lotar was recruited to work for the Council as a junior filing clerk in the transport office.
Among the other new recruits were two friends of Lotar’s, a lawyer named Viktor Knapp, whom Zdenka knew from the law faculty at university, and Erik Kolár, Lotar’s dear friend from the theater and the clandestine school. They too were protected by mixed marriages and started to work there in September. And though many Elders themselves had been deported, Pišta, the family friend, had held on to his post as an assistant. Being among friends may have marginally eased the burden of working within an administrative machine devised by the Nazis. Any perceived protection was illusory, as being part of the Council did not afford anyone real security. All the original members of the Council in Prague and their families had been transported to Terezín in 1941. By September 1943, many had been tortured and killed.
To say that Lotar was asked to work in the Council implies there was a choice, that he could have refused. Two years before, Otto had tried to recuse himself from being a trustee, a request that had been denied. Lotar could have taken a similar stance and declined, but to do so would have had consequences not only for him but for his parents in Terezín. All his family had been deported, and some had already been killed. The only one not to have been deported was Hans, but he was on the Gestapo list and in constant danger by hiding in plain sight.
Even though I knew him many years later, I can imagine Lotar’s anguish. When faced with death, he had no real choice, merely the crushing sense of responsibility and torment that arises from the illusion of choice. Duress, as international law recognizes, amounts to the removal of free will. Lotar acted under duress. Yet the conscience of a survivor is never so black and white. Many who were involved in the Councils across occupied Europe never admitted to it after the war. A number who became important in their communities and later assumed public roles erased this period from their biographies.
But my uncle Lotar did not erase it from his mind. Lotar’s daughter Madla told me that he agonized about his involvement with the Council for the rest of his life. Unlike my father, who brutally severed himself from his past life, Lotar dealt with his traumas differently. In his fifties, he retired from the life that he had built and struggled in silence under the weight of a depression that never left him. He spent the last two decades of his life helping Holocaust survivors and refugees rebuild theirs.
Hans and Lotar had always supported each other. Yet Hans was not there to sustain Lotar during that terrible summer. Lotar could not discuss the Council or work through how best to send aid to their parents in the camp. Hans was not unaware of Lotar’s plight, but he too was powerless to do anything more than heed their mother’s entreaties to survive, day by day. Hans had vanished and become Jan, for whom nothing was more important than making sure that the name Hans Neumann remained unuttered:
I spoke to nobody about Hans. I had to become Jan completely. Even Míla wrote her coded letters to Jan. She would meet with Lotar and Zdenka and send me news about my parents in Terezín. She didn’t write much about them, just enough to let me know that they were alive.
My brother, Lotar, had to work in the Council in Prague. Zdenka and he still managed to have parcels delivered to my parents at the camp. But I could no longer write to them. In Berlin, outside the moments I spent reading letters from home, Hans did not exist. He was never even mentioned by Zdeněk.
It saddened me at times. But it was the only way.
CHAPTER 13 One Question
Warnecke & Böhm’s records show that in 1941, their workforce totalled 880; 369 of those were Jews from across occupied Europe who were coerced to work there. These Jewish forced laborers were given menial or dangerous tasks, cleaning, working with noxious gases or toxic chemicals. No protective equipment was provided. Their forced labor was brought to an abrupt conclusion when all were deported in February 1943, creating the shortage of manpower that Zdeněk and Hans had identified as a slim chance of escape.
Jan Šebesta was a gentile and, like Zdeněk, part of the human resources that the Reich drew from outside Germany itself. These people were compelled by circumstances. They were not obliged to wear a uniform and they received a nominal salary. Some were housed in specially constructed barracks around the city, but others could take lodgings and move around the city with relative freedom.
However, their status was drilled home relentlessly.
Czechs, as Slavs, were duly categorized within the obsessive racial classification of Nazi ideology. They were considered “lapsed Aryans.” This meant that while they were discriminated against, they were treated marginally better than the Russians or Poles, who were deemed Untermensch, inferior people, subhuman.
A leaflet issued by Hitler’s secretary Martin Bormann in Berlin in April 1943, directing German behavior toward all foreign workers, and offered as evidence at the Nuremberg Trials, paints the clearest picture:
Everything must be subordinated to the winning of the war. Of course, treating foreign workers in a manner that is humane, but production-enhancing, and granting them concessions can easily lead to the blurring of the clear line between foreign workers and German compatriots. German compatriots are to be urged to consider it a national duty to maintain the necessary distance between themselves and the foreign peoples. German compatriots must be aware that disregarding the principles of National Socialist racial theory will result in the most severe punishment.
The Nazi approach to foreign labor was a pragmatic one, an attempt to balance the ideological objective of strengthening the purity of the Germanic race with the pressing practical need for labor, especially skilled labor. This created strained hierarchies where expertise did not denote status. The demand for non-German professionals to survive by propping up their less qualified German supervisors was often irresistible. So people like Jan were compelled to engage in the most dangerous and radical research but often without the protective measures provided for their German counterparts.
These pressured dynamics were set against the backdrop of a broader society that was febrile and fragmented, simultaneously embracing the propaganda and privately enduring solitude and grief, the realities of war. The safest course for Berliners was to keep a low profile and meet or exceed allotted responsibilities. Any deviation from a slavish adherence to the rules was severely punished, and informants were everywhere.
Paradoxically, this provided a predictable
environment for a person to get by, if he combined a devil-may-care daring with steely objectivity. The practical joker from Prague, it transpired, was just such a person.
He later wrote about his daily life:
As the months passed the job became routine. I woke early to arrive at the lab by 7 am. I had left Fr. Rudloff’s room after a few months. I had become friendly with a young war widow called Traudl who worked in an office at the factory. Her husband had been one of the first casualties of the Polish invasion. Traudl had asked if I would move in with her. Her best friend, Ursula, also employed at the factory and whose army husband was presumed dead, had taken a liking to Zdeněk. They both lived in the same building and Zdeněk and I could not refuse the offer of cheap housing and better company. I left a suitcase of my belongings at the stern widow’s home as Traudl’s place was small. The move created a small scandal in the factory, but it was too convenient for the four of us. We ignored the whispered chitchat behind our backs.
Traudl and I got on well as friends. She too was grateful for the company and between the four of us we figured out ways of sourcing food outside our meager rations. We were less hungry than others. I worked out how to distill pure alcohol from the lab stores. This meant currency for bartering. My boss, Dr. Victor Högn, turned a blind eye to our bootlegging as long as at the end of every week we handed him half of our proceeds.
Traudl let me use the bicycle that belonged to her husband. As I pedaled the few blocks to and from my job, the simple happiness of feeling the rush of the wind on my face—if just for a second, made me forget who I was and reminded me of what it was like to be free.
Jan was not free. He had to watch his every word, his every step. Even in his living quarters, he had to keep up appearances and be on his guard so as not to arouse any suspicion. Only his thoughts could be free, and even those had to be controlled if he was to focus on surviving. To fill his time and mind, he applied himself to his tasks and even started to work late hours. He conjured a discipline that he had lacked as a boy and crafted his new persona with care. Obedient but not unconvincingly so. There was a note of rebelliousness here and there to add authenticity to the young Czech chemist working for his country’s oppressors. The illegal alcohol and the frowned-upon flirtation with a war widow subtly made Jan Šebesta real.
Official paperwork continued to be a critical means of operating within the brutal bureaucracy. Whenever the opportunity arose, my father continued to amass papers in the name of Jan Šebesta. Documentary evidence shored up his credibility. It gave the impression that his presence had been validated by diverse authorities, which made a challenge markedly less likely, especially in a world where no one was inclined to call into question anything that appeared to have an official stamp of approval. In addition to his work permit and ration card, another official paper was issued on September 1 detailing Jan’s move from his first home in Berlin to the apartment of Traudl Schemainda, his friend and secretary at the factory. By October 1943, Jan Šebesta even possessed a genuine identity card issued by the German authorities, literally bearing the official stamp and complete with a confidently smiling portrait that was still recognizable to his young daughter in Caracas almost four decades later. A document from November 1, 1943, shows that Jan Šebesta had registered yet a new address with the police. The document states that he left his residence with Traudl and moved to Fr. Schaap’s apartment at Tassostrasse 12a. He had moved three times in six months. This third time presumably to appease the chatter at the factory.
Police registration of Jan Šebesta in Berlin, November 1943
For Jan, scrupulously maintaining the appearance of a mildly disrespectful yet compliant stranger to the city was a constant burden. Daily life was an extraordinary struggle, and as the war came to Berlin, it was indifferent to his personal loyalties.
Since May 1940, the British Royal Air Force had attacked targets that were considered valuable to the German war effort, including many sites in Berlin. Warnecke & Böhm, which was developing products for the German military, certainly would have made a worthy target. While no air raid siren had sounded in Berlin during the first few months following Hans’s arrival, August 23 marked the beginning of a concerted bombing campaign.
That day I oversaw distributing tasks to my colleagues in the lab. The blond German chemist reminded me of an albino rodent, enthusiastic with twitchy hands. Her short and rotund assistant was another Czech. I knew she was miserable even if she did not say a word. Each time I tried to catch her eye, she looked down at the floor.
Dr. Högn called me into his office. He looked like a goose with his wide-set blue eyes.
“Šebesta, you’ve impressed me. Your ideas have allowed us to improve our processes. Of course, I have had to present them as being from our investigations team.”
I looked straight back at him. “Thank you, Herr Dr.”
What he didn’t tell me was that he had presented my ideas as his own. He was an ardent Nazi, toiling to climb the political ladder. I detested him. He had even started to wear a little mustache, like the führer, a blot of darkness on his idiotic round face.
He used to boast that he was so important for the Nazi Party that he was even allowed to skip the compulsory military service. He had told me with great pride that he was one of a handful of Austrians who were engaged with Hitler before the Anschluss. His role in this company was not that of a scientist but of a political emissary. He was useless as a researcher. That is why I was useful to him. He resented the fact that I had more imagination, simply because it contradicted his view that as a Czech, I was a lesser being than he was. If only he knew that I was even lower than that, at the bottom of his fabricated hierarchy, in fact, a stupid, lowly Jew.
“I wanted to tell you that I am going to get you involved in higher-level, important, and confidential research,” he announced. “You should be proud. I asked the Gestapo for clearance to promote you. Yesterday, I received the form authorizing you. There is nothing in your past precluding you from access to confidential documents. Congratulations, Šebesta.”
I could not answer, appalled at the idea that he had requested the detailed Gestapo review of my file that a promotion likely entailed.
I dabbed, I hoped discreetly, at the perspiration on my brow. I tried to keep eye contact. I could not stop my knees from shaking. I shifted my weight from one leg to another, pretending it was excitement.
I was shaking.
“I must go home, it’s late, Šebesta,” he announced. “You must go too.”
I think I must have smiled feebly at him as he waddled from the room.
It was not until a month later that after careful half-inquiries at the factory, I tentatively reconstructed what had happened. Dr. Högn had referred the matter of my potential promotion to the Berlin Gestapo. The Berlin Gestapo had written to the Prague Gestapo, submitting a lengthy list of questions. Had Šebesta ever been involved in student protests? Had Šebesta ever been on any list of politically active students? Had Šebesta ever done anything in opposition to the interests of the Reich? Did Šebesta have a police record? Had Šebesta ever expressed any opinions that were critical of the Reich? Was Šebesta ever involved with anything arousing suspicion of any of the above? So the list must have continued.
The list had omitted one question. Had a Jan Šebesta, born in Alt Bunzlau on March 11, 1921, ever existed? This question had never been posed in Prague or in Berlin and was thus never answered.
Dr. Högn had been duly informed by the Berlin Gestapo in Berlin that no criminal file existed for Jan Šebesta, against whom nothing negative was known. He could proceed.
Once again, the unfortunate boy from Prague was saved by luck. The phrasing of a question and the rigidity with which it had been answered had allowed him to remain undetected in Berlin. My father had once told me that his life had been saved during the war by others’ lack of imagination. I had not known what he meant precisely until I read this account.
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&n
bsp; Lotar was no longer permitted to assume any position of responsibility at Montana, so Zdenka had, as always, stepped in. After the first Reich-appointed treuhänder had departed in 1942, the factory continued operating under Alois Francek, another Reich-appointed treuhänder who had written a letter in support of Otto’s work. Like all other Jews, the Neumanns never received any payment for the “sale” of their business to the Nazis, but Francek, at least, always stayed sympathetic to the family. He was happy to involve Zdenka, who was capable and knew the inner workings of the factory. It was an unusual place for a female lawyer, but the men had been deported or sent away to work or fight for the Reich. Over the years, Zdenka had engaged in many a business debate with the family, listened patiently to Otto’s anxieties, and faithfully counseled Lotar. She knew what needed to be done. There was little for the dwindling factory staff to do, as materials were almost impossible to come by, and private orders were few and far between. Nevertheless, in an attempt to salvage whatever she could of the business, Zdenka worked in Montana every day. Yet the couple’s focus continued to be on the growing challenge of keeping Otto and Ella supplied with letters and goods while the shortages and threats increased and the carriers became less and less reliable.
Otto marveled at Zdenka’s indomitable optimism, which lifted his own spirits. Do not worry about us my darlings… we know you have all done all you could have for us and the rest we leave to fate… hopefully a favorable one.
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