by Unbreakable- The Woman Who Defied the Nazis in the World's Most Dangerous Horse Race (retail) (epub)
The outpouring of grief brought the nation to a standstill. Newspapers’ front pages were bordered in black; the flood of impassioned tributes to the ‘president-liberator’ barely left room for other news. When the body arrived in Prague to lie in state, the Czechoslovak people followed. Quiet and unstoppable as the River Vltava, they flowed into the capital. Over three days, an estimated 750,000 people made their slow way up to the Castle to see the open coffin. ‘I remember it as if it were yesterday,’ says Alena Šípová, an eighty-six-year-old Prague dweller who was among them, with her parents, as a child. ‘We queued for hours. Most people were silent, although some were crying. My mother told me he was the father of our nation.’ Traffic came to a virtual standstill. No one could remember such crowds. On 20 September, a threemile queue of mourners was reported, undeterred by heavy rain and occasional thunder and lightning.
The following day, despite radio appeals for the public to stay away, two million Czechoslovaks were in Prague for the funeral: double the city’s usual population. A horse-drawn gun carriage bore the coffin slowly through more than four miles of silent, crowd-lined streets. A vast procession of soldiers, Sokol members, Czech Legion veterans and workers’ representatives followed: tens of thousands of them, solemn and orderly; and on every inch of pavement, Masaryk’s people looked on, motionless, deep in the reflections of bereavement.
Later, thousands more lined the track as an open train, moving at walking pace and soon piled high with flowers, took the coffin back to Lány, where Masaryk was buried alongside his wife in the village cemetery. Perhaps few of the mourners could have fully explained what drew them. But the London Times was not far wrong when it described what happened in that strange, dream-like week as ‘a great demonstration of Czechoslovak unity at a moment when the public mind feels that this should be demonstrated’. For Lidové noviny, the mourners were united by ‘a single desire: to be worthy of this rare and exceptional figure’. For Přítomnost magazine, it was simpler still: ‘That was not a crowd. That was a nation.’
Whether that was true or not, there was no denying the electrifying animation that spread through the country in the weeks that followed. Czechoslovaks forgot for a while the fractious, demoralised people they had become and remembered the idealism in which their nation had been forged. An era was over as well as a life, but perhaps they could still shape their future.
On the blue, white and red Czechoslovak flag that was draped over the president’s coffin while it lay in state, two words were printed: ‘Pravda vítězí’ . The phrase, adopted by Masaryk as a presidential motto shortly after taking office, remains the official motto of the Czech Republic: ‘Truth prevails’.
It was a bold claim to make at the darker end of what W. H. Auden called a ‘low, dishonest decade’. For years, Nazi and Bolshevik fake news had been muddying the waters of public discourse, blurring the shocks of a new age of atrocity. Now the shocks were getting bigger. That April, Poldi von Fugger’s Condor Legion had killed hundreds of civilians in Guernica. (There is no evidence, however, that he actually took part.) In Germany, a new concentration camp, Buchenwald, had been opened in July to cope with the continuing round-up of those the Nazis hated. In the Soviet Union, Stalin’s great purge, in which more than half a million ‘anti-Soviet elements’ were killed in the space of two years, was at its height. In China, the invading armies of imperial Japan were closing in on Nanking, where they would soon massacre 300,000 people. Yet the watching world, unsure what to believe, seemed sunk in apathy. Unthinkable had become the new normal; so had unspeakable. Masaryk’s democratic vision had never looked more noble, or more vulnerable – but who would defend it, now he was gone?
Edvard Beneš, Masaryk’s successor as president, was decent and competent. What the Czechoslovaks really needed, though, was someone to inspire them. In its moment of danger, their nation needed a champion.
The fifty-sixth running of the Velká Pardubická was scheduled for 17 October, three and a half weeks after Masaryk’s funeral. There may never have been a sporting event so coiled with political tension. Czechoslovakia was already on something close to a war footing. The military had been building up its border defences against possible German invasion since 1936. In Prague – as in other European capitals – ministers debated the pros and cons of policies with half an eye on what Hitler might construe as ‘provocative’. In Pardubice, the Czechoslovak air force was sizing up Pardubice racecourse for military use. (It had served that purpose well enough in the First World War.) Production at the Explosia factory was at full capacity. And at the Pardubice Zámeček, where Lata and Ra had laughed and dined and ridden with Poldi von Fugger, the Czechoslovak army was training its cavalry for a conflict that might break out at any moment.
All this had been set in motion with grim fatalism, by people who remembered the horrors of the First World War and would rather do almost anything than slip into another one. But now something had changed. Masaryk’s death had reawakened people’s sense of a Czechoslovak dream: a dream that was worth defending. Much had gone wrong with the nation since its birth. Czechs as well as Germans had been at fault in the long-running dispute between the two nationalities. Yet now, remarkably, history had reached one of those rare moments at which patriotism and morality coincide. The Czechoslovaks who hoped that truth and freedom would prevail had right on their side as well as tribal passion. Hitler’s Germany had might on its side, but little else. That might was overwhelming; irresistible, according to the wellinformed. Yet the air in Czechoslovakia was electric with defiance.
It was still electric when, in the second week of October, the horses and horsemen of the Third Reich began to arrive in Pardubice. Herold, Edenhall and Elfe (ridden by Lengnik, Schmidt and Lemke respectively) were first, reaching the town on the Sunday before the race. Wahne (ridden by Wiese) and Wieland (ridden by Backenhaus) arrived on the Thursday. By then, at least five Czechoslovak horses had already been training on the course for more than a week – including two, Upman and Quixie, which would be ridden by Germans (Scharfetter and Schlagbaum respectively).
Wherever you drew the nationalist dividing line, those on the German side of it were a formidable bunch – especially those who explicitly rode for the glory of Hitler’s Reich. Logic suggested that they would be as invincible here as they had been everywhere else recently. Even if Herold, the favourite, failed to complete an unprecedented hat-trick, the credentials of Edenhall and Wahne were barely less strong. The trio (the first two part-owned by SS-Untersturmführer Lengnik, the third owned by SA-Standartenführer Wiese) had just a few weeks earlier taken first, second and third respectively in East Prussia’s big race: the Von der Goltz-Querfeldein steeplechase at Trakehnen. For the Velká Pardubická, the longest priced of the group was Wahne, at 6:1. All three were ridden by men who had already won the race, and there was little sensible reason to doubt that one of their number would triumph again this time. The last victory by a Czechoslovak horse had been Pohanka’s in 1931; the last by a Czechoslovak jockey had been Popler’s on Gyi Lovam! in 1930. With those two exceptions, the run of Germanic victories (five German, two Austrian) went back to 1928. In some Czechoslovak minds, it had begun to seem like a law of nature, like the modern law of nature that dictates that German footballers always win penalty shoot-outs. The Velká Pardubická, it seemed, was a race in which Czechoslovak jockeys and horses rode themselves to exhaustion over four miles of life-threatening fences – only for a German pairing to draw away with irritating ease at the end to claim the big prize.
For the 1937 race, there were six Czechoslovak men who carried their nation’s hopes. Most were soldiers. The famously hardy Major František Aubrecht was the most experienced – perhaps a little too experienced by now – and his mount, Dagger, was the most fancied of the host nation’s horses. Four fellow officers reinforced the military’s strength: Captain Zadzora on Romulus, Captain Klement on Lethé, and Lieutenants Růžička and Dobeš on Radomil and Milonga respectively. None could be
faulted for pluck or riding ability, but their horses were rank outsiders. Josef Kohoutek, a young professional jockey, had a slightly better chance on Čipera, but only just: he was a 20:1 shot.
Yet that wasn’t quite it. There was also a Czechoslovak woman in the field, riding a Czechoslovak horse. The big news had been late coming, but by now it was out: at the age of forty-two, Countess Lata Brandisová was going to make yet another attempt – her seventh – to win the Velká Pardubická.
As far the betting market was concerned, she didn’t have much of a chance either. That did not prevent a thrilling, preposterous hope from spreading through the less knowledgeable public. Their noble-born national treasure had already pushed back the boundaries of the possible. What if she still had one more extraordinary moment up her sleeve?
That was Lata’s hope, and she was trusting her old partner, Norma, to help her. This had been a late decision, too; or, at least, it had not been finalised until the last minute. Lata had spent much of the year ‘begging’ Ra to change his mind about Norma, urging him at every available opportunity to delay her retirement and give her one last chance in Pardubice. Ra was deterred by the likely strength of the opposition: there was nothing to be gained from exposing the mare to a humiliating defeat before breeding from her. By July, however, he had relented enough to allow Lata to ride Norma in a twomile steeplechase in Poděbrady. Her victory suggested that the little isabella mare had lost neither her toughness nor her jumping ability; the narrowness of that victory, against moderate opposition, meant that the question remained open.
Thereafter, Lata and Norma had resumed their long cross-country journeys through the Bohemian hills, rebuilding understanding and stamina. I’m not sure how much travelling Lata can have had time for that summer. August was dominated by a new arrival in Řitka: Markéta’s baby, Petr. His five resident aunts took a close interest in the Jaroševský family’s latest member. Lata also had the running of the property to oversee, with Markéta presumably taking a less active role than usual. And then there were her own horses to think about, at home and in Karel Šmejda’s stable. Hubertus alone raced nine times from July to October, mostly at Velká Chuchle, and it is unlikely that Lata never watched. The five-year-old’s single victory came in early September, over a mile and a half, but he also managed two seconds and a third, bringing Lata a season’s total of 5,600 crowns in prize money.
Despite all this, Lata found time to work Norma so hard that, as in previous years, the mare’s appetite for food gradually declined – giving her that ‘sinewy’ appearance that signified that she was in peak shape for racing. Lata also seems to have made the long journey to Chlumec at least once, to debate with Ra the case for entering Norma for the Velká Pardubická. Norma presumably went, too. ‘I had the feeling that she was on particularly good form,’ explained Lata later. Even so, just a few weeks before the 1 September entry deadline, Lata and Ra seriously discussed the idea that instead she might ride another of his horses, Čibuk. Lata was tempted, and the pairing may even have been provisionally agreed. If so, it was not for long. Deep down, Lata believed in Norma. And Ra, deep down, believed in Lata.
The eventual decision made, Lata was able to spend an extended period in the Chlumec area in the last days before the race, practising with her chosen partner. She and Norma were reported to have gone well over the replica Velká Pardubická jumps on the private track at Kolesa. Ra’s daughter Génilde, only eleven, accompanied them on an eighteen-hand isabella mare called Neva. She still wasn’t allowed to jump the replica Taxis, though.
In Pardubice, the last hotel room was taken four days before the race; most of the others had gone long before. Much of the accommodation was said to have been snapped up by members of Europe’s diplomatic corps. Senior dignitaries of German sports administration were also visiting, along with members of the English, Italian, French, Austrian and Hungarian aristocracy; and, no doubt, a few spies. Rumours that Duke and Duchess of Windsor would also be in attendance turned out to be groundless but added to the atmosphere of feverish expectation.
Not everyone in town could honestly claim to have admired Tomáš Masaryk. Pardubice had its fair share of fascists, notably followers of the anti-Semitic General Gajda; and there were a few, not least among the visiting aristocracy, whose sympathies lay with the Third Reich. But most of these were keeping their heads down. Masaryk had been known for his love of horses – many obituaries had dwelt on his special relationship with his old bay gelding, Hektor. Pardubice, as a town whose raison d’ être was horses, seems to have felt that this created a special bond with the late president. So, in some eyes, did his efforts on behalf of gender equality. The Women’s Club of Pardubice staged a special event at the Veselka in his memory, no doubt realising that it would be a long time before women had such a friend in power again. A public subscription quickly raised funds for a commemorative statue, to be placed in the Square of the Czech Legionaries. Meanwhile, an air of bereavement hung over the town. Dancing at the Veselka, traditionally a popular recreation for cavalry officers, had all but stopped.
Pre-race festivities may have taken place, none the less, especially among the visitors. Some of the German dignitaries were taken on an escorted visit to the state stud farm at Kladruby the day before the race. In the evening, some claimed to have seen German riders drinking – and Schmidt and Scharfetter were known to enjoy a postrace party back in Trakehnen. But the mood in general – and in public – was subdued.
Twenty-five miles away in Chlumec, Ra dispelled the tension by entertaining lavishly at Karlova Koruna. Guests included the Count and Countess of Paris (Orléanist pretenders to the defunct French throne); Lady Rachel Howard, sister of the Duke of Norfolk; Lady Hamilton, who came by private plane; and members of the Schwarzenberg, Fürstenberg, Auersperg, Czernin and Dobrzenský families. Entertainments included an orchestra from Prague, an improvised cinema, and a drag hunt, in which Ra took part along with his children and guests. Some guests were also able to attend the last days of Norma’s training at Kolesa; and, later, to watch Génilde demonstrating her jumping skills on Neva.
It seems highly unlikely that Lata took much part in these festivities. If past years are anything to go by, she would have spent the final night, at least, much closer to Pardubice, with Norma nearby. She may well have calmed her nerves with a sleeping pill, as Velká Pardubická jockeys sometimes did; she certainly knew how to get hold of them. Then, ready or not, it was the day: Sunday 17 October 1937.
The day was dry but neither sunny nor warm. A chill breeze gusted beneath a grey sky. But it was pleasant enough for racing, and the relative cold, at around ten degrees Celsius, did nothing to deter racegoers. On the contrary: by mid-morning, it looked as though the crowds might overwhelm Pardubice. Special trains were converging on the main station from all over Czechoslovakia. Every road into town was at a near or total standstill. The racecourse car park somehow found room for 3,000 vehicles before it shut shortly after midday; latecomers made do as best they could.
Total attendance at the racecourse was later estimated at over 40,000, but it would have been hard to count precisely. The stream of latecomers was still in full flood when the sporting action began at 1.10 p.m, and had barely stopped before the big race itself, nearly two hours later. The stands were so densely packed that some people improvised their own, with chairs, stepladders, even stilts. Others preferred to crowd into the various grassy spaces in the middle of the course, hoping to be able to see the most dramatic jumps close up. If you knew what you were doing, you could usually run from one good vantage point to another while the race was in progress, although that might be difficult today. Around the bookmakers’ tents, the throng was so dense that many people were unable to place bets. The resulting squabbles led one journalist to report that ‘the pushing, pressing crowds . . . give the impression that they confuse the Velká Pardubická with a fight in a cloakroom of a Prague movie theatre’.
In the stands, the grander ladies wore fur: le
opard, ocelot and beaver were the fashionable choices. One report even mentioned a lady wearing a ‘foal coat’, although this seems too preposterous to be plausible. The men wore heavy greatcoats and Homburgs – or, in many cases, military uniform. You can see why this may have felt appropriate.
The Czechoslovaks won the first three races – no great achievement, since all the horses were Czechoslovak. The third finished at around 2.30 p.m. Space had by then been found on the course for more or less everyone who wanted to watch the main event. But there was no place for Ra’s daughter Génilde. For all her precocity in the saddle, she was not allowed to watch Lata race. Norbert was: either because he was older or (as Génilde suspected) because he was a boy. So she and her younger brother Radslav remained on the Chlumec estate, where they listened to the race in the gamekeeper’s cottage, on a crackling radio. Luckily, a new radio booth had just been built on the roof of the main Pardubice stand, giving the commentators an excellent view. There was also a film crew, although, frustratingly, little of their footage survives.
In the chateau at Řitka, Lata’s sisters and servants gathered around a larger radio, which was usually kept in Alžběta’s room. Others in the village congregated as they could. It would have been hard for anyone in Řitka to have been unaware of what Lata was attempting – and vanishingly unlikely that any villager who was aware of it would not have been willing her to win. It was not just a local thing: it was a Czech thing. All over the country, but especially in the Czech lands, people were rooting for her, huddled around radios and thinking patriotic thoughts. Fairly or unfairly, the impending race was now widely seen as a battle between good and evil. On one side were the Third Reich’s all-conquering Aryan warrior-horsemen, come to crush the Czechs on the racecourse in preparation for doing much the same on the battlefield. On the other were a few brave Czechs, outgunned but defiant, ready to give their all to defend the ideals of Tomáš Masaryk’s nation; and bearing their flag was the unlikeliest of national champions: a silverhaired countess riding a golden mare. No one who understood such things can seriously have imagined that Lata and Norma would win. But if your soul had been stirred by the events of recent weeks, it was hard not to fantasise about the possibility.