There was also Frank, eight years older and my only sibling. I hoped I would see him, too, when I reached England. In Prague, Frank and I pursued our own activities, he in secondary school and I in fourth grade. We had different friends because of our age gap, but now I hoped we might establish a closer relationship. I had tremendous respect for Frank because I knew he was smart and he seemed to me to be very independent. I wondered how he was getting along in college, how many new friends he had made and if he missed me. What was he doing this very minute, I mused. I flipped back and forth with thoughts of my separated family members until this mental volleyball rally finally resolved into sleep.
It was morning when the train entered Holland, and I was overwhelmed by a deep sense of relief. I was beyond the reach of Nazis now. We children left the train to have breakfast at the station, served by very friendly Dutch women chattering in an odd-sounding language. Then the journey resumed and continued all day on the same train until we reached Flushing on the English Channel just as evening was closing in. My eyes opened wide when I beheld the large ship that was going to take us across the channel. I had never seen a boat that size, being familiar only with small excursion boats on the Vltava (Moldau) River taking sightseers up- or downstream. I joined an equally excited group of boys, and we roamed the boat from stem to stern, exploring it thoroughly before bedtime. Despite my excitement I was quickly lulled to sleep by the gently rocking surf.
I did not see the east coast of England because we were already docked by the time I awoke. At breakfast I tasted English white bread for the first time and found it revolting. We children agreed among ourselves that it was distastefully spongy, unsubstantial, and almost moist—nothing like the hearty, multi-grain Czech bread we were used to. But we found that when one rolled the white bread into small balls they made very effective missiles—great for shooting at each other. On the last leg of the trip we boarded yet another train to London.
At Liverpool Street Station, all sixty of us were ushered into a large waiting room to meet the sponsoring English families with whom we were to live. My loneliness grew as each name was called that wasn’t mine and the number of us left in the hall dwindled. Finally, it came my turn to be introduced to my sponsors, Mr. and Mrs. Miller. I hardly noticed them though because my gaze was fixed on a beaming familiar figure standing slightly behind them—my father. He, too, had been waiting for me.
As I reflect now on my Kindertransport journey and recall experiences that followed in England, I realize how vulnerable and often alone I was, and yet nothing seemed to frighten or faze me very long. There is a resilience in children that enables them to take in stride, as I did, occurrences that might crush adults. Many children across the world face challenging conditions, but they adapt and survive.
Sometimes when I thought about happy times in Czechoslovakia, I felt the grip of homesickness. I tried to comfort myself in those periods of loneliness and isolation by recalling the many pleasant memories I had stored forever from my secure boyhood in the country I loved. My father’s arm around me as we walked out of the London train station reassured me.
Chapter Two: Childhood Memories from before the Nazis, 1929–1939
FOR A JEWISH boy born in 1929 to middle-class parents in Prague, Czechoslovakia, growing up in the 1930s was a comfortable life that seemed full of promise for the future. An unusual feature of my family was that my mother worked outside the home. She gave private lessons in the Czech language to families who spoke mainly German. When Czechoslovakia became an independent country in 1918, Czech became the official language, and those who did not speak it well, or not at all, needed lessons. Since Mother’s teaching took place in other people’s homes, she was out of the house most days, so a live-in maid was hired who cooked and cleaned for us. My parents, my older brother, and I came home at noon for a substantial lunch together, as was typical of most families those days in our area. After lunch father stretched out on the sofa in the same room for a twenty-minute nap, punctuated by loud snores.
Father was a businessman who managed an iron foundry for the Petzold Company, which produced enameled cast-iron bathtubs. He had a pleasant round face but often wore a sad expression around the family, perhaps because of discomfort from his diabetes, which was not as treatable then as it is today. He loved the game of bridge and would go to his club after work almost daily to play a few hands. He relished telling a good story and was apparently entertaining and skillful at it, yet he rarely revealed his humorous side to me. Music was another of Father’s loves. He would anticipate with a low hum the next movement of a composition before it began, much to Mother’s annoyance. A major regret of my father’s life was that he was not able to take piano lessons when he was young because limited family resources permitted musical instruction only for his older brother, Paul.
My mother was a striking woman with a strong will that stood her in good stead when, later, events turned dangerous. She had a firm chin, aquiline nose, and long hair pulled back into a bun. She has been described as beautiful. Mother knew what she wanted and usually got it one way or another, which did not make her particularly popular with some members of my father’s family, especially her brother-in-law, my uncle Paul, who was equally strong-willed.
But Mother’s interests did not always coincide with Father’s, although both my parents shared a love for music, drama, literature, history, and art. Mother could spend a whole day engrossed in museum exhibits without visibly tiring. She gathered a set of friends of her own and devoted time to them. Languages fascinated Mother and she was fluent in Czech, English, German, and French and could get by in Italian and Spanish; she even spoke a little Russian. Fortunately for my brother and me, these cultural interests of our parents were passed on to us and greatly enriched our lives.
Since my brother, Frank, is eight years older than I, we had little in common. He had his own interests and was busy with his studies. I looked up to him and don’t recall ever fighting with Frank. We lived in our own separate worlds, but that changed in later years.
Mother, Father, Frank, and I lived on Veletržní Ulice at number 59, Prague VII, on a busy thoroughfare in a nondescript five-story apartment building with two large units on each floor. We occupied a spacious apartment with five rooms on the top floor, which could be reached either by a slow elevator or by using the stairs. I got great satisfaction running up the stairs, two at a time, and beating my parents who rode the elevator. I would be breathless when I entered our apartment but happy to be the first home. After entering the foyer I walked along a wide, carpeted hall. Opposite the door, a window looked out on a small courtyard lined with white bricks where many pigeons roosted. I liked to stand there observing their view of the world and found the constant cooing soothing. It was part of being home. Slightly to the left of the entrance door was a narrow passage with a pantry on the left side that led to the kitchen from which cooking aromas were inviting to anyone in the immediate area. The smell of Czech soup, which our cook served almost daily, was pungent and always whet my appetite. Arriving home after school, the kitchen was my first stop to drink a glass of milk and feel it trickle all the way down. Milk had to be bought every morning since we had no refrigeration, but it was still adequately chilled in the afternoon.
From the hallway I usually turned left to pass through Mother’s bedroom into my room. The dresser in Mother’s room fascinated me. It had two wings, each with full-length mirrors, and if I turned them to face each other, I could observe myself in countless images. In the center of my room was a round table draped with an oil-cloth tablecloth where we four family members ate our mid-day meals. Hot soup, often served with dumplings, was a staple, as were hunks of flavorful thick, dark bread, so characteristically Czech.
My toys were kept in a large wardrobe in my room. I loved most to play with my erector set alongside my friend Jirka (George) Bláha, from whom I was practically inseparable. We spent hours constructing huge buildings, the higher and more complicated the bet
ter. In another part of the room was the gramophone on which I first heard the Toreador Song from the opera Carmen, and I played it often, feeling the beat as I sang along lustily.
There were a few trees in the neighborhood to break up the urban landscape, and at the rear of each building was a little plot of land. I enjoyed this view from my room and frequently surveyed the apartments opposite, straining to see if something was planted in the small gardens that separated the buildings. Although some open spaces were cultivated, others simply afforded a place where people could meet, sit, and talk.
The one bathroom we shared was next to my room, but luckily the toilet had a separate cubicle further down the hallway. Frank would sequester himself there for a prolonged occupation, much to the annoyance of the next person who wanted to use it. That was also true of the bathroom itself, where Father enjoyed luxuriating in prolonged, hot tub baths, taking much time, especially it seemed when Mother was waiting to come in.
I did not frequent the other wing of our apartment often. The library was there with a table for light suppers and snacks and the all-important radio. I distinctly remember a time when I was about eight or nine years old that my parents were huddling near the radio, heads bent while they listened to a rough guttural male voice speaking harshly in German. Although my German vocabulary was inadequate to understand everything he was saying, I knew the shouting frightened my parents and Frank terribly. I observed them shaking their heads in disbelief, but they did not tear themselves away from the broadcast or turn the radio off as I thought they might. I learned that the voice coming through the radio was that of Adolf Hitler telling the world what to expect in the future.
Our formal living room was seldom used except for my hated practice sessions on the stately grand piano placed there. One passed on to the formal dining room, used sparingly for eating, but it contained two beds in opposite corners for Frank and Father since my parents did not sleep in one room together. The smallest room was occupied by our live-in maid. This room had scarcely enough space for her bed and a dresser with an undersized window affording a limited view of the small uninviting courtyard. I wondered how anyone could live in that tiny space, and for me it was strictly off limits so I don’t think I was in it more than a couple of times. Many cherished memories of my tranquil childhood are embedded within that apartment I called home for almost ten years.
School was enjoyable and close by—only four blocks away on Vinařská Ulice. I almost finished the fourth grade there. My friend Jirka was from a nearby Catholic family and, as we were in the same class and liked each other, we would often go to his house or mine to play or take walks in Stromovka, a large beautiful park nearby with a path for horses. Thomas Garrigue Masaryk, the first president of Czechoslovakia, was fond of riding there, and one day we saw him riding all alone. We told everyone who would listen.
• • •
ALTHOUGH WE WERE Jewish we did not observe any traditions or religious observances except that on Yom Kippur my parents would go to temple and I went along once. This religious void was remarkable since my father’s boyhood dining room was used as the synagogue in his little town of Kácov and my mother’s home in Dobruška was next to the synagogue in which her father took a leading part, but like many European Jews, they had adopted secular practices, and I rarely heard them talk about religion.
I recall living an ideal boyhood during those early years in Prague. As much as music was important to my parents, and I enjoyed listening, too, I never accompanied them to a live concert. Children were not taken to “adult” performances in those days. I reveled in the independence of going about the city alone on the tram or by foot, which even included the walk to my dreaded piano lessons. I took the tram or walked to see my paternal grandmother, who lived quite a long way off. I looked forward to seeing Grandmother regularly every Sunday with other visiting family members and remember that she and my aunt Malva, who lived across the street from her, made wondrous desserts which I enjoyed tremendously.
We had tennis courts close to our apartment, and one day as I was watching the players, one of them noticed me and said, “Would you like to get the balls for us?” What young boy wouldn’t be flattered to be asked this? I readily and enthusiastically agreed and spent the whole afternoon running down tennis balls. Unexpectedly, they gave me tips. But I lost track of time and when I got home Mother was furious—“Where have you been? Look at the time!” I thrust out a fistful of coins I thought would surely curb her anger. “Look, I made all this by fetching balls for the tennis players.” I was very proud of myself, but she was clearly not impressed. However, this initiated my lifetime love for that sport.
Unfortunately, the tennis court episode was not to be forgotten so easily, as my mother, after contemplating a minute or so, asked me—“So what do you think would be an appropriate punishment?” This surprised and temporarily stumped me. My mind raced to find something that I thought would satisfy her. To this day I cannot fathom how I came up with my suggestion. Had I read about it or heard of some other child having to do it? Suddenly I heard myself saying to my mother, “What if I knelt on some hard dry peas every afternoon for fifteen minutes for a week? Then I could think about what I did.” Such a suggestion from her young son must have startled Mother, but after a few grunts she agreed. Dutifully, I found a cardboard box top with low sides and spread out some dry peas from the pantry to set up and prepare to carry out my assigned ordeal, but I had not realized how uncomfortable kneeling on peas would be. It hurt! And contrary to what I told my mother, I did not think about what I had done. I could only count the seconds and minutes until the torture would end.
Vacations in the country were highlights of each year, especially visits to my grandparents, who lived on Shubert Square in Dobruška. For a boy raised in Prague, then a city of a million people, taking a long train ride to a faraway place was not only a welcomed change but a thrilling experience. Trips beyond our city became a routine part of my young life every time I was off from school in summer or winter, and I visited my maternal grandparents. In Dobruška, a small town located in northeastern Bohemia in the foothills of the Orlické Mountains, I formed a warm bond of affection with my beloved maternal grandparents. Because I was not old enough to travel that far alone, when my parents or Frank were not free, a family friend or acquaintance accompanied me. In winter I was met at the railroad station by my grandparents in a sleigh drawn by two horses. I snuggled, all excitement, under a heavy blanket between my grandmother and grandfather as the horses trotted over snow-covered streets to the house. I liked that Grandmother fussed over me and kept checking to make sure I was warm enough.
Many pleasures were in store for me during those winter visits with my family in Dobruška. I still remember the big hill on which town children would assemble with sleds ready to test who could go downhill the fastest and furthest before trekking back up to repeat the ride again. Christmastime was especially thrilling. Not only were there presents, but I saw my first Christmas tree, ablaze with real lit candles at a neighbor’s house. It was a mesmerizing sight for young eyes!
Watching my grandparents’ three family cats in the snow-covered terrain was like seeing fish flopping about on dry land. The cats would shake their paws violently every two or three steps before taking the plunge off the balcony at the back of the house onto an adjoining snow-covered wall to land gracefully in the street. Since litter boxes were unknown in those days, the felines had to be let out several times a day, a household ritual starting early each morning. One of the male cats was my grandfather’s favorite, and every workday morning the cat would jump on Grandfather’s shoulder for the daily ride to the office of his textile business located on the ground floor next door. There kitty would settle on top of the stand-up desk and sagely observe the goings-on of workmen, or sleep, as matched his mood. At the end of the day the cat was conveyed back home in the same manner as he arrived I marveled at their relationship.
Although in his eighties when I was
a small child, Grandfather still worked each day, especially after his oldest son, my uncle Karel who was in the family business, died prematurely. On weekends of good weather, Grandfather would always take a walk along one of the main roads that in those days were almost devoid of traffic. He walked briskly, so rapidly in fact that I had trouble keeping up on my much shorter legs. Many times we walked as far as the small garden plot of land he owned. In the center stood an enclosed gazebo-like summer house where we could rest and where the family often picnicked on leisurely summer days. Later in life whenever I read accounts of lovers meeting for trysts in summer houses, I visualized the summer house of my grandparents amidst blooming meadow flowers in the garden at Dobruška.
My grandparents’ house in town was next door to the synagogue. Whereas he was not a particularly religious man, my grandfather, by reason of his proximity, assumed responsibility for the synagogue’s maintenance and made sure things ran smoothly. During services the women, by tradition relegated to the balcony reserved for them, tended to gradually talk louder as their attention wavered from the religious observances below to subjects more directly linked to their daily lives, which they found more compelling to talk about. Grandfather didn’t approve of the chatter and would stand, deliberately turn around to the balcony, and issue forth a loud “shhhhhhhh” audible to everybody. That quieted the women, but only temporarily.
While Grandfather spent long hours in the office, my grandmother oversaw the household. I recall her early morning planning sessions with the cook to decide lunch and supper menus. Like my grandfather, my grandmother was a gentle, loving person. Together they created a warm welcoming household that became very lively on holidays when my mother’s younger sisters arrived, one from Berlin and the other from Bratislava. Both were vivacious and, to my delight, added spirit to the festivities.
My Train to Freedom Page 2