My Train to Freedom

by Ivan A. Backer

  I learned that having the Czech school in their home fostered long-term relations between a few of the Czech teachers and the Lewises. Several members of the Lewis family had been to Prague and visited some of the staff members who had run our school. Mr. Lewis even spoke a few words of Czech and praised the beer in Czechoslovakia.

  When I think back to my days at Hilton Hall, I can still see the cows being brought from pasture to be milked, the farm equipment strewn around, and John Lewis rushing around in knee-high rubber boots we called Wellingtons, trying to keep up with all his duties since he had no one to help him because most young men were fighting in the war. My visit to Hilton Hall filled me with nostalgia, and I reminded myself again how lucky I was to have been there.

  Czechoslovak School in England Reunion in USA

  It was entirely by accident that the reunion organizer found out from my brother that I had attended this school. I was interested in the event and decided to attend in October 2008. From the preliminary attendance sheet mailed beforehand, I recognized only two names but thought there would be others. As it happened, there were only two of us who had known each other. I had gone to the school when it opened its doors in the fall of 1940, and I left in 1942; the other eight students at the reunion went to the school after I had left, which explains why I didn’t know them.

  As the school grew it moved once more, this time to Abernant in Wales, and most attendees at the reunion went to that location. They were curious as to why I left the Czech school, and I was amused at their speculations that I might be the mysterious “bad boy” they heard about who was expelled. When I explained that my mother felt while we were in England I should have a “proper” English education, they shook their heads in disbelief. When they pressed me for more details about leaving the Czech school, I closed out the conversation with a somewhat curt, “because my mother made me go.” I later wondered if one of the advantages of having gone to an English school at the insistence of my mother was that I did not have as pronounced a European accent when speaking English as did the others at the reunion.

  I learned at the reunion that four of us had been “Winton kids” and escaped to England by the Kindertransports that Nicholas Winton organized. I also learned that while I was initially placed with an orthodox Jewish family, the Millers, the other three all went to Christian homes and talked about going to church and Sunday School with their families. They indicated that for the most part the new religion did not stick with them; although, like me, they were not raised as observant Jews. I am sure those wartime escapees were also cognizant as we talked that had it not been for Nicholas Winton and his trains, none of us or our descendants would be here today.

  For many attending the reunion, it was their first trip to Washington, DC. Since there were no planned activities during the day, we made individual plans, going separate ways to sight-see. When I announced that I had two passes for the US Holocaust Museum if anyone wanted to use them, I got no takers; everyone felt such a visit would be too painful. Most had lost both parents in the war and I could understand their decision. The fact that my parents made it to England set me apart and was the subject of many survivor questions that were hard to answer knowing their circumstance.

  The reunion did not provide the interaction among us that I hoped for. We came from different regions—Florida, Arizona, one person from Canada, another from England. We just didn’t connect in the way of some school reunions. Thinking about this later, I concluded too many years had passed and we had little in common except for a few distant shared memories, tainted with sorrow, more than sixty years ago.

  Chapter Seven: New York, 1944–1946

  The Paul Backer family is often referenced in this chapter since we were closely intertwined in the early years after coming to America. Following is up-to-date information about individuals in this family.

  Uncle Paul, My Father’s Older Brother

  My uncle remained head of the family until he had a massive stroke in 1948. It left him partially paralyzed and with a noticeable speech impediment, which he strove mightily to overcome with a therapist. I vividly remember his indomitable will to live and recover completely, but he never did and died in 1956.

  Aunt Julia, Paul’s Widow

  Julia continued to live in the 72nd Street apartment until Malva, her sister-in-law and a Terezín survivor, succumbed to cancer in 1958. She then moved to a one-room house specially designed for her on a large piece of property owned by her son, also named Paul. Space was made available for her piano and harps. I was impressed by the comfort of the dwelling and how it fit her needs. Later she moved to a nursing home near Chicago, close to her daughter, Anna. In 1981 I was honored to officiate at her funeral, filled with specially selected music and poetry.

  Charles, Paul’s Oldest Son

  After being discharged from the army, Charles studied at City College of New York and became a lawyer working in the insurance field. He died in 2008.

  Paul, the Middle Child

  My close friend was a mathematician, and a great lover of music. We lived near each other for six years in Key Largo, Florida, and he still resides in Florida. In retirement he earned a second bachelor’s degree in botany, taught opera in his community, and loved to play bridge.

  Anna, the Cousin Closest to Me in Age

  Anna and her husband, Mark Perlberg, lived for a time in Japan and ultimately settled in Chicago, where she still resides. Since the death of Mark—an exceptional poet with several published books of poems to his credit—she and I have become close, speaking in Czech often to share thoughts about the present and our common past.

  Chapter Ten: Being a Parish Priest and an Activist, 1963–1969

  Harry Moniba and Family

  After Harry lived with us in the Vicarage in East Rutherford in the 1960s, he returned to his native Liberia and taught school for a while. He then entered government service and spent several years in Washington, DC, as the first secretary in the Liberian Embassy, which also allowed him time to earn his PhD. I visited Harry and his growing family whenever I was in the nation’s capital. His career progressed rapidly. Harry’s custom was to call us on Christmas Eve, no matter where he was, and in 1980 he called to say, “I am now the ambassador to the Court of St. James in London. Wish me well.”

  Harry became vice president of Liberia in 1984, but when Charles Taylor overthrew the government Harry got his family out of Liberia, then fled the country himself. In 1992, his youngest daughter, named Koisay in Liberia, Americanized to Gladys, came to live with us in Hartford. Carolyn and I were empty-nesters and had plenty of room and were glad to welcome her. Koisay’s arrival gave us a third daughter, and we assumed the role as active parents of a teenager again. She assimilated into our family quickly and over the years we met all of her four siblings. We started looking for the right school for Koisay and settled on the private Ethel Walker School in Simsbury for her final year in high school. The next fall “our daughter” entered Lafayette College in Easton, Pennsylvania. Koisay used her education in several career positions in the Greater Washington, DC, area and earned a master’s degree in psychology.

  Koisay’s father, Harry, had run for president of Liberia in 1997 and was preparing to run again in the 2005 election. He was in the United States working toward that end when he was tragically killed in a head-on automobile accident on November 24, 2004. Harry Moniba was given one of the largest state funerals in the history of Monrovia, Liberia’s capital. His family buried him in the family compound of their suburban Monrovia home. I am extremely proud to have been counted as one of Harry’s close friends. He was a man of outstanding character who possessed a strong moral code and would have been, I am convinced, a dedicated and effective president for his troubled country, which faces great challenges in the twenty-first century.

  In a sense upon Harry’s death I became Koisay’s surrogate father, and when she was married a few years later I had the privilege of walking her down the aisle along with her
older brother to approving comments from the largely black congregation. I have visited Koisay, her husband, and her two children regularly in their suburban Maryland home and am proud to call her a member of our family.

  AFTERWORD

  READING THE NEWS on my computer a few weeks ago in the same squeaky old swivel chair where I learned about the attacks of 9/11, I found an uplifting column about a recent honor bestowed on Nicholas Winton in my native Czechoslovakia. At observances of Czech Independence Day in Prague on October 28, 2014, Sir Nicholas was presented the Order of the White Lion, the highest honor of the Czech Republic. Sir Nicholas was then 105. He was flown by the Czech Air Force from his home in Maidenhead, England, to receive the honor and be feted at Prague Castle with a few of his saved “children” looking on. As a fellow Czech octogenarian member of “Nicky’s family” I was touched deeply by this most recent recognition. Winton, always reserved in discussing his inner and outer life, did give a few opinions publicly in Prague, stated with typical brevity. Sir Nicholas himself did not look back but rather pinned his expectations on future generations. He hoped they would be inspired by his example—not to be onlookers but to volunteer time and energy in the service of fellow human beings. With many people across the world, I felt a great sense of loss when Sir Nicholas Winton died in the summer of 2015 at the age of 106.

  For me, writing this memoir has been an exercise in honest probing and introspection. The Kindertransport not only saved me from the Holocaust but also determined who I became, as I have tried to live responsibly on this planet. I began to address my natural disinclination to tell my story, let alone broadcast it, and realized I still felt some boyhood shame for occasionally using my situation to elicit sympathy. For years I chose not to disclose my affiliations as both a Jew and a Christian, so this memoir resembles “coming out of the closet” in that regard, although any interpretation of deception or concealment on my part is not correct. As Nicholas Winton said, “I really didn’t keep it a secret [his rescue activities]; I just didn’t talk about it.” The notion that people might genuinely be interested in learning about my past was brought home to me when I started to receive a few speaking invitations where I met new people. On a trip to Costa Rica with Paula, she mentioned something of my background in a dinner conversation, and those seated nearby were riveted by my brief summary and asked to hear more. Telling parts of my story in public has sharpened the focus of this memoir, and retirement has finally afforded me the time to write it.

  Our uncertain future confronts burdens from the past. As the world lurches from one crisis to the next, I sometimes feel helpless and even, at times, hopeless. The example of Nicholas Winton’s unrelenting determination to find solutions that help others motivates me to continue to be an activist.

  TRAINS

  Memories, distant yet fresh

  Of trains from Prague

  To visit grandparents and

  Sled down long hills.

  Train from Czechoslovakia

  Longest and scariest, with other

  Kindertransport young ones.

  Through heart of Third Reich.

  Arrive Liverpool Station,

  Happy seeing my father,

  But foster family,

  Orthodox Jews, strange to me.

  War erupts, another train,

  London school children

  Evacuated to Midlands for safety,

  A new family home.

  Attend two boarding schools,

  One Czech, the other English,

  Longer train rides ensue,

  Bring sense of independence.

  Wartime voyage across Atlantic,

  Convoy zigzags

  Two perilous weeks,

  Thrills me, exciting adventure.

  Land in Canada, overnight

  Train to Montreal, enter United States,

  Arrive Grand Central Station,

  Discover world’s largest city.

  ’Til now each train met by

  Someone, known or unfamiliar.

  Next train to College no one waits,

  Now completely on my own.

  Station in Pennsylvania recalls

  Earlier station five years before.

  Nervous and scared until

  Seeing father and new family.

  Years later, the Shoa film,

  Holocaust victims sardined in

  Cattle cars destined for gas chambers,

  Recalled my escape.

  Trains brought death to some,

  For me life—saved from extinction.

  The question haunts me still—

  Why was I spared?

  No explanation—

  Blind chance or hidden design?

  No answer satisfies.

  I am forever grateful.

  I strive for life of purpose,

  Struggle for social justice

  Answers my search for meaning,

  Becomes my North Star.

  APPENDIX 1: FROM FLOSSENBÜRG TO FREEDOM

  An Account of Imprisonment and a Death March, 1944–1945

  by Boleslav Kubáček

  Introduction and Translation by Ivan A. Backer

  Introduction

  Boleslav Kubáček was married to my mother’s youngest sister, Mila. They were married in 1932 and had no children. He was a bank manager in Bratislava, now the capital of Slovakia. In 1939 Boleslav joined the resistance movement and his cell met at the bank where he was in charge. Their main activity was to help people escape from Czechoslovakia through Hungary and Yugoslavia to the West—England and America. A chain of people was involved. Those who needed help came to Boleslav’s bank, and he took them to spend the night with others in the resistance. Some stayed with Boleslav and Mila. Those fleeing would be escorted across the border to Hungary.

  Everything was kept secret until 1944 when a traitor infiltrated the cell leading to the arrest of Boleslav and his collaborators on October 13 by the Nazis. He was put in solitary confinement, and his friend Bochan was imprisoned separately. They were allowed no visitors.

  Both Boleslav and Bochan were transferred to a prison in Brno, the capital of Moravia, where daily executions were taking place. In Brno, Boleslav was to be confronted by the man who betrayed the group. Boleslav was most afraid of him since he knew the betrayer had proof of the activities. The confrontation did not happen; instead Boleslav was sent to a concentration camp.

  Imprisonment

  Boleslav’s account begins with two quotations:

  “Fret not yourself because of the wicked,

  Be not envious of wrongdoers!

  For they will soon fade like grass

  And wither like the green herb.” (Psalm 37:1)

  “I firmly believe that after the current suffering,

  The government over your affairs

  Will return into your hands

  O Czech people!” —John Amos Comenius

  I begin this account [as a letter to his brother] with the quotation from Psalm 37 by which I tried to live long before I was arrested, and which sustained me during my years of imprisonment. The same is true of the faith Comenius had in the renewal of our freedom.

  A day in prison is interminably long. For two months I was in solitary confinement, as was Bochan. What thoughts haunted our minds—worry about our own future and that of those dearest to us. Everything that I had with me in Brno reminded me of my home and the painstaking hands of my wife, who hoped for my return. But I was in the clutches of the Gestapo monsters. In the corridor I heard the screech of the metal reinforced boots of the guards, and their blows and swearing at prisoners. I was reminded of the heading to Dante’s description of hell, “All hope is lost.”

  On December 11, I am led to a larger cell for six people. Bochan also is put in a similar cell, but a different one. This happens after both Bochan and I are cross-examined by the Gestapo. On Christmas day we receive a piece of dry bread and a cup of pea soup with barley that is full of little beetles.


  I am called in the evening of January 23, 1945, with the words “everybody out.” What now? Am I going home, to a concentration camp, or to be executed? Bochan is called from the other cell, and in the corridor he says with his usual smile, “So doctor [Boleslav was a lawyer and therefore a doctor of jurisprudence], we are either going to a concentration camp or to the wall [to be shot], but in any event let it be over.” He is suffering from the shock of the most immediate executions. A young partisan from his cell is a very recent victim. Fifteen minutes after he is called, he is in his shirt at the execution site and one of the monsters shouts, “We want to see blood.” The execution site is under a mosaic of Saint Wenceslas with the heading, “Don’t let us or our future perish.” These cruel destroyers!

  During the night from the 23rd to the 24th of January, Bochan and I are finally together for a few hours. We whisper about our experiences but are wary of making any noise. Bochan reminisces about his wife and son and says that he is glad that they have left Bratislava because he was uneasy there when he saw his wife having to cope with his absence. We hope for a happy ending. Heeding my advice, Bochan puts on warm underwear to brave the frost of the next morning. In the early hours they push us into a bus to take us to the railroad station.

  As we leave the bus I get my first blow with a rifle butt—so that I will move faster. We are put into a rickety old freight railcar, but it does have a roof. The SS guarding us are swinging their rifles whether they hit heads or something else. Forced to sit on the floor, pressed together like sardines, I sit on someone’s legs, and mine are similarly occupied. After a while I don’t feel the pain any longer. It is cold, and at six o’clock we start to move west. The train stops briefly in Prague at the Wilson station, but then it is on toward Pilzen and Cheb. We huddle for warmth during the night and lend our one pair of gloves to another prisoner to warm his hands.