Milena

by Margarete Buber-Neumann

  * Milena Jesenska, “No-manVland,” Pfiwmnosi, December 12, 1938.

  14

  LET US NOT PERISH…

  Why can’t we resign ourselves to the thought that to live in this very special, permanently suicidal tension is the right way (you used to say something of the sort now and then, and I tried to laugh atyou)…. That even here in the dark we can be so much alone is the strangest thing imaginable, and to tell you the truth I am able to believe it only half the time.

  —KAFKA, BR1EFE AN MILENA

  In the eyes of many Czechs the death of the Czech writer Karel Capek on Christmas Day, 1938, symbolized the downfall of the Czechoslovakian Republic. Now that Tomas Masaryk, founder and first president of the republic, was dead, Capek, who had been his close friend, came to be regarded as the embodiment of Czech democracy. After the dismemberment of Czechoslovakia this laid him open to a torrent of slander, and these largely anonymous attacks, directed against the old democratic system that was so dear to his heart, wounded him to the quick. In “The Last Days of Karel Capek,” Milena wrote: “Karel Capek had never been in perfect health. Sickly people love life and fear illness in a different way from the healthy. Their love of life is humble, as though they were further removed from it, as though they had had only a fleeting acquaintance with this glorious, magical thing. They feel life more intensely, and they see miraculous beauty in what others regard as commonplace. If trouble comes to them, their first reaction is one of humility. They say to themselves: It’s probably as it should be, I can take it. Rather than bother anyone with their trouble, they crawl away into solitude. Their reaction to illness is not, like that of the strong and healthy], one of defiant rage. They withstand illness by refusing to pay attention to it; they shift it from their body to their mind and suffer it in secret.

  “Karel Capek doesn’t seem to have taken to his bed until he was dying. Friends tell me how, when moving from his easy chair to his big bed, he would wave at a photograph of Tomáš Masaryk which he himself had taken and which was now hanging on the wall. He waved as people do from a train pulling out of the station…. Possibly this was no more than an involuntary movement. But who can say why it is that dying people, like animals, express the truth more forcefully in gestures than in words? I like to imagine, perhaps naively, that the dead writer took the picture of Masaryk with him and was still holding it when he knocked on the gates of Heaven.

  “He lay down to die as a pious man does. I don’t know whether Karel Capek believed in God. But he was a religious man, a man with a carefully worked-out system of moral values. Like a landslide, the year 1938 had swept away everything that had seemed stable in the world. Blow followed blow. Lost was the friendship of France, lost was faith in the ‘Marseillaise,’ that hymn to democratic freedom, lost were mountains and frontiers; what remained was a paralyzed nation, the terrifying helplessness of the writer himself, and worst of all, the jarring new language spoken by many Czechs, who were fouling their own nest. This was too much calamity for the heart of a man like Karel Capek, for whom to live was to build; for a man who loved a well-tended garden full of flowers, a hospitable house and the simple things of life. He was too modest, too diffident a man, to die of a broken heart. He died of pneumonia.

  “While the doctors fought for his life, he spoke in calm and simple sentences. He asked, ‘What’s the weather like outside? Is there ice on the ground? In ninety-one days we’ll go to Strz together. All of us. In Strz the trees and the grass wilt be green by then. In ninety-one days….’ “

  Strz is a stone house in the DombriS woods, not far from a dammed-up pond. It is surrounded by fifty acres of land. This land, this house and the view from it were as dear to Capek’s heart as if they had been living, breathing things. The more the world around him went to pieces, the more persistently he built. He moved boulders, regulated the flow of the brook, cleared ground. The result was miraculous: Those fifty acres contained everything that a man beloved of the Bohemian countryside could desire: ponds, a brook, a spring, a bit of a field, a copse, and a view of the intersecting lines of gentle hills—a landscape as harmonious as evening bells in the golden twilight.

  “But there were too many days between Capek and the springtime. He counted the hours and trembled, as though only the spring could save him. Ninety-one days. A ladder with ninety-one rungs. From the fourth he fell.

  “On Christmas Day snow fell and his room was filled with blue and white shadows. For a long time he was silent. Then his color changed. His wife Olga came into the room. ‘Haven’t the doctors told you I was better?’ Capek asked. Those were the last words he ever said. At a quarter to seven he ceased to breathe. He didn’t fight, he didn’t struggle. He merely ceased to breathe, to live. Those who wish to can believe that he died of bronchitis and pneumonia.”*

  When there was no other way of getting the material she needed for her articles, Milena took it directly from the enemy. In 1938 she obtained an interview with the press attache at the German embassy in Prague, who was so taken in by her innocent, forthright manner that he supplied her with information unavailable to any other Czech journalist. But she never boasted of such success; it showed up only in her articles. At the embassy she made important observations. On her very first visit, she noticed that the embassy was literally swarming with personnel. She inferred quite correctly that the National Socialists were already planning an attack on Czechoslovakia and that these supernumerary “diplomats” were Hitler’s “fifth column.”

  Even after the occupation of Czechoslovakia, Milena kept in touch with these representatives of the enemy. She wanted to see them firsthand, to study their mentality.

  After Munich, Milena’s influence on the policies of Přítomnost increased, for one thing because so many of her colleagues left— particularly the Jews among them, but also those who no longer dared express their opposition and those who preferred to keep still rather than compromise. In the dark autumn and winter months, she did not give in to the general feeling of hopelessness. The urgent need to provide help and consolation for those who were most endangered brought out a whole new set of talents in her.

  In February 1939, four weeks before the Germans marched in, she replied to a provocative article by a German Nazi with a piece entitled “How to Handle the Czechs.” Twenty-three years later an old man from Prague, who had been living abroad for years, read Milena’s reply and was deeply moved. “How is it possible,” he cried out, “that Frank [head of the Gestapo in Czechoslovakia] didn’t have her arrested and shot?”

  Milena was a master of camouflage, but in this article she threw caution to the winds. She flung the truth in the Nazi’s face and turned his slogans against him. Most people today, especially the young, for whom the Hitler period is ancient history, who know Communist dictatorships only from hearsay and take freedom of the press for granted, will be unlikely to realize what courage it took in the Prague of 1939 to write such an article:

  “A nation adapts psychologically to the political situation, and traces of such adaptation can be found in all of us. Our little nation of eight million people is developing a quality unsuspected elsewhere in Europe: an unusual variety of courage. Our courage takes the form of tenacity and endurance. The very fact that we have had to suffer more than fight may have sharpened our wits, has given each one of us the ability to size up a situation quickly. At first sight this may be taken for submis-siveness. But such impressions are deceptive. The mere will to survive may not seem to be a very lofty idea. But thus far we have had no better. All we have ever wanted was to live in accordance with our nature and national character, speaking the language of our ancestors….

  “When I chance to look at photographs of these grandiose times, photographs of Berlin, Vienna, Rome, showing human walls, palisades of upraised right hands, forests of flags and streamers, marching columns under dazzling floodlights, I always think: that kind of thing could not happen here. I do not mean that we wouldn’t be capable of organizing such festivities
, I mean that such celebrations are alien to our nature. The Czechs have no feeling for legendary heroes. They are more concerned with simple, everyday matters. The closer a person is to us, the more we love him; the more simply and warmly he speaks to us, the more we welcome him. The fewer bodyguards he has, the safer he will be in our midst. This attitude has its roots in the profoundly democratic character of our people, in our need for human warmth, in our respect for the human individual and his absolutely free will, which to our way of thinking is the prerequisite of all true happiness…”

  “We have often been told of late that we have been incorporated into the Greater German living space and that within this living space we constitute, so to speak, a country and a homeland.

  “I am a Czech and as such I have a good musical ear. From the sound of a word I can infer its true meaning. ‘Space’ suggests sky, air, clouds, something vast, unconfined. But we live down here on the earth, on the soil from which we wrest our daily bread by our labor. We have lived here for centuries. Grandfathers have handed down their plows to fathers, fathers to sons. We have never acquired much ‘space,’ we are only a people of eight million souls, a people with its language, its manners and customs, its songs, its yearnings and ideals. In my opinion, we do not constitute a bridge between Germans and Slavs. We, the Czechs of today, constitute a bridge between the Czechs of yesterday and those of tomorrow. We shall teach our children the hymn of Saint Wenceslaus. That and nothing else….

  “A German National Socialist wrote in the last issue of Pri-omnost: ‘All Germans without exception are National Socialists … it is their self-evident right to proclaim their belief, …’ I can only reply that we too demand nothing other than our self-evident right…. But when you write about the ‘urgent need for a rebirth of the Czech soul,’ I must repeat my question. How can a rebirth be urgently needed? A rebirth must be organic. It cannot be imposed from outside. No nation’s soul can be reborn by command … the most that can be done is to paste on labels and speak of a ‘successful rebirth.’ If you get anything in this way, it will be a changeling. Just as the German soul required a period of slow growth before National Socialism with its rebarbative opinions could crystallize out, so the soul of the Czech nation grew slowly from the Battle of Lipany* to the battle of the White Mountain* and from then until Munich; and during this period of growth certain opinions have crystallized out, which pulsate like living things in each one of us.

  “Our history can be summed up in two sentences, originating in two different epochs: ‘Strike, kill, spare no time …’† and ‘Don’t let us, or those who come after us, perish….’‡ Undoubtedly our present bears the mark of the latter. We may as well admit it. And take it as our duty to sing this song passionately and loudly—or merely to hum it softly. To these words we react at least as sensitively as the Germans to the Peace of Versailles. If you want to have us as good neighbors, you must honor this song, for it is the expression of our national souI!”§

  * Milena Jesenska, “The Last Days of Karel Capek,” Pfitomnou, January 11, 1939,

  * “The Battle of Lipany in 1431, at which the Hussite army was defeated.

  * The Battle of the White Mountain in 1620, in which the Bohemian Protestants under King Frederick V were defeated, whereupon Bohemia ceased to be an independent country.

  † From the war song of the Hussites, circa 1420.

  ‡ From the hymn of Saint Wenceslaus, one of the oldest Christian hymns, circa A.D. 1000.

  § Milena Jesenskä, “How to Handle the Czechs,” Pritomnost, February 15, 1939.

  15

  THE CATASTROPHE

  Your earnestness and your strength—what depths they plumb!

  —KAFKA, BRIEFE AN MILENA

  On the night of March 14, 1939, Milena, like thousands of her compatriots, was unable to sleep. With despair in her heart she stood at her window, looking down on the familiar scene. The streetlamps cast the same shadows as on other nights, and the star-shaped square across the way was as deserted as usual. “… The only difference was that beginning at three o’clock more and more lights went on; next door, across the street, downstairs, upstairs, all along the street … meaning that everyone knew. … At four o’clock, the Czech radio begins to broadcast; every five minutes, the same brief announcements: ‘Attention! Attention! The German army has crossed the border and is moving on Prague. Keep calm. Go to your work! Send your children to school! …’ Over the rooftops a dreary dawn. A pale moon behind the clouds, faces drawn with sleeplessness, a pot of hot coffee, radio announcements at regular intervals. That is how great events creep up on us, quietly, unexpectedly. But once the thing has happened, we know we’ve been expecting it all along….”

  Milena shakes off her stupor, goes to the phone, and calls her Jewish friends. Always the same question: “Have you heard?” And always the same answer: “Yes.” She does her best to cheer them up. “Count on me. I won’t let you down,” “Milena seemed to have been made to deal with catastrophes,” wrote Willy Haas, one of those she called up that night. “The more distraught her friends were, the more calm, the more steadfast, the greater she was.”

  At daybreak Milena went out to see what was going on. “… At half-past seven swarms of children were on their way to school as usual. Workers were on their way to their jobs as usual. The streetcars were packed as usual. Only the people were different. They stood there in silence. I have never heard so many people being so profoundly silent. No crowds formed. In the offices no one looked up from his desk. … At 9:35 the vanguard of Hitler’s army reached the city center, German army trucks rumbled down Narodni Tfida, the main street of Old Prague. As usual, the sidewalks were full of people, but no one turned to look. … I can’t explain how it came about that thousands of people suddenly behaved in exactly the same way, that so many hearts, quite unknown to one another, beat in the same rhythm…. The German army was welcomed only by the German population of Prague…”*

  A young German, Count Joachim von Zedtwitz, who had just completed his medical studies in Prague, has given an account of his reaction to the events of March 15. That morning, having slept through the entry of the German troops and suspecting nothing, he went out to buy rolls. The first thing that caught his eye was an army motorcycle with sidecar; a soldier in a foreign uniform was sitting in it. In a flash von Zedtwitz realized what had happened. His first impulse was to seize the man by the throat and choke him. But he restrained himself, for when he looked around he saw that the whole street was clogged with trucks carrying German soldiers, thousands of them, column after column…. Prague, the bastion of freedom, had fallen.

  Tears were streaming down the faces of the people around him: Without a moment’s hesitation he ran to the home of his Jewish friend Neumann, whose mother opened the door anxiously. Her son, she said, was not at home. What did Zedtwitz want of him? “How can you ask? You must all leave here at once.” The old woman shook her head. “No, young man, we will never leave. The river is just behind the house. We know what to do.”

  To Zedtwitz such an attitude was incomprehensible. How could anyone think of suicide when it was time to band together, to fight, and to save those who were in danger? He ran from one Jewish family to another. At last he found his friend Neumann. “If you’re ready to help,” Neumann said, “I’ll send you someone tomorrow. He will identify himself with a gray visiting card.” Two days later Zedtwitz’s doorbell rang. A tall, gangling Englishman handed him a scrap of gray wrapping paper with the name “Harold” scribbled on it. That was the beginning. A small group formed, including Harold Stovin, Kenneth Ogier, Bill Henson, and Mary Johnston, who until the day before had taught English at the British Institute in Prague. They were all friends of Neumann’s. In Zedtwitz’s opinion they were sensitive souls, unsuited to resistance work, but the arrival of the Germans and a sense of responsibility for the lives of endangered people transformed them into heroes.

  Zedtwitz owned a car. Just what they needed to carry out their plan of sm
uggling prominent Jews across the Polish border. But while they were making arrangements they needed a hiding place for the fugitives, since the Gestapo was already offering high rewards to anyone providing information leading to the arrest of prominent Jews. Someone thought of Milena, who immediately declared her willingness to hide the fugitives in her apartment and participate in the group’s work.

  In an article of March 22, Milena wrote: “The German soldiers behaved decently. It is amazing what a change takes place when a monolithic formation breaks down the individuals, when one human individual stands face-to-face with another.” She herself must have witnessed the following incident: “On Väclavske Nämesti a Czech girl saw a group of German soldiers approaching. Because this was the second day of the occupation and everybody’s nerves were on edge, and because on the second day we were able to think again and realize what had happened, she burst into tears. Then a strange thing happened. A German soldier, a common little footslogger, came up to her and said, ‘Ach, Fräulein, it’s not our fault….’ He comforted her as one comforts a child. He looked like a typical German with a freckled face and reddish hair. He was wearing a German uniform but was otherwise no different from one of our Czech boys, a plain man serving his country. Two human beings stood face-to-face and ‘were not to blame.’ Those terribly commonplace words are the key to the whole situation.