Hitler, Stalin and I

by Heda Margolius Kovály

  When I talked to people afterward, everybody kept asking what I thought of the people who refused to help me. I think that I was fully entitled to endeavor to save my life – everybody had a right to defend one’s life, but I had no right to demand that someone else sacrifice himself or herself for me. That couldn’t be asked for; that could only be done voluntarily. The whole of Prague was covered in horrible pink posters printed with columns of the names of people executed for helping partisans or escapees like me. And often there were as many as five of the same surnames – they murdered the whole family because they had hidden someone on the run. That wouldn’t be right. So I never resented the people who didn’t help. The only person I begrudged was the first man, Jiří; because he was a bachelor and a soldier, he had a moral responsibility to help everybody in my situation, whether partisans or escapees. My request was entirely proper.

  I lived in the Dejvice apartment until the end of the war, and no one took any notice of me even though I kept going in and out all the time. I still do not understand it. Finally one beautiful day I sat by the radio and heard the Czechoslovak broadcasting corporation announce the beginning of the Prague Uprising, calling people to help fight the Nazis. I took a piece of paper and wrote on it: La mort est morte, vive la vie [Death has died, long live life], and went into the streets, for the first time as a free person. That was how the war ended for me.

  Demonstrations against the Nazi occupation soon turned into military action against German soldiers during the Prague Uprising, May 5–8, 1945.

  Courtesy Česká televize.

  X

  STRIPTEASE AT THE HOUSING DEPARTMENT

  THE PRAGUE UPRISING

  The Prague Uprising was obviously a very interesting event. I was in Dejvice and thought that I would join in helping to build the street barricades. When the shooting started they also gave me a rifle, and I wasted a few bullets with no result. I realized that shooting wasn’t for me and went to the medical center set up to treat the wounded, where I tried to help as much as I could.

  By then I realized how much society had been altered during the war, how people had changed and what sort of problems we could expect. In the medical center they cared for anybody who had been wounded, be it the German soldiers or our people. One German soldier lay there, dying, requesting water, so I gave him a drink. A woman I knew from my school told me, “If I didn’t know that you were in the camps I’d report you. The doctor said, ‘Tend to the Czechs, but break the German necks.’”

  Nobody could have been more hurt by the Germans than I, but when someone was dying he was no longer dangerous. I thought that we should have had a more generous attitude, but then being in the middle of it, I realized that not everything was quite the same as before. In that time of shortages people donated their last bottles of rum and packets of biscuits to the medical center. Grandmothers baked cakes so we had something to give to the wounded. But when the shifts changed in the evening, the volunteers who were leaving helped themselves to half of the donated goods, taking them home for themselves. On one hand people behaved very bravely; on the other I noticed that some values had changed already.

  During the last days of the uprising the fighting went on with almost bare hands. There were no weapons to be had, and people really despaired because the Germans defended themselves to the last man. When escaping from Prague, they kept shooting at people along their route. It was a desperate situation. We knew that the Americans had stopped at Pilsen, but not that there were treaties about the future of Europe – that those soldiers stood there because they weren’t allowed to advance, and that at those conferences we were predetermined to come under the influence of the Soviet Union. We couldn’t understand why the Americans didn’t come to help us in spite of being so close.

  The medical center received news that weapons were to be collected from Dejvice railway station. They looked for volunteers who could bring them, and I agreed to go. However, two persons were needed because the weapons were hidden in a large, oval wicker laundry basket, which had two handles. No one else wanted to come, and finally an older grey-haired nurse agreed to join me. While I was just an inexperienced helper at the center, she was a truly qualified nurse. They gave me a nurse’s cap and an armband with the red cross, and she had similar attire.

  We walked to the station. The stationmaster stood there with two German soldiers, talking. When we came he nodded and pointed at the basket covered in a white cloth with the red cross painted on it. We grabbed the basket, each of us holding one handle, and turned back. The basket was very heavy. The fighting continued in the streets. Suddenly we turned a corner, and there, a very young German soldier stopped us, aiming alternately at each of us with his machine gun. The nurse got scared and dropped her handle, and the basket jingled. He started to scream: “What’s inside?” She was stiff with fear, but suddenly plucked up her courage and in beautiful German replied: “Look; we carry bandages for the wounded.” She partly uncovered the top cloth and revealed a thin layer of bandages, boxes of cotton and other packages, but underneath, the rifles remained hidden. And she added: “I’ll give you one; it would be handy in case you get wounded.” She gave him a bandage, and he was so startled that he put it in his pocket. In the meantime we lifted the basket and continued on. I remember that woman fondly because she was really a very brave person. Her character revealed that she approached events with great selflessness. She was terrified, but when the going got tough she behaved brilliantly.

  Then came the moment when the Red Army entered Prague. Obviously it was a great celebration. Tanks and armored cars drove across Prague. I sat on one myself with a bunch of lilacs in my arms, enormously exhilarated; we were all happy that the war had ended. For me it was fantastic that I could wander around Prague without fear. My leg was grazed by a bullet, so I limped. But that didn’t stop me roaming Prague. I lived in Dejvice because Rudolf Syrovátka hadn’t returned with his family yet. In the parks one could hear shooting because the Germans were hiding on the rooftops of surrounding houses. But the weather was beautiful; shrubs and trees were in bloom – the spring was gorgeous. I limped down to Klárov, and there by the Mánes Bridge an SS-man lay in a pool of blood. I stopped by him, looked at Prague across the river, and reflected: “Now at this moment and at this spot, the war is over because he’s dead, and I’m alive.”

  Then I started the quest for the remaining members of our family who survived the war. At the broadcasting house they had a daily program announcing those who had returned to Prague, and who was looking for whom. That was very important. Everybody sat by the radio because almost every family had somebody taken away or missing. When we were building the barricades, there were only young men. Every one of them said: “They murdered my father; they killed my brother; they detained my best friend.”

  The third or fourth evening the radio announced that Ervín Bloch had returned to Prague – I wasn’t sure from which concentration camp – and that he was trying to get in touch with his friends. Ervín Bloch was my father’s name. I thought: “Good God, perhaps this is another miracle, and my father has managed to get out of there.” The next day I ran to the broadcasting house. There were so many people standing – all the way down from Fochova to Wenceslas Square. I struggled forward, but the crowd was so impenetrable that I thought I wouldn’t be able to reach the studio. Suddenly people turned around, looked at me and said: “Come on, go ahead.” Some people were tremendously kind. They separated and formed a narrow passage to let me inside. The announcer was a very tired, thin, gaunt individual who throughout the day read who had arrived and who was looking for whom to enable families to find their loved ones. I came to his office and told him that I thought the man he mentioned last night could have been my father. He said: “Look, I don’t have even a minute free, there are so many people asking for help. But sit down, and I’ll try to send a message to your father.” I was there the whole day, and now and then he interrupted his broadcast to say: “We call our comrad
e Ervín Bloch to come to the broadcasting house where his daughter is waiting for him.” Nothing happened. By the evening I was very sad, and he said: “You go home. We’ll arrange for a news bulletin that we usually send to other foreign broadcasting services. I’ll keep on announcing that you were here, and maybe someone else will pick up this news and your father will get in touch.”

  Liberating Russian soldiers shake the hands of residents after driving the Germans out of Prague, 1945.

  Courtesy Česká televize.

  In the morning the announcer called me and said: “You know, we didn’t find your father.” Later it turned out that it was another, younger man, who had the same name. “But a Rudolf Margolius from Garmisch-Partenkirchen got in touch and was asking if you were Heda.” I said: “My God …” And he said: “All right, we’ll broadcast tonight, and I’ll let him know that you’re here in Prague.” In the evening I sat at home by the radio all excited telling myself: “My God, what if it’s really Rudolf?” The man announced: “We thank Rudolf Margolius for his message,” because Rudolf had sent a message about the Garmisch-Partenkirchen refugee camp for displaced persons.

  Rudolf had been interned in Dachau, and when the war ended they opened the gates, marched the prisoners out, and while being shot at Rudolf and a friend escaped into a trench and then ran over to the Americans. When they learned that Rudolf could speak several languages they made him a leader of the refugee camp based in Garmisch-Partenkirchen for prisoners not only from the former concentration camps but all other displaced people who were trying to get repatriated. Rudolf’s task was to look after those people, organize them, feed them, get them cleaned up and arrange their transport home. Everything was in chaos and destroyed; the war had just ended.

  Rudolf was also listening to the radio that evening: “We thank Rudolf Margolius for his message about the Garmisch-Partenkirchen refugee camp situation and wish to let him know that his wife Heda is in Prague.” And I said: “Great, Rudolf must be listening, that’s marvelous. He must be pleased.” However, later I learned that as soon as the announcer said: “We thank Rudolf Margolius,” there was a power outage in Garmisch, and Rudolf didn’t hear a word more.

  Rudolf stayed there until the last person was sent home. At the beginning of June, a few weeks later, a group of Czechs left there on the last train to Prague. When the train arrived at the Prague railway station they all remained inside while Rudolf went to phone the broadcasting house. When he came out of the phone booth, the whole train shouted: “Was it Heda?” Rudolf nodded in confirmation. Only then did they all jump off and go home.

  After the war, to return to Prague brought an avalanche of problems. No one had anywhere to live when they returned home, whether they were returnees from the camps, partisans or persecuted people, some of whom had been forced to work in Germany while in their absence their apartments were taken over by others.

  When I heard from the broadcast that Rudolf was alive I immediately started to look for some lodgings because I had to vacate the Dejvice apartment when the former owners returned. First I lived with one or two friends, but it was uncomfortable for all. So I also slept in a hostel several times. It was quite unacceptable, so I decided to find a flat before Rudolf came back.

  I went to the housing department where there were long lines and terrible scenes. People who spent the war hiding in the forests, living in tents or caves couldn’t get a place to live. Then some swindler, who had special relations with the housing officers and had a flat already, danced in, asked for a better one and got it while those in the line got nothing.

  Initially I wasn’t worried about it because I was happy to be back in Prague and in one piece. My good mood was indestructible. On one hand I walked around Prague feeling like landmines were exploding under every step I took as I remembered here I had walked with my father, there with my mother, here with my cousin. All that we had loved and what had formed our lives was totally destroyed. On the other hand, the beauty of Prague and that splendid springtime, and that I was young and had so much life within and wanted so much to make up for that time spent in hell – that always raised my spirits because I had hope that whatever happened next wouldn’t be as bad as the past.

  I stood there, and one man who also wanted a flat came to me and said: “Listen, if you keep being so happy you’ll never get an apartment. You have to make a fuss.” I told myself that he was right; standing passively in the line didn’t get me anywhere. One late afternoon I entered the housing department office, where the clerks ruled and threw applicants out constantly. I even got thrown out several times because they had nothing to give. They were sorry, but they had no flats.

  I went in and sat behind a table. From Milena’s bag I took out a beautiful white napkin, a bottle of milk, a glass and a piece of bread – all that Milena gave me. I sat in a chair and made myself comfortable and said: “I’m not moving until I get an apartment because I don’t have anywhere to go tonight.” Which was true. Two clerks ran out of the office to discuss the situation privately while I awaited the outcome. They came back and said: “You can’t stay here. You have to go home.” I said: “I have nowhere else to go; I’ll stay the night.” I started to undo the buttons on my blouse, also given to me by Milena. They started to quarrel with me: “You can’t do that!” But I said, “There’s no other way. I’m not moving. If I don’t get a flat, you have to let me stay because I have nowhere to go, and I won’t sleep in the street because of you.” They left again.

  I thought about what else I could unbutton. I must have been the first woman who ever did a striptease in government offices, but it didn’t get that far. I was only down to the third button when one of the clerks came back and brought a piece of paper and said: “If we give you this tenancy contract will you leave immediately?” I replied: “When I finish my milk. Would you like some?” He said no and completed the contract; I finished the milk, ate the bread, folded the napkin and put it back into the bag and walked out.

  The apartment we got was tiny, but it was an apartment. When Rudolf came back to Prague he had somewhere to put his head down. And then our new life started.

  Ivan Margolius and his father, Rudolf Margolius, Prague, 1951.

  Courtesy Margolius Family Archive.

  XI

  CARP ARE NOT KILLED HERE

  THE POSTWAR LIFE

  How was your reunion?

  Our renewed union was gratifying but not in any way stormy. Behind us were very difficult times as well as an enormous stockpile of personal anxiety about each other, so it was quite calm – finally, at last everything came up to the surface, at least for the two of us. We existed in the shadow cast by the fact that from his family and my own quite numerous family, it was only the two of us who had come back. That was a miracle because, of the people who came with us to Łódź Ghetto, perhaps only two or three other pairs survived; otherwise they were both dead, or only one partner came back, but not the other.

  Rudolf was a workaholic and immediately started to look for work. He was a lawyer and, before the war, went through an internship in a law office, but he didn’t want to continue with law. I think he would have preferred to lecture. He started studying at home and gathered many books. We planned our life – we wanted to have a baby, furnish our apartment, get a small dog and make a home for ourselves. We wanted to be like other people.

  For our first Christmas I stood in a line and got a small pretty carp, as was the Czech custom at that time. I kept it swimming in the bath. Rudolf had been working already for several months, and when he came home in the evening, I told him: “Come and see; we have a carp.” We observed how it swam beautifully, and Rudolf said: “Who will kill it? Have you asked the concierge?” And I said: “The concierge has a note on the door: ‘Carp are not killed here.’” So we stood there and looked at the carp without speaking. Then I left, brought a shopping bag, and without a word opened it; in silence Rudolf reached into the bath, caught the carp and put it in the bag. Both of us went
out to the river and threw the carp in. We were pleased thinking the carp would be very happy and went home to make schnitzels instead. It was a wonderful Christmas.

  Rudolf Margolius and Ivan Margolius, Prague, 1948.

  Ivan Margolius and Heda Margolius, Prague, 1948.

  Courtesy Margolius Family Archive.

  Everything appeared to go very well, and then our son was born – a beautiful, healthy boy – even though Ivan was born after the political problems had already started. I refused to get involved in public affairs. I wanted to have my own life. I wanted to reinvent myself as a woman, to have the same interests and aims as others, but after the events we lived through it wasn’t really possible. We had changed, and the life around us had been altered. It was a grave mistake that we were unable to come to terms with that change. People who lived through what we had, on the whole had a sense that their lives weren’t theirs alone. We had a sense that whoever survived the war, it was through a miracle that occurred in order for us to achieve something better on the behalf of others; not to live just for ourselves, but to make sure that those events never get repeated – and we do so in memory of our murdered parents, siblings and other people who suffered, to endeavor to change the world and stop people from hating each other, to make the world a better place not only for ourselves.

  Some gave in to the feeling of guilt that only they had survived. I used to think: “How come I survived and my amazing mother and father who did so much good in their lives perished in such an awful way? How is it that people allowed this to happen? Those millions and millions of soldiers who died senselessly, millions of people who were murdered, burned like rubbish, as bits of garbage, who suffered in the torture chambers …” We carried all this within ourselves, so that it couldn’t be forgotten. It couldn’t be forgiven in any way; that was something that could never, never happen again. That was our main aim.