by Dita Kraus
Eva and Pavel Lukeš remained in Shaar Chefer. They were our closest friends throughout the years. When Otto and I retired, we played bridge with them twice a week. In 2017 we lost Eva, and sadly Pavel died in 2019. They had a son, three grandchildren, and two great-grandchildren.
The only one who stayed on in Givat Chaim was Eva Schlachetová, who changed her name to the Hebrew Michal Efrat. She and I were roommates in Hamburg and Bergen-Belsen, where both our mothers died. In Prague she studied graphics, and in Israel she became a well-known illustrator of children’s books. She had a son, three grandsons, and two great-grandchildren. We would meet quite often and always had a lot to talk about. Sadly, when I was writing this story in 2018, the news came that Michal died in her sleep.
The friends described here are just those with whom we came to Israel on the same train and ship. There were many others with whom we kept in contact, but most of them are friends from before the war or from Terezín and Auschwitz.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Later Years
When Israel became an independent state, it was befriended by Czechoslovakia. Our pilots were trained there, and the Czechs sold us weapons. But this changed drastically when the Czechs realized that Israel hadn’t come under the influence of the Soviet Union, as they had expected, but had instead allied itself with the United States. Israel was viewed as an enemy of the socialist Czechoslovak Republic. Zionism became a curse word. The Czech ambassador was recalled from Tel Aviv, and Israelis couldn’t get visas to visit Czechoslovakia.
Only a few courageous friends kept writing to us in Israel. It was known that anyone corresponding with the “West” was suspected of spying, and their letters were vigilantly read by censors. Aunt Manya didn’t write; we received news about her only a few times from her sister Zdenka. Margit, of course, wrote often and sent photos of her daughters and later her grandchildren. Vala and Véna from Náchod stayed in contact with us all the time, and, when they died, Věra continued writing without fear. But many friends vanished from our lives.
We were actually banned from our former homeland, much like our forefathers who, with Moses, were destined to wander in the desert for forty years. Figuratively, of course, because Israel in modern times is far from being a desert.
When we came to Israel in 1949, just a year after the establishment of the independent state, the country was, if not really a desert, still very underdeveloped and backward. Along the narrow, potholed road that we traveled from the tent camp to Tel Aviv, we saw untilled land full of weeds and thorns. I remember my disappointment when Uncle Ernst-Benjamin proudly took us for a walk to show us Tel Aviv. The seashore was littered with junk; shabby kiosks sold lemonade. On Allenby Street, the shopwindows were dirty, the displays heaps of unattractive wares.
Someone who saw it then and came today would think it was another country. Instead of the bleak houses, there are modern buildings and tree-lined streets. Tel Aviv’s promenade is a jewel of sandy beaches, with high-rise hotels and restaurants that can compete with the choicest of the world. Every former swamp is turned into arable land; there are four- and six-lane highways full of traffic.… Truly a vibrant, strong country.
* * *
In March 1989, exactly forty years after our departure, Otto and I traveled to Prague. Czechoslovakia was still under Communist rule. Otto and Ruth Bondy had been invited as delegates to participate in a symposium held in Terezín, commemorating the Auschwitz family camp. I was permitted to come along as the delegation’s photographer.
It was a weird experience. At the airport we were met by a Communist functionary, who took us into his office. The official welcomed us with flowery party phrases and, with a wink, offered to give us entry visas on a separate sheet, so that they wouldn’t be seen in our passports. The poor man thought we would be in trouble on our return if the Israeli passport controller discovered that we had been in Czechoslovakia!
Next day was free, and we walked the streets of our native Prague, visiting the places where we grew up, our schools and favorite parks. We passed the National Theater, stood on the Legií bridge, and Otto said, “Look, the Vltava is still flowing.…”
We had completely erased our old country from memory. It was as if Czechoslovakia had ceased to exist for forty years.
* * *
But just a few months after that memorable visit, the Communist regime ended with the famous Velvet Revolution, and the country became a democracy again. Now we could visit whenever we wanted. We reconnected with old friends: Otto with his literary people—Joska Hiršál, Zdeněk Urbánek—and with former campmates Pavel Stránský, Jirka Franěk, and others. I also found my childhood friends Raja and Gerta, and some of the girls from the Terezín Heim L 410 and the Kinderblock. I heard that they routinely met once a year in the Krkonoše Mountains. I had a great wish to see them, and the following September, there was a happy reunion.
Gerta Altschul, 1945
It was a memorable event, and since 2006 I have joined them every year for a few days. From Israel came other Terezín survivors, some with their husbands or adult children. Among the regular participants were Ella Weissberger from America, from Prague came Helga Hošková, and from Brno Anna Flachová (Flaška). Even two of our former educators from the Heim once participated: Eva Weissová from England and another, whose name I have forgotten, from Sweden.
We usually lodged in Hotel Horal in Špindlerův Mlýn. Every day we would either take the cable car to the top of the mountain, go on walking tours, or swim in the pool. We sang tunes from the opera Brundibár or songs by Voskovec and Werich. But what we did most of the time was talk, remembering the past and the many lost friends. Sadly, each year there were fewer participants, and the last time only three of us came.
By a lucky chance, I also discovered another person from my prewar years. It happened on one of my Prague sojourns. My friend Flaška from Brno invited me to a concert that her talented son, Tomáš Hanus, was going to conduct in one of Prague’s quaint, ancient churches. The program included the premiere of a work by a contemporary composer, Jan Klusák. After the concert Flaška took me to the dressing room to introduce me to her son. There were several other men waiting for the conductor to change into street clothes and go to celebrate with the composer.
All through the concert I had been thinking about the name Klusák. Before the war, my parents were friends with a couple named Porges. I remembered that the wife’s maiden name had been Klusáková. We often went on day trips with them and their little son, Honzík. It was with Mrs. Porgesová and Honzík that my mother and I shared a summer vacation home in a villa in Senohraby in 1937. We went swimming together in the river Sázava or walking in the woods. But I didn’t play with Honzík, because he was five years younger than me.
At first I didn’t dare approach the famous composer. But as we stood there waiting, I worked up the courage and asked him, “Excuse me, but were you by any chance in Senohraby as a child?”
“Yes, I was,” he replied, nodding.
I wasn’t yet sure, so I asked, “And was your father’s first name Otto?”
“Yes,” he said, surprised, and looked at me curiously.
“I was there with you,” I blurted out.
The other people became interested, stopped talking, and watched us. With amazement in his voice, he said, “You are Edith Polachová?”
I could only nod and whisper, “And you are little Honzíček.”
The room was silent; Flaška wiped her tears, and I was overcome by emotion.
Then Honzík said, “Mother and I thought you didn’t return. We looked for you. My father died in the war. I still have the special ruler you gave me when we came to say goodbye before they deported you. I use it for the lines when I’m composing.”
Flaška wanted me to join them for the celebration, but I was too overcome by emotion and needed to be alone.
But the next morning Honzík came to visit me, holding a large briefcase. He took out the ruler, which showed the w
ear from years of use. Then he opened his family album. There were photos of trips with both our parents and also from Senohraby. I have the same photos in my album.
Since our reunion, we meet once a year. Some time ago Honzík invited me to the premiere of his opera Filoktétés, which was staged at the National Theater. We are good friends now; the age difference doesn’t matter any longer.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Otto’s Writings
When Otto was asked what his profession was, he would answer: “My true calling in life is to write, but I make my living as a teacher.” Indeed, he never stopped writing. After he corrected the students’ papers and prepared the lessons for the next day, he would sit at his desk or under the tree in the front garden and write. Sometimes he sat for a long stretch just staring into the distance. He would explain, “Don’t think that I’m idle. In fact I’m working hard—I’m thinking.” Yet publishing remained a painful disappointment. After the Hebrew translation of his first novel, Land Without God, 1 and the next novel, which resulted in us leaving the kibbutz, no publisher was interested. The main problem was language. There was no translator from Czech to Hebrew in Israel, except Ruth Bondy, but she was busy with her own writing.
Otto then started to write in English. He felt that his Czech was getting rusty, and, anyway, all day long he was immersed in English, so he felt at home in it. Computers didn’t exist yet; Otto wrote in a large notebook with a Parker pen donated by a rich uncle. I would then type it on our Olivetti typewriter, making three copies with blue carbon sheets between. But no one wanted to publish English books in Israel. He would send his manuscripts abroad, to England, America. But each time, he got refusals: “Sorry, but the topic doesn’t suit us.” Sometimes no reason was even given. It frustrated him, and he started doubting his talent. “Maybe I’m not a good writer.” But after some time, he would recover his confidence and go on creating. He just couldn’t give it up.
And finally recognition arrived. When the Communist regime in Czechoslovakia fell and democracy was reestablished, a number of his English manuscripts were translated to Czech and published in rapid succession. Even after his death, some of his previously unpublished works appeared.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
At the Imperial Museum
In the first years after my return from the concentration camps, I remembered my experiences in great detail. When I met people who were survivors like me, we spoke about Auschwitz and Terezín and Bergen-Belsen. But we didn’t open up easily before the others, the uninitiated, whom we felt were unable to comprehend.
In later years, when we had children, Otto and I spoke freely about our years in the Holocaust. We didn’t mind that the children listened, too. And so, among other things, my younger son, Ronny, remembered that I once told him that after the liberation of Bergen-Belsen by the British army, I happened to be filmed by the army photographers who were documenting the camp.
In 2002 Ronny searched the Internet and learned that the documentary films are stored at the British Imperial War Museum. He contacted the museum and was informed that anyone who wishes to view them can do so by appointment. Ronny urged me to travel to London, and after some hesitation, I decided to go and also use the occasion to visit my good friend Eva Gross, who had moved from London and lived in the south of England.
At the end of May 2002, I sat for two days at the Imperial British War Museum in a small studio, surrounded by stacks of round tin boxes containing reels of film, and watched on a small screen the horrors of Bergen-Belsen. The boxes had tags with dates, descriptions of the scenes, and the names of the film crew. This enabled me to choose the parts in which I might be seen and eliminate others where it was less probable.
The experience was very harrowing. I watched the bulldozers scooping out the earth for the mass graves, the burial of the thousands of bodies, most of them naked, some already in a state of decomposition, the skeletal surviving prisoners wrapped in blankets, facing the camera with their sunken eyes, reel after reel, hour after hour.
Toward noon on the second day, I suddenly recognized Eva Kraus, Otto’s cousin. She was filmed in conversation with some officer, smiling and wearing a head scarf that was familiar. We had found two identical scarves in the pocket of a coat when we, together with other prisoners, looted the German storehouses in the camp a few days after the liberation. The scarves were blue with white polka dots, and we each took one.
The film rolled on, and suddenly I saw myself.
I am wearing a jacket and the polka-dotted head scarf tied under my chin, standing next to a soldier who sits in a jeep. He offers me a cigarette and lights it for me. On my left arm is the white armband with the letter i, denoting “interpreter.”
I stopped the reel as instructed. I was so excited I couldn’t speak and sat motionless for a while, trying to calm down. When I’d started my search, I really did not expect to find anything. It was so long ago, so improbable, a crazy idea! And now there was proof that it happened, that I had really been there. Suddenly it was no longer a vague memory, something perhaps not even true. It rose from the distant past and became a hard fact.
Even the staff of the museum were excited at my discovery. They had experienced only rare cases when survivors recognized themselves positively in those documentaries. The museum people made a copy of the video and mailed it to me. It arrived within a few days at Eva’s place, and we watched it together.
It is a very short scene, lasting just half a minute. But for me it is an immensely important document. Events I remember from the concentration camps might be distorted or might even not be true, they happened so many years ago. But here was tangible evidence, historical truth. This was filmed in Bergen-Belsen, and that was me in the jacket and head scarf. And I also remember the soldier; he was a redhead. That was Leslie.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Trips and Returns: Journey to Japan
One day in the spring of 1996, I got a phone call from Aliza Schiller, the administrator of Beit Terezín. Beit Terezín is a memorial site established in Kibbutz Givat Chaim, which serves also as a library, museum, and archive. Aliza told me that a female journalist from Japan would like to talk with me. A meeting was arranged at my place in Netanya, and that is how I met Mrs. Michiko Nomura.
She was interested to learn about the life of the girls in Heim L 410, about our drawing lessons with Friedl Brandeis, and also about me. Before we parted, Michiko asked casually, “Would you come to Japan if you were invited?”
Without a moment’s hesitation, I replied, “Of course.”
I did not take it seriously; it sounded so unreal. But I did not know Mrs. Nomura’s determination.
In May I got an invitation to Japan, signed by Michiko Nomura, to attend the Terezín Children’s Picture Exhibition. Now I was really thrilled.
A plane ticket was waiting for me in Paris, and my flight on All Nippon Airways started there on a Sunday morning. I was obliged to leave a day sooner, because in Israel there are no flights on Shabbat. This was a marvelous bonus. I had never been to Paris, and now I got the chance to see the Champs-Élysées, the Arc de Triomphe, and Notre-Dame Cathedral, as well as a lot of Czech-speaking, gaping, weekend tourists.
I wasn’t sure if I would be reimbursed for the Israel-to-Paris flight and the hotel; therefore I booked a cheap room for the night to and from Japan, which I later regretted. When I slept there on my return, I fell from the overhanging mattress of the narrow bed and knocked my chin so badly that half my face turned blue. Otto nearly didn’t recognize me when I got home.
I used the one and a half days to see as much of Paris as possible. On Sunday I went to the airport, where I met Mrs. Andela Bartošova, the curator of the pictures in the Jewish Museum in Prague, who was also invited. We flew close to the North Pole, and I was amazed by the sights below. At times I thought I was looking at a map in an atlas, with splotches of green, brown, and blue and no sign of human habitation. Most of the passengers were Japanese, and they were ve
ry quiet and disciplined, so unlike our noisy, chattering, circulating Israelis.
The flight landed the next day around midday, and at the exit from the plane, we were stopped by some people who had a wheelchair and were calling out, “Mistel Klaus, Mistel Klaus.” I assured them that I was Mrs. Kraus and that I didn’t need a wheelchair; they must have thought that being a Holocaust survivor meant that I was an invalid. The group turned out to be film people. They made me step back to the end of the plane and filmed me walking toward them, with the cameraman walking backward, pulled by a helper. It was very awkward, and I didn’t know where to look. I was glad that at least I had thought to comb my hair and put on some lipstick before we landed. At last we arrived in the airport hall, where Michiko and her daughter Aki welcomed us with hugs and kisses and big smiles.
Each day, from early morning till late into the night, I visited museums, attended governors’ and mayors’ receptions, answered questions, and explained, talking and talking as never before in my life. Mrs. Bartošová was of little help; she did not understand the questions and was unable to answer in English. We were driven from town to town and slept every night at a different hotel. When I went to bed at last, I couldn’t utter another word but felt satisfaction that I could tell the large Japanese audiences about our life in the Terezín ghetto and Auschwitz, about the gas chambers and the suffering. I was glad that I became the voice of those children whose pictures remained the only proof they had ever lived.
After a night at the luxurious Fujiya Hotel, we traveled with Michiko and Aki to Osaka. We took the famous Shinkansen “bullet” train, which levitates over a magnetic field at speeds of up to two hundred miles per hour.