Читать книгу Czechmate - Michael Condé-Jahnel - Страница 6

Fuer Deutsch-Italienische Kulturarbeit u. Verstaendigung E.V.

It was only in early 1946 that my father was able to move about more freely. Starting then, he visited the German-Italian club frequently. The social club had been founded after the war by Germans, many of whom had served on the Italian front. They shared an affinity for all things Italian, particularly the language. Membership included a smattering of Italian nationals living in Hamburg. He had been active in the club after recovering from his injuries.

I recall us moving to the tiny apartment at Kattunbleiche 33 about a year later. The street name conveyed the presence of the cotton bleaching factory across the street. It had been shuttered during the war years and our bedroom window looked out over the factory’s abandoned courtyard. The façade of the old plant with its empty window frames devoid of glass and the broken down vehicles and rusted-out equipment in the yard were a stark reminder of how Hamburg had been savaged during the war. That view, an adjacent living room, the tiniest of kitchens, a storage closet and a two-piece bathroom shared with the old couple down the hall had been our living quarters for nearly ten years. A claw-footed ceramic tub in one of the frigid concrete floor rooms in the basement was reserved for several hours a week for each of the building’s tenant families.

I left Hamburg in 1959, barely twenty. Life there had been hard. Everyone I knew, including myself, had worked just to survive. When I returned a few years later, my mother was recovering in hospital and my father was dead. A stupid, senseless accident.

I had been aware of some of the details of my father’s death for most of my adult life. The confluence of feelings it had aroused had made me push my mother away, at least initially. In later years, I found compassion for the anguish she had suffered in holding herself responsible for my father’s death. It was a strange mixture of feelings on my part for my mother. She had risked her own life during our wartime escape to safeguard my own.

I arrived at her hospital bed 48 hours later; delayed by multiple connections from Winnipeg over Easter weekend 1964. I never got the full story; only that they were on a short trip to Luebeck, just north of Hamburg. They were crossing a street when she remained frozen in the middle at the sight of an oncoming car at high speed. My father was almost at the opposite curb and had scampered back to place his body in front of hers. They were both catapulted through the air like marionettes with him taking the bulk of the impact. She had suffered multiple fractures and some internal injuries; clearly in shock she was sitting up in bed making a list of people who should be notified of my father’s death. Her demeanour appeared devoid of grief over the horrific event, a function of having been plied with liberal dosages of mood alterating drugs following her physical treatment.

As I began to explore the memorabilia my parents had somehow salvaged through the ravages of war and our escape, I had no idea of some of the hardship they had endured. Although I was a part of this during the first years of my life, it seemed strange how little I was actually able to remember.

Her handwriting back then, some sixty years ago, seemed somehow different. More diminutive than what I remembered. This was one of those moments, when I wished I had more answers; answers to questions I had never bothered to ask. In part because the postwar years had been a time of recovery for my family, not one to ask questions. Recovery at every level – physical, emotional, not to mention our daily fight for mere sustenance. It was a time when I had struggled to form my own identity. When the mere presence of parents had often felt like a burden.

I began to leaf through the pages of my father’s manuscript. The pages were not numbered; there was no title nor date, just my father’s voice.

In the 1920s and 1930s, Reichenberg became the unofficial capital of Germans in Czechoslovakia, a position that was underlined by the foundation of important institutions such as the ‘Buecherei der Deutschen’, a central German library in Czechoslovakia, and by efforts to relocate the German (Charles) University there from Prague.

In the twenty years between the two World Wars, Czechoslovakia had become one of the world’s most advanced industrial countries. In fact, it was among the ten richest nations in the world at that time, as it had inherited much of Austria’s industrial base. My father Hugo Jahnel had been part of this prosperity. Not by good fortune - but through diligent hard work. By the early thirties, he had helped my grandfather build up a thriving electrical supply business. It continued to prosper well beyond the borders of our town into the early dark days of the Great Depression.

By the middle of the 1930’s, the Czech economy with its textile, carpet, glass and other light industry, was devastated by the world financial crisis; more than one million people, one in five, were unemployed. Fearing for their and their children’s future, they were disillusioned with the government in Prague. Hardest hit was the border region with Germany, known as the Sudetenland; its German majority led to the flash rise of the populist Sudeten German Party, founded by Konrad Henlein born in the suburbs of Reichenberg.

The Depression and the growing influence of the Nazi movement in Germany served to politicize the ethnic Germans in Czechoslovakia. Many of them had joined the Sudeten German Party, increasingly identifying themselves with their neighbours in Germany. I knew my father certainly had. Mother usually remained silent during political debates, but I suspect she could sense the growing rift.

Some months earlier, Count Freiherr von Schoenerer had purchased a villa at the edge of town among rumors that funding had come from Berlin. It quickly became known as ‘The All-German home’ and served as venue for his followers and their families, where heated pronouncements about ‘the Grand German Idea’ had become common fare. Von Schoenerer, whose aristocratically nationalistic Germanic demeanor had found an increasing number of followers, had formed ‘Bund Germania’ and was passionately following Hitler’s ascent.

The ‘Schlaraffia’ chapter of the Order of the Free Masons were among the few organized, but covert opposition groups in Reichenberg. In fact, left of center, they were a voice, perhaps the only, among the upper middle class bourgeoisie, warning of an increasingly dogmatic Germany to the west.

I was asked to join the ranks of the ‘Schlaraffia’ order by Otto Louschek. So as not to risk outright alienation from my father, I declined membership, but was allowed to attend their meetings as an observer. The men assembled at the ‘Goldener Loewe’ hotel on this late summer evening in 1936 knew the personal risks they were taking. Dusk had begun to settle over the city. A faint glimmer of orange and yellow remained on the upper windows of the five-story building across the street from the hotel.

A steady trickle of middle-aged men entered the hotel, among them Georg Rus, better known in the community as publisher of the ‘Reichenberger Tagesblatt’, the city’s daily. Professor Goldberg, one of the city’s university luminaries, accompanied him. They were ascending the wide staircase to the right of the lobby.

“There are growing concerns but hardly enough for us to feel panicked,” Rus said.

“It’s not like you to trivialize matters. I can’t imagine you could sell papers that way.

“Was meinen Sie, Herr Goldberg?”

“What I mean is that it’s like a snowball gathering speed. Starts in the family, moves into the pubs and public assemblies and before we know it, it’s an avalanche.”

“Spoken like a true academic, who doesn’t like the least bit of change.”

Franz Ehrlich, the hotel’s owner, was waiting for them at the top of the stairs. The ‘Schlaraffia’ Masons worked to a tight script. Eligibility for membership was scrutinized under a microscope. Both ‘Juden’ and gentiles were welcome but screened carefully for their support of the order’s manifesto. Those considered worthy in this exclusive circle were prominent civic figures, professionals in medicine and law, the clergy and members of the artistic and cultural community. As ‘brothers’ of the Order, they met every third Wednesday of the month.

Punctually at 20:00h, Goldberg carefully closed all entry into the cavernous room and blocked the main and side doors with strong inside cross bars. He then made his way to the podium, placed some papers on the rostrum and glanced across the room.

“Good evening, my fellow Schlaraffians. We only have one issue on our agenda today, and I am talking about the escalating propaganda emanating from Berlin.”

There was an uneasy shuffling and mumbled voices of acknowledgment.

“Richter, whom you all know, has made some recent utterings, giving the “J” word a whole new meaning,” he continued.

I had heard rumors to that effect myself. Richter, dispatched personally from Berlin by Goebbels a few months earlier, was the new face of nationalistic propaganda. His inflammatory oratory reminded me of the labels on our gramophone records, ‘His Master’s Voice’.

“And we should be surprised”, a voice called up from the floor.

“We could have told you that from the start,” another chimed in.

Goldberg paused, until the interruptions had died down.

“We have all been witness to growing intolerance and slurs toward our Jewish and Slavic friends and neighbours,” he continued.

“Hear, hear.”

“This assembly has tried to deal with the fear and frustration faced by so many of us, our friends and colleagues. We all know it’s out there and growing.”

He looked at the two dozen middle-aged men seated before the speaker’s podium to acknowledge their nods and murmurs of approval.

“It is absolutely essential, therefore that we remind ourselves of the ‘Schlaraffia’ manifesto crafted by the membership and passed by the Executive Committee of our Order.

Since there are a number of newcomers – and I heartily welcome you to The Order on behalf of the Committee – it may be appropriate to review what we have accepted as our credo.”

“Hear, hear.”

Again came voices of acknowledgement from across the floor.

“I am now going to call on Herr Neusatz, our Master of Ceremonies, to remind everyone of what it is we stand for.”

Neusatz, a long-standing member of city council, was enamored with his voice and known not to pass up any opportunity for oratory. He extracted a single sheet among the papers in the binder he had placed on the rostrum. Occasionally peering over his reading glasses at his sympathetic audience he read aloud:

“We believe that all human beings should be permitted free expression of speech and opinion."

We are not bound by a fixed ideology or grand vision. All of us should exercise care not to do harm onto others, while pursuing our own aspirations and dreams.”

“Further, we should not pretend to know what may be best for others, as they should not pretend to know what’s best for us. We humbly acknowledge not to know what may be best for the human race as a whole, even though others make it appear at times that we are the only ones who don’t. It may well be that gathered right here in this room tonight are all the people we know, who don’t want to tell other people what to do.”

He paused, his animated face searching the room for response. He unfolded a large white handkerchief mopping perspiration from his face. His face was beaming with satisfaction.

“Fundamentally, we believe in freedom. Freedom based on tolerant ideology, not acquired from the point of a gun.”

He continued to approving nods.

“And freedom is not entitlement. People on social assistance may feel entitlement. But how free are they? And finally, liberty must not be confused with ever increasing rights to citizens - rights to education, health care, housing and food. We also know that there are those among us – not in this room, mind you, but this very town we call home – who have disparate views. And we shall…”

Crack. And again, crack, crack, crack.

Glass splinters from several broken windows littered the edges of the far side of the room. In a sudden attack the floor was littered with fist-sized stones and ink containers, their contents leaving long blue streaks on the gleaming parquet floor. The sound of rocks crashing through windows, muffled cries and curses, filled the large room. The strong double oak doors at the main entrance were being jolted with what sounded like heavy rams.

“Down the fire escape,” someone yelled from the back of the room.

“The police should be here soon; let’s wait it out. It’s safer in here,” cautioned others.

Above the ramming and clattering noises echoing across the ballroom came the sound of a shrill whistle. The large room fell eerily silent, the street below miraculously peaceful. Rus was one of the first to regain his composure and risked peeking through one of the broken windows. The heavy-set silhouette of Officer Hirschmann, one of the town constables, was seen lumbering up the street toward the hotel along with several of his men. Once inside, he pulled a narrow black notebook from the outer pocket of his blue uniform.

“The usual suspects?” he intoned, as if all of this had become just a matter of routine.

“Probably,” answered Herr Rus. “We really didn’t see anyone, but recognized some voices among the clamor.”

Hirschmann, who had collapsed into the red velour sofa next to the stage, was feverishly scribbling into his little book. “I’ll see what can be done in the morning,” he finally said.

This certainly was a part of family history I had absolutely no prior knowledge of and I continued to read my father’s manuscript with growing fascination……….

My grandfather had started it well before the turn of the century. It was a large electrical supply business, serving hundreds of industrial and retail customers. They came from as far South as Prague and near the German border to the Northwest. My father had taken the helm at the conclusion of World War I. Some ten years later, I joined him following my service in the Czech military.

The first few years had been exciting. Despite the oncoming economic depression, we were able to build on our past success. Yet by the mid 1930’s it had become clear that ours was not a sanctuary in the gigantic waves of despair washing over the region - indeed, the European continent and far beyond. Except for a small part-time skeleton staff, most of our permanent employees were gone.

I was there a few days a week, the place increasingly devoid of people and saleable product. We had a central location, next to the city square with its town hall and opera theatre. The upper floors of our building housed the town library, which once provided a constant flow of traffic to our store. The city square itself usually bustled with town folk in their finest, local professionals and public servants. It now resembled a deserted and eerie rail terminal in the small hours of the morning.

Working alongside my father was difficult. He was a serious, authoritarian figure, who tolerated little distraction. Two generations with conflicting values often led to disparate views and arguments. His dogmatic political ideology and distaste of Jews was known throughout town. It was impossible for him to understand that I was not following in his footsteps. Heaven forbid, I even counted a number of Jews among my friends.

“You know as well as I do there are some Jewish professionals around town whom you respect.”

“Well, that’s different.”

“What do you mean?”

“Some exceptions exist.”

“Really, father - how can you say that and explain your categorical denial of all things Jewish?”

“You don’t understand, son.”

I was frustrated when he terminated our discussions with dismissive banality. It took a great deal of discipline not to show the full measure of my annoyance. One morning I was called to the front show room from my office located toward the back of the building.

“A gentleman would like to speak with your father”, our part-time receptionist informed me. The individual taking several hesitant steps in my direction bore the unmistakable features of an Eastern European Jew - olive-brownish skin, hawkish nose and dark burning eyes under protruding heavy eyebrows.

What business could he possibly have with my father?

He appeared modest and sincere.

“Do I have privilege of speaking with son of Herrn Hugo?”

“Yes, I am him - what is your business with my father?”

His German was broken and halting, but he seemed to be here for a reason.

“Your father - he has been - during the war, I mean he served with the ‘Scheinwerfer’?”

‘Yes, he was a colonel and searchlight specialist with the Austro-Hungarian infantry about twenty years back.”

“Thank God that you have such father. He shall be blessed that he has heart such good and just.”

I couldn’t believe my ears.

“You are surprised that I, Jew, am talking this way?”

A faint smile had appeared around the corners of his mouth.

I simply nodded, not sure what to say.

“I know who is, your father. But I came to thank him, where he is?”

“I am sorry, but he is out of town for a few days.”

“I am sad to know but shall enrich you with story. I was serving in company of your father Colonel and not have had leave for one and one half year. I went to ‘rapport’ and have asked Herr Colonel for leave. He asked me how long it was since leave before. I told him the truth and he screamed I was lying and use tricks to get leave. I swore I speak truth, because Jew not treated well in Austria army, pushed much without leave. Your father said, he will check books. If I speak truth, I will have leave tomorrow, if not, I will be in barracks cleaning floors. I spoke truth, your father kept word and so finally I go home to visit family. I shall never forget your father just and human man. A Jew never forgets good deeds given to him. I wish greetings to your father and for him to know my visit and have not forgotten.”

I knew that despite his fervent nationalistic deportment, my father was basically a good and honorable man. His stern and rigid demeanor seemed to be as much a product of the times and environment we were in as anything else. In the face of simple human interaction, he had the capacity to show his other side. For my part, I refused to become politically engaged. I wanted my life to take a course of pursuing individual thought and liberty, free from the dogma of narrow ideologies. A course, where I would not be told, whether I could talk to Czechs or count Jews among my friends.

One day, the elegant wife of a well known local industrialist came into the store. With her was her attractive daughter Hedwig, who left an indelible mark on me. I had not seen her in more than a year and was stunned by her transformation from giggling high school senior to a young woman with poise. Her mother temporarily distracted, I mustered the courage to ask her for a secret rendezvous. Her grandfather Benjamin Simon had been a prominent town magistrate and her family did not subscribe to the nationalistic German fervor unfolding around us; a liaison between us would not have had her or my father’s blessing.

We agreed to meet at the ‘Artist’s Masquerade Ball’, a major annual social event, the following Saturday. Cupid’s arrow had struck and I was counting the hours.

Entering the festively decorated ballroom, my eyes began to feverishly search the costumed throng of party revelers. So intent was my search that I missed the white cossack uniform with saffiano boots materializing in front of me. A hand reached out and pulled me toward the dance floor. The cossack’s slender but shapely figure revealed Hedwig’s presence. A Viennese Waltz, whispered sweet nothings and the world around me had vanished into obscurity. That evening I knew that the woman I had not searched for, fate had brought into my life. I was smitten by her indisputable charm, her mental agility and last but not least, her natural beauty.

The weeks that followed were heavenly. Given her family’s views toward mine, the secretive nature of our encounters added romantic spice, but also a measure of tension from the outset. It reached its peak the day we decided to get married. Our clandestine civil ceremony took place without the blessing of our fathers. However, with support of her kind and understanding mother, we managed to get through it. The animated and jovial Otto Huebner, by then a doctor of philosophy and working at the paper in Prague, was our only witness at the civil ceremony. He joined his two friends in Prague, from where we started our wedding trip into Italy and Austria to spend four blissful and precious weeks. Late summer days revealed the beauty of those countries to us as seen through the eyes of two lovers lost to the world around them.

Returning to our new home in Reichenberg, Hedi made our friends feel welcome as the lady of the house. In neighboring Germany, Hitler had promised the people to lead them out of despair, if entrusted with the reigns of power. His magic and growing spell over the minds and hearts of the German people began to spill over into our region as last hope for some form of recovery from the horrific Depression we found ourselves in.

It was in this setting that Konrad Henlein entered the political stage. His call to unite into the ‘Sudeten German Home Front’ was greeted with unbridled enthusiasm. He was respected for his upright and uncompromising character, his community record, a page untarnished by political baggage. His messianic oratory brought out thousands wherever he appeared in public. Many, including my father and older brother Heinrich were drawn to the man and his appeal to re-assert a modicum of German equality with the Czechoslovak rulers in Prague. Yet despite my respect for the man’s character record, I could not reconcile becoming part of a movement that was quickly gaining momentum.

There was an immense rush to every one of Henlein’s assemblies throughout the region. Wherever he and his followers appeared, they were surrounded by waves of euphoria. The older established parties resented being abandoned for this newcomer and worked hard to thwart his success. Yet Henlein and his close circle of advisors were tough and indefatigable. Some parties started to crumble under the force of his movement while others decided to join.

And it was then that more pangs of conscience began to surface within me. Even though I had resisted membership, some of my Jewish friends knew that other members of our family had embraced the new movement where Jews were not welcome. Although bylaws prohibited exclusion of ethnic and racial minorities, applications from Jews never seemed to reach the finish line; and if they did cross the threshold, they were promptly ostracized by other fellow members. All this was becoming patently clear to me. I felt betrayed and angry.

Years earlier, I had rejected membership in the ‘German Nationalistic Social Worker’s Party’ only to be trapped in the fangs of a potentially much larger and virulent entity.

I was becoming distressed from what I now observed around me. Party members began to openly question Heinrich and my father about my lack of allegiance to the ‘German cause’ and continuing to befriend Jews. Feeling at a loss, I unburdened my feelings to Hedi one evening. I needed to get the perspective of others - such as Sam and Miriam, Hedi’s Jewish childhood friends. And yet, was it all getting too complicated? The words slipped out without my thinking.

“I’m afraid they won’t be able to understand our family situation.”

“Not hardly as tough on you as myself. I have known Miriam since Kindergarten and some fifteen years of school, including Prague University," Hedi responded.

“Has she made any remarks to you that could be interpreted as resentful toward us?”

“No, decidedly not - which would have perhaps made everything easier to bear. My heavy heart is with the thoughts not spoken - to me her long-time friend.”

“Perhaps, if she truly remains your friend, we are going to find mutual understanding.”

The following Sunday, a bright early fall day, we decided to hike to their home on the other side of the Jeschken mountain separating our towns. A twenty minute ride on the tram took us to the foot of the mountain. Many town folk had embarked on the same journey on this beautiful day. Yet within minutes, we found ourselves alone on one of the narrow paths winding its way up the Eastern slope of the mountain. In days past, we had scampered upwards, giddy, feeling the all consuming innocence of young lovers, shouting, laughing, holding hands to brace each other’s fall, falling ever so softly. The fluffy brown earth was covered by a thin coat of needles. Wild blueberry plants, many still yielding their sweet offerings under a tight cover of leaves and thigh high fernery flanked the sides of our path. Gnarled roots of majestic fir trees stretched across it, helping to reinforce the grip of our hiking boots, as we started the climb toward the top. Thirty minutes later, we had reached our favourite spot - a mid-level plateau, where the green cathedral of towering firs opened its door to a panoramic view of the valley below. This view always brought serenity and joy to our hearts. Yet today, these sentiments eluded us.

“I think appreciation of nature’s beauty reaches beyond our eyes into the depth of our soul.”

Hedi nodded, acknowledging my sentiments.

“I cannot remember being here without being in the grip of this incredible scenery - until today”, I added.

We continued on the moss covered path, which snaked it’s way upward in widening serpentines and soon reached the top. For a long while, we stood motionless at the shoulder high iron railing barrier, our gaze fixed westward. Through the greyish silvery haze, illuminated by the glistening rays of sunlight, out there somewhere was the border between us and Germany. Our unspoken thoughts likely were those of gut churning apprehension of unknown developments winding their way in our direction.

We slowly commenced our descent down the other side of the mountain taking the shortest path toward their house. Another hour later we stood at the front door. I turned the old fashioned bell and a high silvery tinkle cascaded down the long narrow corridor, as it had for decades. Sam and Miriam had only made cosmetic changes to the old homestead. Miriam’s father, Abraham Blaustein, had left the practice of the village physician to his son-in-law, who was intent to follow in his footsteps. ‘Herr Doktor’, as Abraham had respectfully been referred to throughout the community, calling on one of his patient flock at home, could often be seen on his barely functioning bicycle pedaling down main street, his long white beard flapping grotesquely backwards under his chin. He had died several years earlier, the last generation of Jewish professionals, academics and public servants, who were part of a community without prejudice.

Petrova, the Czech housekeeper, who had worked for ‘Herr Doktor’ for more years than anyone could remember, shuffled toward the door to check out the unexpected arrivals.

“Herr and Frau Doktor have gone to the market. Nearly an hour ago - shouldn’t be much longer.”

She had recognized Hedi as a close family friend and ushered us into the library overlooking the market square; little had changed in a room where we had spent many happy hours since we first visited years back. We had just started to scan the hundreds of titles along an entire wall of the room, when we noticed them through the window. They were crossing the town square diagonally from right to left. Sam was pushing a carriage, vainly attempting to control it’s galloping bounce across the cobble stone pavement. Hedi went to the door to meet her old friend. She was greeted with surprise, but little joy. I followed her slowly and studied the faces of our involuntary hosts. I had the feeling of looking at two people, who had faced a sense of discrimination all of their lives. Perhaps I was only imparting my own feelings on to them.

Despite great efforts toward casual demeanor on everyone’s part, there was an undertone of discomfort in the air. Once settled in the parlour, Petrova served herbal tea.

“What brings you - glad to see you both. It’s been a long time,” Sam opened the conversation.

“Much too long,” Miriam chimed in looking in Hedi’s direction.

“We are, I mean I am....................”. I was struggling to find the right words.

It fell to Hedi to complete what I seemed unable to articulate.

“Walter has been troubled by the growing nationalistic sentiment spreading across the region. He has managed to detach himself thus far but you probably have an idea where others in his family stand.”

Given recent events, there simply was no room for irrelevant small talk to skirt around the raw edges of fear and suspicion of a human condition unlike any of us had experienced.

“Walter, your loyalty to all your friends is not in question,” Miriam responded softly.

I was beginning to relax, when Sam tore away the protective but illusive covering.

“The German people hate us and it is this hate from which we shall perish.”

His voice was agitated, his words a mixture of apprehension and bitter lament.

My throat was dry, temples were pounding. What could one say to something which seemed increasingly true.

“Sam, how can you speak like this. The hatred, which seems to be flowing your way, is only the hatred of some special units. And that’s only a few thousand radicals.”

I was thinking of Hitler’s ‘brown shirts’, of course. The words had barely left my mouth, when I regretted what I had said. What a rationalization! How could those words possibly offer any reassurance to old friends.

Sam was quick to seize the opening. He rose from his chair, pointing his arm toward the window; dozens of people were flocking through the square.

“Why then are millions of ordinary German citizens not rising up against growing discrimination of anything not Aryan?”

Once again I seemed to be stumped for words; and again, it was Hedi who responded.

“Yes, there are many, who do not like the Jewish people and they act as parasites on the millions of Germans, who sense the injustice being done to you”.

I couldn’t see that this was getting us anywhere.

“I have been threatened by some party members for my liberal and pacifist behaviour. Others, including Heinrich and my father have been blind to the dangerous direction in which this is all likely heading,” I added.

“And - why talk to us?” Sam wanted to know.

“We feel a collective guilty conscience, despite the position and risk we have taken ourselves personally.”

My words hung in the air for an uncomfortably long time.

“We are going to attempt to understand your point of view”. Sam’s voice was calm and reflective.

“Because you are our friends,” Miriam added.

“When you think of our friendship, did you ever have the feeling that these problems could undermine it one day?”Hedi asked.

“Not until now,” Miriam responded.

Sam expanded on Miriam’s thoughts.

“However, you have become prisoners of these problems. We are able to make that distinction. By virtue of your family’s membership in Henlein’s party, you are becoming enemies of all things Jewish.”

“The bylaws of the party program do not exclude anyone of Jewish faith from.......”

Sam waved off my awkward attempt to explain something we both knew was not there. He now sounded impatient and frustrated.

“That is simple camouflage. The Republic already has a democratic constitution, which forbids political parties, who discriminate against persons of different race or religion.”

“But Henlein has to openly acknowledge when a Jew has been denied membership”.

This was merely another futile attempt on my part. Even I knew that I was making up this last part, since it had become public knowledge that attempts in this direction had the opposite outcome. Applications were not denied, yet acknowledgments of admission were non-existent.

“Let’s stay with the truth, please.” Sam said dryly.

He had risen again from his chair and was pacing back and forth as he spoke. His voice rose another octave with the following sentence - Sam’s peculiar way of not shouting while shouting.

“You know the results well enough when attempts for membership are made. Henlein, the wolf, has lost his sheep’s clothing.”

“But I cannot believe.....”, I countered lamely.

“One can never believe that which one will not believe. We know full well that you feel disappointed, perhaps betrayed. You, as a liberal and tolerant individual has rejected the propaganda machine, unlike hundreds of thousands of Sudeten Germans.”

Sam returned to his chair.

I felt uncomfortable, my face beginning to flush. Sam’s assessment of the situation could not be denied. I dropped my feeble guard.

“Assume you’re correct, Sam, where is the way out of this dilemma?”

“There is no way out. Your sacrifice to change the situation through passive resistance or open protest would be futile. You would only bring harm to yourself and your family.”

Sam appeared to notice a figure outside and once again rose from his chair.

“Here”, and the index finger of his right hand was pointing at a man walking past, “goes one of your top men, erect and rigid - a fanatic!”

Sam’s face was contorted, barely able to conceal his anger and apprehension. I looked outside and saw a glimpse of Heinz Rutha’s pale and motionless face. He was crossing the open square.

“What do you mean, one of our top men?”

“I am not one of your party members,” Sam’s voice had returned to normal octave but had an icy chill to it.

“At times those on the outside looking in understand more of what is happening. Rutha is not only part of Henlein’s inner circle, but Henlein follows much of his counsel,” he continued.

I could not conceal my amazement. I was aware that Rutha was one of Henlein’s confidants. But to learn from Sam of Rutha’s importance driving the nationalistic fervor was unsettling.

“In our eyes, Henlein only executes what Rutha plans and decides,” Sam added. “Us Jews have become irrelevant at best, more likely targeted by him.”

It had become evident to me that we were not about to find common ground. To expect anything like it had been idealistic, no, more than that, supremely naive on my part.

Just then, Petrova returned with a large tray of coffee and home-baked chocolate-walnut Viennese cake. Given the life and death implications of the subject we had been discussing, I was surprised at the lack of emotional outburst, Sam’s earlier irritation notwithstanding. It seemed that our relative civility was a measure of the futility and resignation we all felt.

I decided to turn the conversation in a slightly different direction.

“Any thoughts of leaving the country? I understand the Landsbergs went to London last week.”

Leon Landsberg’s father had opened their dental practise the same year Miriam’s father became the local family doctor.

“And just give all this up? Walk away from it - for what, to where? What are you thinking?”

Sam’s voice was about to rise again.

Again, Hedi’s intuitive sense came to my rescue.

“We don’t want to see you get hurt, if things get worse - and we all seem to feel they well might.

Miriam and I have close personal friends from boarding school, whose families are in influential positions, one in England, the other in the United States. They may be able to help.”

Miriam had been listening quietly for a while and broke the silence in our conversation. She pointed to the tray in front of us.

“Thank you, Hedi. We have some thinking to do and decisions to make. But now let’s enjoy this and perhaps talk about other subjects.”

When we parted later that afternoon, I had the distinct feeling that an important chapter in my life was ending and what was to follow was anything but clear, perhaps daunting.