Читать книгу Czechmate - Michael Condé-Jahnel - Страница 8

We had driven from Vienna to Liberec, a couple of days prior to my appointment at the library in Bettina’s modest but capable VW Golf. Unlike my earlier visit with Edi and Simon, the hotel ‘Goldener Loewe’ had been renovated to international standards since. Gone was the grey and drab interior and our rooms on the first floor were exquisitely furnished and not lacking for amenities.

Bettina, my ‘kissing cousin’ from Vienna as I jokingly referred to her, had been an infant, when her parent’s family had fled to Austria in the summer of 1945. Although she had no memories of her birthplace, she had agreed to join me on our exploration of a common past.

It was Sunday evening with most restaurants closed. A row of illuminated windows on a cobble-stone side street off the main city square had held out some hope. The surly waiter had given our table a quick wipe and placed a couple of gigantic, leather-bound menus in front of us.

I looked around without trying to be conspicuous.

“Do you notice anything unusual?”, I asked Bettina.

She moved her head slightly in the direction of my glance.

“No, not really.”

“You’re the only woman in the place.”

“Well, aren’t you lucky.”

“I remember from the last time I was here with Simon,” I continued unperturbed. “It’s a Slavic thing – on Sunday night, the men go to the pubs and restaurants on their own, leave their wives and girlfriends at home.”

The waiter had again materialized next to us, serviette draped over his left arm, his hands holding a notepad and pencil poised for action.

“Lady and Gentleman, please, your order.”

“Do you know what you want?” Bettina inquired.

“I think I should have one of everything,” I responded.

Indeed, much of the menu held the promise of my mother’s cooking when I was a child.

We ordered a couple of Pilsner-Urquells and begged for more time. I sensed the waiter’s expression moving from surly to mildly hostile.

“As you wish,” he muttered, paper and pencil disappearing into the pockets of his vest.

It took a while for him to return and we quickly settled on sharing an order of paprika goulash with potato dumplings and another order of venison, bratkartoffeln and red cabbage.

At the library the following day, I had noticed a placard for a performance by the Liberec Opera Company of Jacques Offenbach’s ‘Orpheus in the Underworld’. I managed to get a couple of tickets on the mezzanine floor, 2^nd row. During the lively performance of the can-can dancers, throwing their skirts up in the air and exposing their posteriors to the audience, I noticed that there was barely a change in the dour expressions of the middle-aged Czech audience around me. Surprised at their stoic reaction, I asked the girl at the hotel reception for an explanation the following morning.

“After a generation of communist rule, what do you expect”, came the laconic response.

“Even now, so many years later?” I added incredulously.

The blank facial expression of the girl behind the counter remained unchanged.

“I guess so,” I muttered to myself.

The massive building housed the new library. The sweeping roof was built into the side of a steep elevation, located only a couple of blocks from the location of the old library. At the bottom of the hill, high-speed elevators swept upwards from several levels of underground parking toward the steel and glass reception hall. The grand foyer extended upwards to the roof three floors above. Once past the reception and information counters, visitors had their choice of another bank of elevators to the right of the turnstiles. The more adventurous would ascend the first level on a floating staircase made of thick transparent acrylic steps suspended from shiny steel cables.

A wide escalator to the left of the entrance provided access straight to the second and third levels of the library. It was mid-morning, just after opening and the reception hall was quiet and devoid of visitors. Late fall sunlight was streaming through the glass facade facing the town square, basking this area in a warm and diffused light. Facing the escalator was the information and registration desk. I walked across to ask for Katerina Trojanova. Moments later I was seated at one of the large research desks in the modern library. I opened and re-read her letter.

“Dear Sir,

Thanks many for your interest in our collections. You may prefer newspapers or magazines - some of them are in our stock but unfortunately fire destroyed many periodicals in 1954. Otherwise you must also search in regional archive - their collections not affected by any natural elements.

Austrian collection contains documents published nowadays, also in Germanica you can find historical studies published both in the past and the present. Please try to use our on-line catalogue.”

Best wishes - Katerina Trojanova – Librarian

‘P.S. We have found this entry in the Adressbuch der Gauhauptstadt Reichenberg published for years 1941-1942:

‘Hugo H. Jahnel - Elektrische Apparate und Anlagen - Adolf Hitler Platz 43 this means that if it is your father’s firm, it was in the former library built close to Town Hall.’

I had been corresponding with her for several weeks. Her knowledge of English appeared sufficient to grasp what I was looking for.

My thoughts drifted back to the last time I had been in Reichenberg almost ten years earlier. I had visited the old library in my grandfather’s building with Edi and Simon..

Veronika Juçek, the head librarian at the time, had escorted us through the three levels of rows upon rows of shelves filled with thousands of volumes. I smiled, as I remembered Simon’s excitement exploring the structure that had housed his family’s business more then half a century earlier. She had talked to us in glowing terms about the fund raising efforts to build the new library. And now I was here to search for more information into my family’s history.

More than just another library, German and Czech Presidents Roman Herzog and Våclav Havel had commissioned the structure as a building of peace and reconciliation under their joint patronage. A Jewish House of Prayer had been included in the new library site. The grand old synagogue across from my grandfather’s building had fallen prey to arson by the Nazis. Sitting in this magnificent new building, I remembered how my father had wrestled with his libertarian values and the ‘Jewish Question’ in his manuscript. He would have been proud to witness the completion of the new library project.

The musty smell of old bookshelves and well worn carpets, the creaky wood and the tarnished brass elevators Veronica had shown us were in stark contrast to the gleaming surroundings of now. I had felt comfortable and safe in the old place, though. I could not remember, whether I had actually spent any time in the old building prior to our escape. Yet family photos and my uncle Heinrich’s painting of our building in the town square, still in my possession sixty years later, had left a strong mental image of having come home when I had first returned with Edi and Simon.

My recollections were interrupted by the arrival of the librarian, who carried another arm full of reference material.

“Thank you Ms. Trojanova, this is very kind of you.”

“Most welcome.”

Katerina Trojanova, the research librarian at the ‘Ståtni védeckå knihovna’ in Liberec, still Reichenberg to me, had left a large stack of papers neatly organized in several piles on the table in front of me.

I had spent part of the previous day randomly browsing through some of the material Katerina had left. What I had essentially come for – Czech eyewitness accounts of what had occurred during those dark days so many years back – had eluded me thus far. But I had only managed to make a small dent into the stacks of paper she had placed in front of me. At one point, I had simply put all of it aside and returned my attention to the personal documents I had brought with me in the hope of finding some further clues.

Before returning to the new library building the next morning, I stopped at the ‘Café Smetana’ across the street. The dark oak floor, large brass railings, the massive chandelier in the centre, the leather couch and arm chairs in the vestibule had been the favorite watering hole for the city’s artistic folk – writers, poets, painters and the odd patron from the old library.

I checked the time. Ten minutes after nine. The library would not be open for nearly another hour. I reached into my briefcase for the documents I had brought and turned my attention to another chapter in my father’s manuscript.

Time marched on. So did the military machine from the neighboring West. Elections came in the spring of 1938 under anything but free conditions. Germany had already invaded Austria. No clairvoyance was required to know Czechoslovakia would be next. All the bourgeois German parties supported the Henlein ticket. Socialists and communists were the exception. Konrad Henlein, Hitler’s ‘Gauleiter’ for the Sudeten territory since 1935, had ensured that the Nazi dogma had infiltrated the last vestiges of underground resistance.

Voters could feel the breath of the German military monster on the back of their necks. They did not have to look at violent police terror in Austria in order to be intimidated; violence was practiced daily by Henlein’s henchmen on the soil of Czechoslovakia. Surprising, under these circumstances, was the fact that 10 per cent of voters had the remarkable courage to still vote Social Democratic or Communist. Among those 10 per cent was the fading presence of the ‘Schlaraffia’ Order in Reichenberg.

Under the Munich Agreement of September 1938, Britain, France and Italy, with tacit support from America through U.S. ambassador Joseph Kennedy, had given Henlein and Hitler what they wanted. To the consternation of the Czech government, the border area with a majority German population was handed over to Hitler.

From the Louscheks came news that meetings among members of the Schlaraffia Order were now few and far between. They had long ago left Ehrlich’s ballroom at the ‘Goldener Loewe’ for safer surroundings in one of their private homes. Indeed, the group was a shadow of its former self. Many long-standing members no longer were active participants.

It was cold and dreary that late fall evening in 1938, when they agreed to meet for one last time. They had walked around the back of Ehrlich’s two-storey stucco home in one of the more affluent neighborhoods at the outskirts of town. A steep staircase led them down to a rectangular room in the basement. A large round table in Ehrlich’s den could now comfortably hold what was left of them. Newspaper publisher Rus was chairing the meeting. He looked across the table at the remnants of the once proud and growing brotherhood.

“Who is reporting on recent developments?”

His question was met by clearing throats and nervous shuffles.

“Anyone?” Rus insisted.

Finally, Ehrlich spoke up.

“Herr Hert was in Berlin for several days; officially to meet with the curator of the National State Art Gallery.”

Hert was the Director of the Museum of Civilization in Reichenberg, a pudgy, bespectacled man, with a round and shiny face. Bowing his head slightly toward the other men, he managed an awkward smile.

“And unofficially?” someone wanted to know.

“Well, as you know, the National State Art Gallery is right across from the ‘Reichstag’. Some party offices have moved over to the Gallery. Men with the feared ‘SS’ on the collar of their black uniforms walk in and out of the gallery all day long.”

“And how would Herr Hert have accessed....?”

Ehrlich waved Rus off before he could finish.

“He has some contacts inside the gallery. Understandably, he also doesn’t want to compromise their identity.”

“And what are we hearing?” Rus asked.

The question was directed at Hert, who appeared anything but comfortable with his task of disseminating intelligence to the gathering. He pulled a wrinkled handkerchief from the breast pocket of his jacket to wipe his brow before addressing the group.

“There has been little news in recent days. It’s a sign that the regime is tightening its grip on all of our usual communications - courier, telegraph, ordinary mail.”

If anyone in the group had questioned it before, it was clear now; this was their final meeting. It could only be a short time before the invasion by German troops.

“We have placed ourselves into increasing peril by continuing to meet - be it here or anywhere else,” Rus added, as if it needed to be said.

Of all the men assembled in the room, he ought to know. Representatives of the National Socialist Party Press Agency from Berlin had paid his editor a visit some weeks back. They were told bluntly that any form of public utterances against the regime would shut down the paper and lead to personal indictments. The fact that Hitler had named himself ‘Honorary Patron’ of the Agency didn’t help matters. On the other hand, Berlin’s field agents would favorably notice the ‘right kind of coverage’.

Rus had lamented to the Order that he had essentially been rendered irrelevant at the paper. What was left of the Order had been his intellectual refuge, he told them. In exchanging underground common ideologies with his companions, he proclaimed some remnants of meaning to his life - at least for a few hours every month. Yet the risk had simply become unacceptable.

After a pause, Ehrlich spoke again.

“The other night, my serving staff had some interesting guests in our main dining room.”

The room felt silent in anticipation. Ehrlich had never been one to dramatize matters.

“Henlein and two high ranking military officers, who just made a name for themselves.”

The Order had taken to speaking in code from time to time to lessen their risk of exposure.

“Would there be any connection to recent events to the South of us?” Rus inquired.

“That’s exactly what I am saying.”

The men’s faces darkened. There was renewed shuffling and twisting of bodies. They all knew that Ehrlich was talking about none other than Generals Alfred Keitel and Manfred von Manstein, who led the invasion of Hitler’s troops into Austria.

“Come on, Ehrlich, what were they talking about? Did any of your staff pick up anything?”

Hert’s voice was shaking.

The hotelier shook his head.

“Of course not. They were speaking quietly and any time one of our servers would come within earshot, their conversation would fall silent.”

Yet none of the men assembled in Ehrlich’s basement really needed to know much more.

I stifled a yawn behind the palm of my hand. My God, five-thirty already. The place would be closing in half an hour.

I had been in the library for more than seven hours. Except for bathroom breaks and a hasty sandwich for lunch in the cafeteria, I had been glued to my chair. It had been quiet on this weekday in late October, until now at least. A sprinkling of students here and there, some seniors looking for the distraction of a good read, but mostly library staff scurrying about. The librarian had dropped by once after lunch to check on my progress.

Daylight was fading now, the late autumn sun illuminating the red tile rooftop on the building across the street. I glanced beyond the two ornamental stainless steel tubes suspended from the ceiling by braided metal cables. The objects formed a separation between the table at the edge of the documentary section and the rest of the library within view. The few patrons I was able to discern were moving about briskly. They appeared focused on the objects of their search and determined to claim their prizes prior to closing.

I sighed, pushed the chair back from the table and rose slowly. My legs felt as if they had atrophied. Katarina had instructed me to place all unread material into the lockable wall cabinet. She had also invited me to take material back to the hotel for further study. But I already had other plans.

As I lifted up the first stack of papers, I noticed what appeared to be a homemade flyer, which had fallen out of one of the binders. The paper was signed by ‘Heinrich Jahnel, a concerned citizen’. My exhaustion evaporated at its sight and my pulse began to race. I was in disbelief to find something written by my uncle. I pulled the chair back and began to read:

‘To those of you who have not already learned of yesterday’s address by Kopecky, I shall herewith provide an excerpt of what was said. The following sentiments were offered to both appease and incite the Czech population and cannot harbor well for us Sudeten Germans still remaining in the city, which we and generations of Germans before us have called home. Although every decision on how and when to leave is personal, time clearly is not our side. I now quote from Kopecky’s speech as follows’:

“Liberec will never again be Reichenberg. We will clear Liberec of the German enemies, and we will do it so thoroughly that not the smallest place will remain where the German seed could grow once more. We shall expel all Germans, we shall confiscate their property, we shall de-nationalize not only the town but also the whole area so that the victorious spirit of the Czech people shall permeate the country from the frontier range to the interior. The government is determined to settle the question of the Germans uncompromisingly and unflinchingly. We are aware that in the West, various reactionary protectors of the Germans are at work. But the government will not be misled or softened by any pressure, any campaigns, or any libelous attacks. It is for us a decisive and encouraging fact that the Soviet Union stands by us in the question of expelling the Germans, and that Marshal Stalin himself has the greatest possible understanding for our endeavours to get rid of the Germans. We do not want any Germans along our north-western frontier, we want Czechoslovakia to form one integral territory with Poland and the Soviet Union.”

Kopecky, Minister of Propaganda, July 25th, 1945

There was another short note below from Heinrich.

“To my fellow Sudeten-Germans, I wish you well in your personal journey toward what some day may again be a brighter future for all of us”.

Signed: Ing. Heinrich Hugo Jahnel, Reichenberg, July 26th, 1945

I sat for several minutes staring at the paper in front of me. I wondered how Katerina Trojanova, a woman almost my own age and whose Czech parents may well have been the intended beneficiaries of this address, would feel about me discovering this personal document sixty years later.

I felt an inexplicable sadness. I felt no vengeance toward those who had robbed me of an early childhood of innocence and pleasure. Toward those who had uprooted and torn apart the protective mantle of my family. Over the years, I had experienced periodic bouts of self-pity, associated with the ‘what if’ questions. I had no entitlement to such feelings - or so I had thought until now. Then why this inexplicable feeling of sadness over something that wasn’t mine to mourn?

And then it hit me. The fact that sitting here, so many years later, I had not found a place to call home again. I had rationalized countless moves back and forth across my new country, but there had never been a real emotional connection. Had I negated any prospect of making a new connection somewhere else in the many places I had called home over the years? Sabotaged myself for fear that any new attachment would only be yanked away from me again some day?

I carefully placed the paper into the folder named ‘Photocopies’. I was disappointed not to have found what I searched for most - historic and eyewitness accounts from Czech citizens. I was interested in their perspective on those distant events. If only to balance the plethora of German magazine articles, newspaper clippings and other material available on-line. But perhaps it was hardly surprising that I came away empty-handed. Why should the perpetrators of the crimes have been concerned with keeping detailed written accounts of their actions?

I secured my laptop to the cushioned inner pocket of the briefcase and placed the folders inside. Passing by the bank of elevators, I opted for the self-activated escalator, which afforded an unobstructed view of the city square through the three-story glass and steel construction. To the left, I could make out the gothic columns at the entrance to the theatre. I had seen them in family photos - in one of which my five-year old frame was eagerly strutting behind a military marching band passing by the front of the theatre. To the extreme right of my view and atop a mezzanine of steps were the baroque gargoyles guarding the huge wooden door leading into the foyer of City Hall.

I remembered Edi’s conversation with the head librarian of the old library. What was it she said, which so impressed me?

“A library is a place which must be continually restaged, so that visitors are confronted with the unexpected, finding not only what they were looking for, but also what they never looked for - maybe a need to resolve a complex problem.”

.......a need to resolve a complex problem.

Those words had become etched in my mind.