Arrivals and Departures

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It was our final day in Spain and we had one more place to visit – Figueres. Figueres is in the foothills of the Pyrenees, close to the French border. As we approached, we could see the Pyrenees rising in the distance, some with snow-capped peaks even this early in the season. Our destination was the fort of Sant Ferran, which was both the first and last staging post for the international volunteers.

Ironically, this little town is still the destination for thousands of foreigners because it is the birthplace of Salvador Dali and houses his theatre museum, created out of the bombed ruins of the town’s theatre. We could not pass through and ignore it, so we joined the coach loads of Japanese and visitors of all nations to experience its surreal interior. Then we set out for the fort. By contrast, the fort was virtually empty, its huge defensive walls and vast parade grounds, surrounded by barracks and stables for hundreds of horses, baking silently under the midday sun.

Alice arrived here in July 1937. She had travelled through France by train to Perpignan and then had been taken across the border with a group of volunteer nurses to Figueres. The border crossing from Cerbere to Port Bou is spectacular; standing on the promontory you can look down to the little French harbour town of Cerbere to your left and to your right, is Port Bou’s harbour, with the steep scrubland rising high above it and the deep blue of the Mediterranean stretching away to the horizon. For a young woman from Czechoslovakia this rocky coastline, shimmering in the summer heat must have been breathtaking, and it was coupled with the knowledge that she was finally here, in Spain, embarking on the adventure of a lifetime, about to join the struggle against fascism.

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Port Bou

July 1937 was a crucial time in the war, its outcome was still in the balance. Fascist troops from Italy and Germany were fully engaged, the atrocity that was the bombing of Guernica had taken place a few months earlier and the Battle of Brunete, to the west of Madrid, was in full force. Alice, like so many, had responded to the call of the Communist party to volunteer. The Soviet Union had decided to enter the fray and add their military weight to the Republican cause. Arriving at Figueres must have been frantic, with recruits from all nations and of all types arriving and being dispatched for registration to Albacete.

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Figueres would also be the site of the Republic’s last stand. In January 1939, the Republican government was forced to retreat there and both fort and town were bombed unmercifully until they were defeated. By this time, however, Alice had gone back home. She left in July 1938, and we know from her own words exactly how it felt to be abandoning Spain, knowing the fight was lost and it would only be a matter of time before Franco and the Nationalists were victorious.

We chose to leave Spain in exactly the same place as Alice. Ignoring the fast motorway that whizzed you across the border without noticing, we drove along the winding coastal road to Port Bou. At the summit, we parked and the small customs house was gone, but a footpath wound up further than the road, so we followed it and found a memorial to all the refugees who had poured over the border in 1939 to escape the reprisals of Franco’s troops. It was estimated that 10,000 arrived at the border each day, reaching a total of 458,000, 78,628 of whom were children. Some were sent back, some managed to flee and the rest were interned in makeshift camps.

Now the difference between the two countries is minimal, a relief for me to have a language I could speak and perhaps for Alice too, although by the time she left Spain, she must have acquired some Spanish. For Alice, however, the culture shock was intense. She crossed the border at night and Port Bou was in darkness. She left a country where people were terrorised and starving, many suffering from diseases for which there were no medicines. France was untouched, the little town illuminated by street lights and the food still plentiful in the shops. However, she would not enjoy that for long, as no sooner had she and her four companions, arrived in the town, but they were arrested. Cerbere, perhaps the name should have heralded a warning, could it be a coincidence that the border town was named after the dog that guarded the underworld?

Her first night in France was spent in a police cell in Cerbere. The next day the five prisoners were moved to Ceret where they faced a ‘procureur’ (state prosecutor), who explained that they would be the first to be condemned by a new law which imposed a penalty of 1-6 months imprisonment on anyone crossing the border without proper documents. The procureur apologised and said he had to apply the law. Alice’s acid comment on the decision, “Why is it that the weak always charge those with whom they have sympathy?” would have a wider resonance than she could possibly know.

She spent the next night in a cell in Ceret, “I feel a whole zoo passes through my cell. In this small cell without air and without light there is room for all: mice, rats, fleas, bugs, lice. Now I see exactly how prison looks from the inside. The stench is almost unbearable.” On the third day, the prisoners were taken by train to Perpignan to serve their sentence. We too, drive on to Perpignan.

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Alice describes her walk from Perpignan station to the prison and so it was easy for us too to follow it. In fact, our hotel was on the rue de la Gare (Station Road), then lined with plane trees, now with tall palms. Many of the houses remain the same, attractive buildings with metal balconies. What a contrast to her first arrival in Perpignan, to find herself escorted by police from one stinking police cell to what she imagined would be another. Worst of all, was the knowledge of what she had left behind. Like her, we were able to pass the statue of Jean Jaures, although since she passed it, it has been moved slightly to accommodate a new open plaza in front of a large FNAC store.

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Statue of Jean Jaures

I knew the exact street we were looking for because Alice mentions it in her account, but I didn’t know whether the prison would still be there. However, as we turned the corner, a large building with heavily barred windows was immediately visible. As we reached it, the word PRISONS was carved in stone above the door. No longer in use as a prison, it now houses an exhibition about the Algerian War and a social centre for Algerians. We went in, and discovered that the prison had two separate wings for men and women and the women’s wing had been restored. The men’s wing was closed off and structurally unsafe. I realised as I looked up at the archway leading to the staircase, with the words, “Quartiers des Femmes” painted above it, that these were the stairs used by Alice. I had not fully understood her description of her days in this prison until I was inside it. She had described her days in the company of two other women in a ground floor room and then at seven in the evening, after dinner, they went upstairs to sleep. The larger communal room was still there, as were the cells upstairs. I had never imagined I would be able to walk through exactly where she had spent her days.

By comparison with the dank cell in Ceret, Alice describes this prison as a “paradise”. Her two fellow prisoners help her to wash and give her cleaner clothes, they share their food with her, one of them has it delivered each day from a local restaurant, and they share stories. She shares the night-time cell with another woman, Lucy, coincidentally also a lawyer and when Alice asks why she is in prison, she answers, “I killed my husband.” In the days that follow, the women learn a great deal about each other; it was obviously an experience Alice remembered with something close to affection. She was always prepared to talk about her experiences in Spain and wrote a long account of her departure and imprisonment in Perpignan, so very different from her response to the years spent in prison in Czechoslovakia, about which she was silent.

It was the end of the journey. Alice was released a few weeks later and in the last days of summer, she returned to Erwin In Zilina. On the 30th of September, the Munich Agreement was signed and all her worst fears were realised. Having visited the prison, we too left Perpignan and headed home through France in the late summer sun.

For more about Figueres during the Civil War.

Surrounded by Danger

 

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Interbrigadist Hospital in Mataro, now a school.

On the 6th and 7th April 1938 the whole hospital of Benicasim was evacuated. Convalescents were sent to Barcelona and the wounded transferred north to Mataro by train, lorry and ambulance.

The move to Mataro was precipitated by the Nationalist advance towards the eastern coast of Spain, which threatened to cut Benicasim off from the Republican government in Barcelona. The Republican administration had been forced to move east from Albacete to be in safer Republican territory.

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We too made the journey north to Mataro, conscious that we were edging ever closer to France, our days in Spain, like Alice’s, were running out. We arrived in Mataro under threatening grey clouds, which soon turned into pounding rain. In 1938 when Alice arrived in the town, her dark clouds were as much metaphorical as literal, for it was obvious that the Republic’s days were numbered. Before evacuating Benicasim, they had seen the flights of Italian aircraft from Majorca heading over the beach towards the Spanish mainland, sometimes they would strafe the beach or drop an ordnance as they headed for their true destination.

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Fishermen’s houses in Mataro

Like Benicasim, Mataro too is on the coast, but when Alice and the others arrived, the coast was not a pleasure beach but lined with small fishermen’s houses. The hospital, a large building, formerly used as a Catholic school and monastery, was outside the town, surrounded by countryside. Whereas in Benicasim, the railway brought the wounded directly to the hospital, in Mataro, they needed to be transported up by tram or lorry. Now, the building is once more a school and in the midst of the newer part of the town, as Mataro has grown into a thriving industrial city. We were there to meet Josep, a retired teacher and committed researcher, who is uncovering the work of the hospital and international brigades. He is also a proud Catalan, campaigning for Catalonian independence. His interest in the hospital came through his grand-parents. His grandmother worked at the hospital and she and her husband also had three of the nurses as lodgers, sharing one large bed. Luckily as they worked in shifts they were rarely all in it at the same time!

We accompanied Josep into the school, it was the day before term started and the teachers were in but not the students. We had to leave by 12 as the school was closing for all the teachers to go to mass and then they would be going out for lunch together, so different from our own training days! Josep explained that the chapel, which was at the entrance to the school, was used as a triage centre by the hospital. We walked around the original staircases, saw the original water fountains in the courtyard, visited the canteen, still being used for the same purpose and then went down into the basement which had housed the kitchen and stores and where some of the original tiles still graced the walls. I imagined Alice down there, taking deliveries through the roadside door that led directly to the basement.

Josep explained that the hospital had housed about 800 patients, many with beds in the corridors as well as in the classrooms-cum-wards. The hospital was desperately short of everything, but nevertheless had more food and supplies than the residents of the town. His grand-mother was grateful for the food she was given there by the patients, who shared what was in their rations, as they knew they were better off than the citizens of Mataro.

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Memorial at Mataro Cemetery

After leaving the school, we made our way through the pelting rain up to the cemetery to see the memorial to the international brigades, it was large and undamaged, perhaps a sign that Mataro is still a socialist town. The place where the bodies were actually buried, however, was unmarked, next to another patch of land housing the dead from the Nationalist side, who were overlooked by a large cross. Josep wants a large plaque on the outer wall of the school, but he is encountering some resistance to this. He is welcomed into the school to show people round and visit, but he has not yet been able to talk to the students. One of the history teachers is interested in the subject and some students have written papers on the role of the school in the civil war, but always, he says, from a Nationalist point of view.

Two days later we visited Vic, Alice’s final placement, and by then the weather had reverted to hot sun and blue skies. There, we were met by Manel, a police officer with the traffic division, who has become a committed campaigner for the memory of the international brigades. His family had no personal connection with the hospital, unlike Guillem’s and Josep’s, but he became interested one year at All Souls in the town’s cemetery when a young woman asked him in English for help finding the grave of Kevin Rebbechi. Finally they found the name, covered in moss, on a memorial to members of the international brigades, more of a headstone with a list of names than a memorial, as no mention is made of the international brigades. Thus began a long relationship between Manel and the Rebbechi family, as he started to research the history of this man and his town. He has now written a book, Looking for Kevin, about his experiences.

Manel had arranged for us to park outside town and he drove us to the cemetery where the spark for his own interest in the subject had first been lit. We saw the very small plaque with Kevin’s name and some of the others from the international brigades, now cleaned and easy to read. A tree had been planted and another small plaque with a poem, but still no mention of the brigades. The men had been buried in an unmarked patch of ground, as in Mataro. Here, however, rather than looking bleak under grey skies and pouring rain, it was a peaceful scene with two brown rabbits quietly nibbling the short grass.

The Cemetery in Vic

From there we went to the hospital, again located in a Catholic school, this time attached to a convent. The building dates from the late 17th century and the adjoining church is the only one left standing by the Republicans. By the time Alice got there, it was one of the last outposts, well defended by a small airfield and impossible to bomb from the sea, as it is in the mountains 60 kilometres inland from Mataro. All the wealthy and powerful people had long since deserted the town, the poor who remained had, to quote Manel, “no food, no drink, no water.” There was no mains water in the town anyway, it all had to be collected from the wells. As a result, typhus was rife and whereas the international doctors knew how to avoid it and treat it, those in the town did not. Although the hospital was better off than the townspeople, it had no morphine and the operations were carried out under the light of a single bulb held aloft by one of the nurses. The day we visited, the school term had started and when we first walked out into the courtyard it was obviously break time and the courtyard was filled with teenagers chatting peaceably. It seemed a very long way from the cries of wounded men and the terror of knowing that everyone’s days of freedom were numbered.

There were no more illusions by the time Alice was in Mataro and Vic. Danger was on all sides; the inexorable advance of Franco’s troops and the cruel reprisals that faced every town that was overrun were well-known. There were two choices, stay and fight with certain knowledge of defeat or escape over the border. Once the town was taken the rich would return, the Nationalists would take charge and the priests would have the power of life and death, they could say who had been on which side and the wrong decision would bring death. However, Franco was not the only threat to the international brigadists; there were threats from their own side. Andre Marty, a French communist and member of the comintern, had been designated “Inspector General of the International Brigades”, also nicknamed the “Butcher of Albacete”, he had been determined to root out any sedition in the ranks of the international brigades, in particular any Trotskyists or anarchists.

It was through him that Alice, Dora, Vlasta and Helena were all accused of undermining morale, first in Benicasim and then also in Mataro and Vic, where they were kept under surveillance and had their post intercepted. They were accused of having stolen some preserves, of which crime they were later acquitted, but these same accusations resurfaced ten years later when they were imprisoned in Czechoslovakia. Many pages of interrogation focus on Spain and those final weeks; the Soviets had very long memories and very detailed records.

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Alice, Vlasta and Dora on the beach at Mataro.

Alice was lucky, she decided to leave Spain in July 1938, those who left much later had an even more difficult time. We too, were about to leave, but before we did, we sat and chatted with Manel over a coffee. He alone in Vic is uncovering these stories and although the schools know him well and welcome him in to talk about road safety, he is not welcome to talk about the town’s history. The book he has written is not approved of by his superiors, but that is not stopping him. His next project is to memorialise the Spanish refugees who escaped into France and were then shipped to concentration camps, primarily Mathausen.

As we drove away, two sentences of Manel’s stuck with me, “People of Vic no talk.” and “Spain can never bury her dead.”

Benicasim: From Holiday Resort to Hospital

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We sat on the terrace in the sun, looking out at the crescent-shaped sandy beach that stretched away to the horizon. This was a proper holiday resort; tanned bodies in bikinis lay on loungers under raffia parasols, young men with surfboards climbed over the low sea wall to join friends enjoying a beer. All along the promenade, stalls selling local produce and crafts attracted the sauntering tourists. In the 1930s Benicasim had been the holiday playground of the rich and now, once again, it is a relaxed seaside resort with a dash of class.

In the days before the Civil War, it had more than a dash of class, it was expensive and exclusive. Bordering the promenade was an endless succession of holiday villas, individual and colourful, with painted railings and gates and lush tropical gardens in which hibiscus and bougainvillea bloomed. Each bore a name painted on its bright facade and they were named after the wives and daughters of the families who holidayed there every summer: Villa Isabel, Villa Elisa, Villa Leonor, Villa Victoria. By 1936 the villas stood empty, their owners no longer felt safe in the turbulent political times. Although Benicasim itself was not a Republican town, it was in an area under Republican control and the rich preferred to stay home in Nationalist Castile.

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Villa Victoria, formerly Villa Maxim Gorky used as a library and cultural centre.

The residents of Benicasim were accustomed to their seasonal life, providing hotels, hospitality and entertainment for their summer visitors, working as cleaners, chauffeurs and chefs. They had learned an attitude of service and deference, and understood the hierarchy of the class system they served. The ladies, in particular, were treated with respect; waited upon and protected.

September 1937 brought dramatic change to Benicasim. An avalanche of foreigners descended on the town, commandeering the hotel, the convent and all the abandoned villas. Now no longer called by genteel female names, they became Villa Maxim Gorky, Villa Masaryk, Villa Pavlov and gained a host of other political labels. Hotel Voramar found itself becoming Hotel Largo Caballero, and when he fell from grace, Hotel Frente Popular. Soon the train that had brought holiday makers right to the seafront was bringing in the wounded and the hotel garage became a triage centre. And the women! Gone were the well-dressed ladies taking coffee; in their place, women doctors, pharmacists, administrators, striding down the promenade from one villa to another, not to visit friends but to check the stores and provisions in one villa, look after patients another, set up the library, organise lectures and Spanish lessons.

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Villa Amaro, formerly Villa Dombrowski used as a ward for infectious diseases

Villas that had once been places of fun and frivolity became designated for infectious diseases such as typhus and syphilis, one villa became a prison, another was a pharmacy, a third became the centre for maintenance and supplies. Most, however, were wards or administrative centres run by the different nationalities. Five of these belonged to the Czech Comenius Hospital and two of their villas survive: Villa Pavlov and Villa Masaryk. We were able to stand in front of them and peer through the railings imagining Alice, Dora, Helena and Vlasta there. For this was where they had spent the majority of their time in Spain. Under the directorship of Bedrich Kisch, brother of Egon Ervin Kisch, the Czech section of the hospital was one of the largest and best funded, as a result of money raised in Czechoslovakia and sent to support the international hospital. Here the women lived and worked, enjoying the Mediterranean weather, the profusion of orange trees, the silken sands, even as they worked hard to keep the hospital running and deal with the medical cases as they came in. For much of the time, the hospital had few acute injuries and was an ideal spot for convalescents, or for those needing respite from the front. After the battles of Belchite and Ebro, however, far more of the wounded arrived directly from the battlefields.

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Villa Maria, formerly Villa Pavlov, used by the Czech Comenius Hospital

We visited in the company of Guillem Casan, a teacher from Benicasim, who has researched the hospital and written many articles about it. He was able to point out each remaining villa and explain its history. A number of the villas have been demolished and replaced by large blocks of flats, but he and others managed to persuade the local council to put preservation orders on the remaining villas and so there are many still standing and adding charm to the promenade for visitors or, more importantly, preserving the historical year when the holiday resort became an international hospital. Preserving that memory has not been easy; throughout the Franco years it was impossible and even now, many either don’t want to remember or are afraid of what will be uncovered. Two years ago, Guillem and others managed to get a memorial erected to the international brigades, it looks much older than its two years. He explained that it regularly gets graffitied with the words “Sons of Stalin” and has to be scrubbed clean.

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It is difficult to reconcile the high ideals and humanitarian concerns of those who worked in the hospital with the realpolitik of Stalin and his use of the Spanish Civil War to create a bulwark against capitalism, only to abandon the Republicans to Franco when he wanted to keep the Western democracies onside. Alice, like so many of her compatriots and co-interbrigadists was a loyal communist. Yet for them, involvement in Spain would result in prison or death. Those who survived the war, and later the internment camps in France and North Africa, were returned to fascist countries like Germany, Italy or even Hungary to face an immediate sentence. Others, like Alice, returned safely, but after the war found their own communist governments turning on them, on Stalin’s orders, and arresting the interbrigadists, accusing them of Trotskyism or Imperialism or both. The gentle beach of Benicasim seems light years away from the bleak prison walls in which they would find themselves.

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Vlasta Vesela, Helena Petrankova and Dora Klein.

We wound our way back through the week-end crowds to the Hotel Voramar, now having reverted to its pre-Republican name, and walked along the low wall where Helena, Vlasta and Dora had posed for their photograph. The photograph, which was used on the flyer for last year’s exhibition about the international brigades, shows the three young women in their white hospital uniforms, two doctors and a pharmacist. They were then and would remain Alice’s closest friends, like her, still full of idealism and belief in a better future. As we settled for a farewell beer, I asked Guillem how he had become involved in researching the international brigades hospital. He explained that his father, a young boy of seven at the time, had made friends with some of the interbrigadists and they had encouraged him to use their library, which he had loved. As an adult, he trained as a teacher, but his first love was books so he had switched careers and opened a bookshop. Guillem heard his father speak about those times and the story he heard was different from the official version spun in the years of Franco’s dictatorship. Now he is reviving and restoring that story, making it available to his fellow citizens and those of us from further afield who benefit from his knowledge.

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For more information about the consequences for Alice, Dora and Vlasta see: A Tale of Two Photographs

Bullfighting in Albacete

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Map of Republican Territory in May 1937 when Alice arrived in Spain

On our first evening in Albacete we went to a restaurant recommended on TripAdvisor. As we walked in, far too early for Spanish diners, we were greeted by an enormous bull’s head, stuffed and mounted on a shield. It took up the whole wall opposite the bar and was mesmerising, a most beautiful glistening black bull looking across the dining tables with a majesty that belied its ignominious position. It was awe-inspiring and sad. How could anyone want to torture and kill such a magnificent creature? Every other inch of wall in the restaurant was covered in photographs of matadors and posters and tickets for bullfights. This was not a tourist destination, the Spanish clientele made that clear. Indeed, Albacete, for all its international visitors during the civil war now has very few.

The next morning we went to CEDOBI, the library dedicated to the history of the international brigades. There we met Carmen, a slight young woman with long dark hair, with whom I had been in contact two days earlier. She already had a pile of books ready to show us. Her English was even more meagre than my Spanish and she apologised profusely for its inadequacy; we communicated in sign language and via google translate on our mobile phones. Later she explained her resolution for the year ahead was to learn English and she blamed Franco for the Spaniards’ poor English, “He kept us backward and inward looking.”

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After studying the documents, we went out together into the town. She wanted to show us the bull ring. During the civil war the bull ring had been the recruitment and registration centre for the international brigades. Albacete was the distribution point and the headquarters were situated in the Gran Hotel on the main square, the very place where we were staying. Alice arrived here soon after crossing into Spain from Perpignan. It was not her first stop, that was Figueras, a few miles from the border. From here she sent Erwin the telegram explaining that she had gone to Spain and that they “belonged to two different worlds”. It was his first indication that rather than holidaying with her parents in Brussels, she had gone to join the fight against fascism. Figueras was the first port of call for the volunteers crossing into Spain but from there they needed to go to Albacete, the city of Babel, where every European language could be heard on the streets.  Once here, the raw recruits made their way to the bull ring, ready too to sacrifice their lives in an unequal contest.

All large buildings had been pressed into service, and the bull ring was no exception, but it was also symbolic. The Republicans had a different relationship with bullfighting. It did not occur during the years of the Civil War and in 1936 when the Republicans won the election and came to power, “Special pastures that had been given over to the breeding of fighting bulls… were ploughed over. In the months before the new crops would be available…” they slaughtered the bulls to distribute for food. For many of the peasants it was their first ever taste of meat. The time, land, care and money spent raising bulls for the ring accentuated the priorities of the landowners while the peasants starved and were punished for the most minor offences. In the province of Albacete
seventeen peasants were killed, and many others wounded by the Civil Guard. They had attempted to chop wood on land that had once belonged to the village..”

It was in Albacete that Alice first realised she really was now part of the resistance to Franco, she quickly made contact with others she knew from the Czech communists and began to forge relationships that would last a lifetime and which would bind them together in danger far removed from the imminent threats of bombs and typhus. She did not stay long, but was drafted to the hospital in Guadalajara, only to return a few weeks later when Otto Sling, suffering from typhus, needed to be repatriated to Czechoslovakia. Convalescents also stayed in the Gran Hotel, on the floors above the administration.  Further accommodation was found in the neighbouring Hotel Regina or other buildings around the square, now the town hall and a bank.

Albacete is a much larger town than Guadalajara, and returning here, Alice must have felt the change intensely. Guadalajara was a small hilltop community, but here on the flat plain, Albacete spread much more widely and its centre was far more grand. However, the international brigades were still concentrated in an intense closeness, grouped around the Plaza del Altozano, in the centre of which is the entrance to the bunker or bomb shelter, now a defaced and deserted tourist information office. Close by, the cathedral and its plaza were used to station the Republican tanks. Further away from the centre, a short walk from the bullring, was the fairground, used during the war as a barracks. Long lines of tents housed the various international brigades before they were dispatched to their individual battle zones.

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Gran Hotel

When Carmen took us to see the fairground, it was being prepared for a fiesta. Unwittingly, we had arrived in Albacete the day before their annual fiesta in honour of the Virgin de los Llanos. The fiesta has been celebrated for three hundred years and kicks off with a huge parade and floats bearing people dressed in traditional costumes. For three days the town is filled with revellers enjoying the bands, exhibitions, dancing, food and bull fights. For on each of these three days there are bullfights and each day six bulls will have been killed. I asked Carmen whether bullfighting was still popular and she said that it was. Although she was not so keen on it, her father, brother and sister all were. She said it is as popular as ever.

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The Bull Ring

Apart from the little library of CEDOBI, the civil war is hardly mentioned in Albacete. At the tourist information office, now relocated into the town hall, the assistant said regretfully there was nothing apart from CEDOBI and when I asked Carmen how Albacete had been affected by having been a Republican centre during the war, her answer was chilling. She said, “We do not talk about it. Every family in town has people who disappeared or were killed.” Franco’s troops were indeed brutal. Conquering a city was never enough, they murdered all the Republican elements they could find: trade unionists, intellectuals, anyone who had been active in supporting or sheltering activists.

The choice of the bullring as a recruiting centre was, I am sure, made for practical reasons, but I am haunted by that bull’s head in the restaurant. The bull’s defeat is always inevitable, and it has no choice but to fight.

 

Quotations from The Spanish Civil War by Paul Preston (Harper Perennial 2006)

 

 

Bienvenida España

Palacio del Infantado

Our arrival in Spain was rather different from Alice’s. In July 1937 she took the train down to Perpignan and in the company of other volunteers, crossed to Figueras, the meeting point for many of the international brigades. In September 2019 we crossed the bay of Biscay in a Brittany Ferry in the company of many seasoned second homers, some accompanied by their dogs. Plug-in food coolers were the accessory of choice and shorts and sweatshirts the prevailing fashion. Alice, however, arrived with virtually no possessions and had to rely on Dora for the gift of a coat.

After an initial night in Bilbao we proceeded to Guadalajara, which was Alice’s first assignment. In 1936 Guadalajara had been the scene of a fierce battle between the Republicans  and the Nationalists, mostly represented by Italian troops sent across by Mussolini to help Franco. Most of the fighting took place in surrounding villages, which were reduced to mounds of rubble and the skeletons of buildings, but Guadalajara itself had seen some direct fighting and bombing, thus seriously damaging the old Renaissance style building of the Palacio del Infantado. By the time Alice arrived, the Nationalists had been repulsed and peace had once again descended on the town, although signs of the hard-fought battle were all around her.

Guadalajara is a small town, sixty kilometres to the east of Madrid. We approached it from the north and soon found ourselves driving down a cool and spacious tree-lined avenue, at the end of which stood our large modern hotel. Having settled in, we went to explore. A few steps on from the hotel, we were greeted by the majesty of the Palacio del Infantado, now lovingly restored, its golden stone bathed in late summer sun. Accounts of the bombing were on the plaque outside, although which side was responsible for the bombing was strangely absent.IMG_3271

Convento de San Jose

We were in search of the Carmelite convent where the international brigade hospital was situated and found it soon enough, still operating as a convent and promoting as a major historic event the torture and killing of three of its nuns during the civil war and their subsequent beatification. We were allowed to go in and visit the church, which involved talking to a nun (in Spanish) and asking to be allowed in. I understood that we needed to push a button next to a door further along the street. Having managed this successfully, we found ourselves in a dark interior, barely able to discern where the floor was after the brightness of the sunlight outside. The church was empty and silent apart from us and the door locked behind us with a click. A typical ornate and gilded altarpiece adorned the eastern wall and a huge painting of the three murdered nuns was on the right hand side. To the left of the altar, effigies of the same three nuns looked out through an iron grille, above a repository for their bones. At the back of the chapel a gallery covered by an iron grille allowed the nuns still living in the convent to take part in the services. Only dead nuns had the privilege of witnessing services from inside the church. I wondered what the chapel had been used for when it was a hospital, maybe as a ward for the injured. There was no mention anywhere of the interbrigadist hospital, only the fact that the convent buildings had survived the war and the nuns had then been able to return.

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When we came to leave the chapel, my instructions in Spanish failed me and I had a moment of panic as we tried various ways of getting out of the chapel to no avail, until finally we found the right button for our release.

We decided to try and find some information about Guadalajara during the civil war as none was available in general tourist information. We went to the library and for a small town, actually for any town, the library was impressive. It was on three floors, well staffed, furnished with large airy study spaces and we were soon shown to the local history section where we were able to go through photograph books with pictures of the battle of Guadalajara. Here, the destruction of the surrounding villages was clear and there were some individual photographs of an ambulance, but nothing on the hospital. However, taking the short walk from the convent to Plaza Major and along the main street, I could imagine the town filled with soldiers and wounded, the hospital staff coming off shift and meeting in the little street bars. It was so compact, that every few yards you would meet someone you knew. The newer part of the town stretching below what would have been the ruins of the Palacio del Infantando would not have been there, instead the beginning of farms and fields.


The new town now tells a contradictory story. Because Guadalajara was seen as a “defeated city” (after Franco’s final victory), it was starved of funds and allowed to decay. It is only in recent years that there has been investment and an effort to promote the town as a dormitory for Madrid, as yet not very successfully. Despite the efficient new rail line into Madrid, many of the apartment blocks sit empty and in some cases, unfinished. So the hopeful rebirth of this town is still to come.

The next day, as we left the hilltop town, all the old streets felt familiar and well-known, how much more strongly must Alice have felt after her few weeks here in such an intimate and intense community. She left just as plans were being made to move the hospital to the coastal town of Benicasim and although she knew the removal was imminent, she was forced to leave early to visit Albacete where Otto Schling was suffering from typhus and needed to be repatriated to Czechoslovakia.

We too, therefore, were making the journey to Albacete. The journey took us on excellent and almost empty roads and was spectacular. The first part curved up and down the cultivated hilly slopes, stubble giving way to vines and then to olive trees. We wound round the curving mountain sides, encountering few cars and isolated villages. Every so often the vistas opened out and we could see for miles across the plain spreading out below us. Finally we reached the bottom and then, in the midday heat, we drove along through endless flatness with no respite from the blazing sun. I had read that Alice had walked this journey; this seemed impossible. I think what she meant was that she had not been able to take a train as they were all in use for troop movements. She meant that  she had to travel under her own steam, hitching lifts in army trucks or farm carts and still the voyage must have lasted some days, through the baking heat and unrelenting glare of the plain, or climbing steep farm tracks.

For us, it was an easy four hour trip. Albacete, central distribution point for the international brigades, awaited us.

Alice in the Archives

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Bytca Archive.

I have visited archives in a wide variety of locations, ranging from deserted castles (Bytca) to pre-fab buildings in suburban streets (Liptovsky Mikulas), behind locked iron gates (Zilina) or huge wooden doors in discreet side streets (Prague). None seem to advertise themselves and in nearly every case I have had a moment of doubt about the location before being allowed in. However, they all have one other thing in common; they are staffed by the most helpful people in the world. There must be a helpful gene that singles you out for a career in the archives. Regardless of language barriers, the archive staff go out of their way to produce microfilm or ancient ledgers, to guide me through strange unfamiliar login details and display an understanding shrug as I sign one request slip after another, while they kindly fill in the rest. They explain the apparently incomprehensible and go searching for extra documents I wasn’t yet aware that I wanted and they seem delighted to do so.

Archives have provided most of the sources in my search for Alice, and they have been significant in a number of ways. The vast majority of the documents have winged their way to me over the internet, but there are always details in seeing the originals that add an extra perspective. At Bytca, scrolling through for the record of Alice’s birth, I wasn’t sure I would find out more than I already knew. It was easy to locate the details, Alice had been born in Ruzomberok on December 19th 1905 as I knew and as, at the time, Ruzomberok was still part of the Hungarian part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, the details were in Hungarian, but then I saw an extra note, written in Slovak. Although when Alice was born she was registered as Jewish, the added note from 1930 stated that in 1930, she had registered herself legally as “atheist” and the number of the registration document was included.

It was no great surprise to know that she was an atheist, but I was surprised to find it noted there on her birth record. But what the authorities in the former Czechoslovakia choose to retain is a constant source of surprise. From the Bytca archive I went to Liptovsky Mikulas and there located Alice’s school records. Both Erwin and Alice had attended Catholic Gymnasia (secondary schools) run by the Catholic Piarist brothers, Erwin in Zilina and Alice in Ruzomberok. However, the four year difference in their ages was crucial. Whereas Erwin had completed his education in 1918, and therefore studied in Hungarian under the rule of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, Alice had joined the secondary school in that year – the year Czechoslovakia was created – and so was taught in either Czech or Slovak.

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Alice’s street as it was when she lived there.

The records helped confirm her address and showed her grades for each year. Her grades were not as uniformly high as Erwin’s, but she excelled in languages, writing, and the study of literature. Mathematics and Chemistry were her weaker subjects, my sympathies are with her. The records also give the details of her final matriculation exams and the names of the literary texts on which she was tested. They included the Slovak realist writer, Jozef Gregor Tajovsky and the Czech national revival poet, Frantisek Ladislav Celakovsky. For her French exams she was tested on the subjunctive and on Corneille’s Le Cid. It was so strange to be able to see that level of detail, I am sure none of my schools retain copies of my reports, let alone what I studied. While I was there, I couldn’t resist looking too at the records of her friends: Helena Petrankova and Edvard Urx. I felt like a time traveller looking back at their teenage experience and knowing the bravery and horror their futures were to hold.

Finally I looked at Eva’s records, seven years Alice’s junior, so by the time she was in school, the Czech curriculum was well established, and Eva was a star! If Alice, Edvard and Helena had all been bright students heading off to university in Prague, Eva’s grades outshone them all, achieving the highest “velmi dobry” in every subject and specialising in sciences. She would go on and have a prestigious career in scientific research, including her two years during the war at Kew and a grant from the FAO to study in Sweden after the war. Who knows what she might have achieved, had her opportunities not been cut short by Alice’s arrest and the policies of Czechoslovakia’s communist regime?

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Alice’s school.

Having seen the records, I wanted to see the places themselves, the house where Alice and her family had lived, the synagogue, the school. As with so many places, the street names had changed and it was inevitable that Nemecka (German) Street would have changed. In fact, it was right in the centre, a minute from our hotel, but apart from one building with a circular tower on the corner of the street, nothing from Alice’s era survives. Alice’s family had been wealthy and lived in a large house. During the Communist era, all were demolished to make way for blocks of flats. There have probably been several alterations since then, now it is a pedestrianised shopping street. At the top end of it, however, there is a small road that winds up the hill towards what is now called Hlinka Square where the town hall is situated. This was Alice’s route to school and some of the houses still look as if they might be from that time. Walking up there is the closest I can get to her teenage years, imagining her and Helena (who lived opposite) walking to and from school, chatting and gossiping or enthused by the new ideas being shared by their teacher, Professor Martinec.

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Alice’s route to school.

Andrej Hlinka, Catholic priest and leader of the Slovak People’s Party, was born in Ruzomberok and his huge mausoleum now stands at one end of the square that bears his name. Although Hlinka supported both Salazar in Portugal and Dolfus in Austria, it would be under his successor Jozef Tiso that Slovakia embraced Nazi ideology, and his own name lived on during the war as the hated “Hlinka Guard” carried out Tiso’s orders in deporting Slovak Jews. Alice would be surprised today to see how he is revered in his home town. One of her first political acts was in response to Hlinka, on a day when she arrived at school to find the Catholic students barring entry in order to protest about Hlinka’s arrest by the Czech authorities. Alice was one of the first to break the strike and go straight in.

The school still stands at the furthest point of Hlinka Square and is part of the Catholic University in Ruzomberok. The school itself has moved into larger and more modern premises. When Alice attended, the school was part of a complex of buildings owned by the Piarist brothers, which included a huge church right next to the school and a seminary for Catholic priests. For the young Jewish teenagers, many of whom had been radicalised by the progressive ideas of Professor Martinec, the alternative vision for the future of their city and country was all too clear.

It is no surprise that once Alice had left for Prague, she never returned to live in Ruzomberok, although she did still visit her parents. Ruzomberok did, however, provide the setting for one final significant event in her life; her marriage to Erwin, which took place in the town hall in a civil ceremony. It was to that same town hall I went to see the record of the marriage and obtain a copy of the certificate. As with the amendment to the birth certificate, when I looked at the marriage record, there was an extra note; this one stating the marriage had been dissolved in April 1951. All the documents from the beginning of her life, detailing birth, education and marriage contain, within their dry facts, memorials to days of happiness and hope.

Finally, I wonder whether researchers of the future will get the same thrill by trawling through online and electronic data as I do from holding in my hands the ledgers containing the entries written by the very teachers who stood in front of young Alice and Eva and Helena and believed in the promise they showed.

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Visiting the Dead

Leopold & Ernestine

Leopold Kohn and Ernestine Kohnova (nee Diamant)

On a hot sunny Sunday, we set off to Cadca. This is the final week of the trip, Slovakia. Cadca is near the northern border of Slovakia, close to Poland. It is the place where the trains from Slovakia transporting the Jews to Auschwitz, stopped, and where their human cargo was handed over to the SS. It is also the family home of my grand-mother’s family – the Diamants. We are staying in Zilina, which we visited for the first time last year for the memorial event. This time, it is just our base for further exploration

The drive up the valley to Cadca is stunning, almost Alpine, with its tree covered mountains on either side and a lush green valley between. At times we drive next to a river and the peace and beauty on this quiet morning help me to understand why Ernestine (my grand-mother) might not have been able to settle in New York. Did she dream of a return to these green mountains from her tenement flat? Did the slow domestic pace of a small town where everyone knew everyone, where in every shop and round every corner was a friend, a relative, call to her from the frenetic streets of the Lower East Side?

Cadca is small and seems deserted when we arrive and park. We set off along a pedestrianised shopping street and branch off towards the cemetery; we are searching for the memorial to the Jews of Cadca. At the Catholic cemetery a few people are tending graves, the cemetery is vast and stretches away as far as the eye can see. It is a riot of colour, on every grave there are artificial flowers, little lanterns and big headstones. I am not sure how to find the memorial so ask an elderly lady, who is at the entrance and is enjoying an ice cream cone. I show her the website on my phone and in a mixture of Czech (me) and Slovak (her) we talk, she is very helpful and shows us how to find it, walking with us to the perimeter of the graveyard, and pointing to a small path behind a house, which we follow. It comes out on to another little road and there, in the midst of a small meadow, we see the memorial. It is completely quiet, just the stone memorial and a sculpture of a fire blasted tree trunk, symbolising the lives cut short. We read the inscription, “Here was situated for centuries the Jewish cemetery. From 1942-1944 the Jews of Cadca were deported to extermination camps and their community ceased to exist.” In the days that follow, I shall visit other memorials and even Auschwitz, but none will make me cry as these few lines did.

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Most of Ernestine’s direct family emigrated to the USA long before the Holocaust, but this little town had been home to their ancestors and to others, for centuries – and in two years everything was destroyed. There is no sign of a gravestone anywhere, it is just a green field with a few benches, and right next door is a vast graveyard for Catholics, Christians who care for the graves of their own ancestors.

For these few days I am visiting absence and emptiness. On Monday we head for Bytca, to visit the archive. Appropriately it is situated in a derelict castle, I can hardly believe where I have been told to go. The open walkways round the abandoned courtyard are decorated with the remains of wall paintings, partially destroyed and flaking from the walls. Only the sign ‘Studovna’ keeps me walking, and there, sure enough, is a little archive office were I can scroll through microfiche and find the birth records of Alice and my grand-parents. I could have spent days there filling in the details of ancestors, maybe I shall return.. As we leave, opposite the castle, is the old synagogue – it is large and in a prominent position in the town, but it is derelict; the Jewish population, once central to the life of Bytca, no longer exists.

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Tuesday, and the mission is Ruzomberok. The Jewish cemetery there has been moved to adjoin the Catholic cemetery, some old gravestones from the original cemetery in the town have been transported there and there are also new graves. I am hoping to see something of the Glasner family and also Helena Petrankova’s grave which, according to an online history of Ruzomberok’s Jews, is also there. The graveyard is on the edge of the town, on the slope of a hill and, like the one in Cadca, is huge and packed with brightly decorated graves. The Jewish section is at the very furthest point. There are a few graves, surrounded by overgrown grass and overlooked by a large memorial to those who died in the holocaust. There is a small dead snake on the path, so we pick our way very carefully towards the graves and soon I see the name Geiger, Alice’s mother’s maiden name. It is a family grave of the Glasner, Politzer and Geiger families. It contains thirteen members of the family. The main granite headstone, which should have been upright, has fallen down and lies across older graves. We scrape away the moss and dirt to find a couple more names, but have no way of knowing more than a few of those buried there. I search for Helena Petrankova, there aren’t so many to choose from, but I can’t see her. Then, I notice Simon Ackersmann, her father, and there, underneath but on the same inscription, is her name. Helena died in 1968, a few days after the invasion by Soviet troops. I try to find more information at the cemetery office, but they have none. We ask about the grass and how often they get visitors to the Jewish section. The lady explains how many cemeteries they have and how wet it has been, they will get round to it eventually. They only get one or two visitors a year to the Jewish graves, no wonder they see clearing a path to them as low priority.

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My final destination on this voyage is, appropriately, Auschwitz. It is another blazing hot day when we arrive and we are booked on a six hour study tour. So much has been written about Auschwitz, but as well as seeing for myself, I want the answer to certain questions. I want to know what would have happened to Ernestine and Leopold, my grand-parents. And I do discover more detail, I learn that as they were deported in 1942, this was relatively early in the life of the camp and before Birkenau, the death camp, was built. They would have arrived at Oswiecim railway station, the direct train tracks under the watch tower to Birkenau were yet to be completed. They would have been marched to the camp and surprisingly for someone of Leopold’s age, he was chosen to “live” and be registered. This meant they were separated on arrival; Ernestine was not registered, she was directed straight to the gas chamber.

The gas chamber at Auschwitz has survived, the four larger ones at Birkenau were all destroyed. We can visit this one, I can stand in the room and try to think about what happened there. It is impossible, my mind just can’t take it in.

Leopold did not live for much longer, he might have been destroyed by the work and the conditions, maybe he gave up after losing Ernestine. I have strange thoughts. I am relieved that their journey from Zilina was such a short one, only a few hours, so many people travelled for days or even weeks in cattle trucks across Europe to reach there. Cruel as Auschwitz is, it is not as bad as Birkenau, and I am relieved they never had to see the full industrial machinery of death that it became. Strange how the brain adapts to horror, finding ways of working with and adapting to that once unimaginable reality. In one of the final rooms there is a book of the dead, listing 4 million of the 6 million Jews killed in Holocaust. I want to find Leopold’s name, I know it is there, but there are so many Kohns, so many Leopold Kohns that there isn’t time before the guide wants us to move on. Just as we are going, I spot his birthdate and place of residence – Zilina. We return in the lunch break to take the photograph. I don’t know why I so wanted to do that, I have other documents certifying what happened to him. I just felt in that place of horror I wanted to locate my grand-father, somehow to make that connection, as if being there I was finding more of him than just a name.

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In the afternoon we visit Birkenau and I have not described a fraction of what we saw, but there is a moment beyond the camp, behind the remains of the four huge gas chambers when we stop in the welcome shade of dappled trees and read another of the memorials. We stand in front of a pool, it is a strangely peaceful scene, away from the crowds of tourists and our guide says, “These pools are full of human ashes.”

Auschwitz has millions of visitors. On the day we went, continuous streams of students, older people, soldiers from the Israeli army, people from all over the world passed through the barracks of misery and degradation, stared at the mechanisms of death, photographed the now iconic places of arrival and selection. They stared at the vast piles of human hair, shoes, brushes, the maps like spider webs that show the places from which the victims came, all converging on this one point. The crimes are remembered, and the victims too, but their worlds, the vibrant communities to which they belonged, are no more, preserved only in the furthest corners of rarely visited graveyards.

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Au Revoir and not Good-Bye

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from Praha a Prazane by Vaclav Jiru

My month is Prague is over and already I am making plans to return.

The crowds of tourists on Charles Bridge taking selfies, the stag week-ends on beer bicycle evenings, the groups of Chinese following their guides – all of these soon became irrelevant, a surprising jolt back to the real world when I encountered them, or maybe they were the unreal world.

For me, when crossing Charles Bridge I see a quieter scene, instead of the hordes gathering at the pedestrian crossing, my eyes are on the Unitarian flag still flying above the offices from which my father’s medical teaching mission was organised. At the railway station I ignore the huge modern concourse and focus on the grand circular Art Nouveau entrance above it, the place of arrival and departure for Erwin and Alice on their many journeys to and from Zilina or on their visits to Vienna. Opposite the station is his hotel, Hotel Esplanade, where the doctors in the delegation stayed, and to which he returned exhausted after a day and a night working, to settle down finally to rest with Alice in their room.

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I walk up Albertov, between the large buildings of the medical faculty and hardly notice the young people of all nationalities in jeans, walking past with their folders clasped to their chests. Instead I see a group of young Jewish men in suits, talking in German on their way to the hospital in Karlovo Namesti, the hospital where they trained and where a few years later, Helena Petrankova would spend several weeks having treatment for her knee injury. Standing there beneath the trees waiting for my tram, I imagine Alice waiting there too, to meet Helena and help her back to Zilina for her convalescence.

As I leave my Czech lessons each morning I pass through the large round ‘square’ with the army headquarters where Helena worked after the war. Now named Vitezne Namesti, then called October Revolution Square and graced by a large statue of Lenin after whom the metro station was named (now just called Dejvicka after the district). I walk through parks, go to the opera and imagine Alice and Erwin enjoying the summer evenings in Petrin, or sitting smartly dressed in the concert halls and theatres.

Later, I visit Pancrac prison, on the same tram station as Novy Sporilov, where Alice lived until her death. She must have passed the prison on her way into town. How strange to look up at the rolled barbed wire on those walls and remember the years spent inside them. How strange to look at them now and try to imagine how it must have been for her.

Revisiting places is one thing, meeting the people who knew Alice, whose parents were her friends, is quite another. I meet Pepik (Dora Klein’s son) and also Jirina, (the daughter of Otto Hromadko) first,  and we arrange to meet again for the following week with the two sons of Osvald Zavodsky. The meeting is in a typical Czech restaurant, ironically situated a few doors away from the Communist Party Headquarters. So here we are, within yards of the organisation which imprisoned and/or executed our parents (or in my case my father’s wife), and yet it is also the organisation to which they devoted their lives. The one thing everyone seems to be confident about is that their parents remained faithful to the ideology of communism to the end of their lives.

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I have had some surreal experiences but none more so than the discussion on that afternoon about the whereabouts of Adolf Eichmann’s furniture. The previous day Pepik and I had gone for a walk to find the house where he grew up, or rather where he lived for the first seven years of his life. We walked up past Vitezne Namesti and he tried to find the way he had walked as a child, between the rows of allotments. Unfortunately the road seemed to be closed, so we approached from another angle. When we found it, I was surprised at what a beautiful house it was. It was not how I had imagined the years spent while his mother was in prison. He pointed out his bedroom and the balcony where a picture of Alice and her friends was taken and then he said, “Adolf Eichmann lived in this house during the war.” I have read Hannah Arendt’s book on Eichmann’s trial in Jerusalem and seen the TV film that was made of the trial. I gaped at the elegant pink building. “Adolf Eichmann lived here? And then you lived here?” His mother, Dora had spent two years in Auschwitz concentration camp and then after the war, she lived in Eichmann’s house?

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To be fair, she had not had the whole house to herself, she had shared the first floor with the widow of Egon Ervin Kisch, Gisl, whom they had known in the Spanish Civil War. Even so… Pepik went on to explain that when they returned to Poland they took some of the furniture with them. I asked if he still had it and he replied, “My daughter has the couch, it is not very comfortable.” The next day, in the restaurant I mention this exchange and Jirina is able to add to it. “We have his table,” she says, “we call it Eichmann’s table.” There follows a discussion about how Jirina’s family inherited the table from Gisl Kischova when she died and whether the furniture was bought especially for Eichmann or whether he just used the existing furniture in the house that belonged to its Jewish owners. As the discussion about whether he would have had time to find his own furniture goes on, I find myself picturing these Jewish families living for years with the furniture of the man who saw carrying out the orders that led to the deaths of millions as a bureaucratic problem, and not only the deaths of millions, but the deaths of their own families.

As our afternoon of conversation begins to draw to a close, Jiri Zavodsky turns to me and asks, “Have you visited Alice’s flat in Novy Sporilov?” I had thought of visiting it but I wasn’t sure how easy it would be and it was far out from the centre so I didn’t. There had been so much else to do and I certainly wouldn’t have had the nerve to ring on the bell if I had found it. I explain that I had not and he says, “Because Katerina lives there, Alice left it to her , it was her mother who wrote the memoir.” I am almost beyond surprise and excitement. I have been searching for descendants of Tauchmannova, whose memoir of Alice I read, as I thought that her children would definitely know something about Alice. Tauchmannova lived in the same block as Alice and was her friend in the last part of her life. And now, not only might I be able to speak to her daughter but also see Alice’s actual flat. Jiri rings her and sadly she is not well and is about to go into hospital, but she says she would like to meet. I will have to return.

The next day, I receive an email from Jiri. Katerina has given him a china figurine that belonged to Alice. She wants me to have it. We meet at the tram stop and he hands me a bag. Later, I look inside. I was prepared to treasure it, whatever it was like, but I like it for itself as well as for what it represents. I am holding in my hands something that Alice had chosen. I shall return to Prague soon, I want to meet Katerina, and I am already planning the next trip. There are so many places still to see and Prague is no longer a holiday destination, it is much more than that.

Cartoons and Correctness

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On Thursday in my lesson we were reading an adapted extract of The Good Soldier Svejk, a Czech classic. The extract described an incident where Svejk goes to buy some clandestine cognac from a Jewish street seller for his lieutenant, and gets caught. The story is illustrated with several pen and ink drawings and I was quite shocked to see a stereotypical portrayal of a Jew, it was straight out of anti-Semitic propaganda. However, I remembered my father liked the book and that it had been first published in 1920, so looked again more carefully at the illustrations. Two were signed by Josef Lada, the original illustrator, but the others had obviously just been added for this particular teaching manual. It seemed to me it was one thing to reproduce the originals drawn at a time when people didn’t have the sensitivities we have now and quite another to reinforce those stereotypes for a contemporary audience.

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I expressed my surprise to my teachers; the younger of my two teachers could not see the problem at all. She explained it was just a representation of a Jewish shopkeeper, I tried to explain about negative stereotyping and finally gave up. The next day I tried again with my other teacher, who is older and I thought might understand better, she seemed to understand slightly better but I felt she was really just humouring me. Finally when I met up with the researcher who has been helping me with all the documents, I asked her, and she said the Czechs weren’t really into political correctness, but that they were a tolerant people. She had a point, when Czechoslovakia was first formed in 1918, it was a liberal and democratic state. Many Jewish Poles came to Prague to study medicine as they were not allowed to do so in Poland. Now, I am not aware of any particular anti-Semitism and the daughter of one of Alice’s friends told me that a number of young Czechs with no Jewish parentage are converting to Judaism.

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That evening I watched a documentary about the Slansky trials and about the Soviet and Czech communists’ relationship with Israel, Zionism and anti-semitism. And there they are – the very same stereotypes in images produced not just by the Nazis during the war, but by the Slovaks and the Communists. I think I see a clear connecting thread, but I have so many different ideas and images and interpretations, so many different periods and I am trying to be fair in making sense of them for myself. Am I over-reacting to those Svejk illustrations?

Yesterday at Terezin outside Prague, I face the consequences of anti-Semitism. There are two fortresses that were formerly used as barracks and which were then adapted into a ghetto and a camp, as they were easy to guard being surrounded by walls. While waiting for the tour, I go into some of the rooms and cells by myself and a heavy weight settles deep in the pit of my stomach. Swallows have made nests in the corners of the empty room and the two parents panic as I go in, swirling round their nest, protecting their young. I want to be taken by the pleasure of seeing these little birds with their intricate nests, but know that is not why I am there. I don’t want to upset them, I acknowledge the irony of my not wanting to upset two little birds whom I have no intention of harming.

The tour takes us round the men’s quarters, some of which still have the wooden frames on which the inmates slept, crammed together. We see the showers (real showers, there were no gas chambers in Terezin) and the huge steamer, like the one in Mlada Boleslav, to clean the bugs from the prison clothes. We see the places of execution, the mortuaries where the dead were collected and then driven in carts by Jews from the ghetto to the crematorium. I find myself thinking about the Jewish rituals of death and how these are ignored, keeping the bodies for several days and then cremating, rather than burying them. Then I think why would they worry about the treatment of the dead, when the treatment of the living was so unspeakable?

The two places I find most affecting, strangely, are the swimming pool and the cinema which the officers and their families used for relaxation. You somehow get inured to the horrors of the overcrowded, inhuman conditions and then seeing normal leisure opportunities right behind the wall of execution makes my stomach lurch. Did the prisoners ever hear the officers and their children splashing in the pool? There is something visceral about reactions here, they seem to happen deep in my gut.

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I go round the various exhibitions, the stories of the Nazi commandants, the history of the war and the camp and I get to a point when I can’t take in any more. One or two accounts of the horrific and often random cruelty are shocking, I don’t want to repeat them here, but after a while I am just overwhelmed with that one question, “How could they have done it? What was going on inside their heads that enabled them to behave like that to other human beings?” There is one quote that stays with me; it is from a Jewish doctor who was an inmate of Terezin . The doctor was asked by one of the SS guards to tend to his broken finger and the doctor reports, “He told me he had nothing against the Jews and the Czechs. ‘you know, such are the times,’ he told me.”

At first, when I come back from Terezin, my reaction to the stereotypical drawings feels justified. But then, I remember something else. I remember all the times the Czechs and Slovaks have had their reading and their schoolbooks controlled. Even before Czechoslovakia existed as an independent country, children were forced to learn in languages that were not their own: German or Hungarian. Then, just twenty years after the formation of Czechoslovakia, children had the picture of Hitler in their classrooms and the Nazis controlled the propaganda of what they were taught. Ten years later, it was Stalin’s picture above the blackboard, compulsory Russian for everyone and Soviet propaganda in every lesson. This is a country whose writers, film makers, musicians were censored, blacklisted, imprisoned. Maybe I understand why they don’t need 21st century political correctness telling them what illustrations they can have in their text books. Nothing is simple.

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Ladislav Chochole – Nameless

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Prison Visit

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“This is the second time I have taken someone to a prison,” my Uber driver tells me cheerfully. On the first occasion he was taking a man to Pancrac who was about to start his sentence. Today he is taking me to Mlada Boleslav, sixty seven kilometres from Prague, a drive of about an hour through the pouring rain.

Mlada Boleslav is known chiefly for its huge Skoda factory and that is my driver’s first assumption about why I am going there; it is not an typical tourist destination. He has obviously never been asked to go to the prison before, so stops and asks various locals, who all know where it is and point us in the right direction. Mlada Boleslav is an unremarkable town, with an attractive, cobbled central square and plenty of new blocks of flats and shopping precincts. The prison is close to the centre and I spot it before my driver does. The law courts face Namesti Republiky, looking fresh and smartly painted; lurking behind them is the prison, with peeling paintwork and rusting bars at the window. It is now used exclusively as a film location and today is the one day in May when it is free from cameras, lights and action.

I have looked on youtube at a short video of Tom Cruise filming scenes there for Mission Impossible 4. Barbed wire has been looped around the perimeter fencing, Russian signs have been erected and scaffolding is as high as the building. Everywhere there are cameras, cranes, lorries, people with walkie talkies and, towards the end, Tom Cruise himself signing autographs. Today it is empty and still.

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My two guides are waiting for me at the gate, friendly and helpful, and I look up at the forbidding grey walls, trying to take in how it must have felt for Alice when she arrived there in July 1949 and was marched towards the reinforced metal door. The entrance has a lowering grandeur, with semicircular steps leading up under an overhang. The doorway itself is in the semi-circular lobby of the tower. My guides step back politely to let me in first and the cold dank air settles around me. The prison has not been altered since it was closed in 1955; film crews come and go and create their environments and then the prison sinks back to its original state until the next crew arrives.

Everything is grey: the floor, the walls, the metal doors and on this mild day, there is a pervasive chill, what was it like in mid winter? There is a final moment at the empty reception lobby in the entrance hall before going through the metal grille into the prison itself. A small flight of stairs leads up to the first corridor of cells, their doors standing open, many still have either a narrow concrete ledge as a bed or a pull down board. The cells are 8.10 square metres and here, during the day, prisoners were made to walk without stopping. At night, they lay on their back on the narrow bed, their hands visible above the cover, if it was a night on which they were allowed to rest.

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I peer into several of the cells, conscious of not spending too much time, but a part of me wants to see every one of them. In one there is a pigeon which has built its nest outside, between the window pane and the bars, she flies away as we walk in. I wonder if they would have felt confident to do that when the prison was occupied and what joy that one small sign of another creature might have brought. We walk up through the corridors and stop at the guard station, equipped with two radiators, unlike the unheated cells, and then on up to the top floor and the chapel, passing the lighter, brighter corridor leading to the court. It is not a corridor Alice would ever have used, she would not be tried for another five years. The chapel is wide and empty, with a gallery, presumably for the staff, I can’t imagine Alice there either.

On the way down we stop at the “hospital”, it is one large cell separated from the medical staff by metal bars instead of a wall. I ask where interrogations would have taken place and my guides don’t really know, they suggest the court building, but it seems unlikely. We go down to the basement, but that seems to be mostly stores and laundry; there is a huge oven which was used to steam the prisoners’ clothing to get rid of the lice and bugs. Finally we go outside, to the exercise yard where there is a circle. I can picture the drab line of men going round for that short respite and, again, I am pretty sure the political prisoners did not even get that meagre privilege. When it was first built, it was just a regular prison with regular criminals, whose regime was fairly humane, including exercise and chapel. Although it must have been grim, it was not cruel.

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In the war, the prison was taken over by the Gestapo and the horror and torture began. The terrible irony is that after the war, when everyone breathed a sigh of relief and began to expect a return to ‘normality’, the prison at Mlada Boleslav entered an even darker stage of its history. Those in charge were not an invading army, but citizens of Czechoslovakia and most of those imprisoned were not criminals, but party members, ardent communists who had fought for their country and for their beliefs.

Mlada Boleslav was only used at the beginning, in the early days of the Noel Field investigation, because no central prison had been built for the state run security services, Pancrac was not considered sufficiently secure and Ruzyne was still in the process of being adapted for that use. So Mlada Boleslav leant one floor of its prison for those politicals. Later, they would be moved back to Prague, Pancrac and Ruzyne, now made ready for them. One floor of Mlada Boleslav was never going to accommodate them all. Alice herself was transferred in November 1949. During her five months in Mlada Boleslav, she was interrogated by at least four named officers. These officers maintained, when questioned later, that they never knew the details of the charges on which their detainees were arrested, they just had to make them confess. At first, Alice and the others assumed the arrest was a mistake and were willing to answer in the hope of clearing up whatever misunderstanding had led to their arrest. It soon became obvious that this was futile; their interrogators were not interested in the truth. The later report into the arrests in Mlada Boleslav (in the Jiri Setina Archive in Stanford University) confirms that violence and torture were used to extract the confessions.

It is such a strange disconnect. A year ago I was in the manicured grounds of Stanford University, the most opulent university I have ever seen -more like a luxury hotel than a university- busily photographing as much as I could of the documents relating to Alice’s imprisonment and the reports on Mlada Boleslav. I took a short break at lunchtime to sit in the cafe by the Rodin sculpture garden (genuine Rodin sculptures) before returning to the basement of the Hoover Library. Today, I have stood in the very cell Alice might have occupied and walked on the same floors as she did and tomorrow a film crew will be there, setting up for who knows what Hollywood blockbuster. What would surprise Alice the most? Maybe to learn that Erwin’s daughter is criss-crossing the globe trying to understand her.

My kind and helpful guides give me a lift to the bus station for me to return to Prague, only one of them speaks English. The other has remained silent through most of the tour, but as we get into the car, he turns to me and says, “Je to smutné.” (It is sad) and I agree.

 

Read more about Alice’s arrest at A Tale of Two Photographs.