A Delayed Life Read online

  Toward the winter of 1941, the Germans began sending Jews in transports “to the East.” Five such transports, each with a thousand persons, were deported to the Łódź ghetto.

  My uncle Ludvík was among the first to be deported. For a time we sent him food parcels and postcards. But one day a few months later, our postcard came back with the words printed across it: ADDRESSEE DECEASED.

  Had Ludvík and Manya not divorced, he would have survived, because Jewish spouses of gentile partners were deported much later, just a few weeks before the end of the war, and all of them survived.

  My beloved uncle Ludvík was the first of my painful losses.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Fear

  One sign that I was maturing was my realization that not all adults are omniscient, wise, and infallible. I started being critical: one person was too talkative, another was stingy, one was greedy, and, worst of all, some were stupid. But most shocking of all was when I became aware that my own father was not all-powerful and that he was unable to protect me when I needed him.

  Many years before, when I was perhaps five or six, I already had my first disconcerting intimation of this. One late afternoon, Father and I were returning from the Letná Park. It must have been autumn; darkness was falling early, and I was wearing long stockings and a coat. As we were walking, I suddenly felt something wet and warm on the back of my legs. I jumped, and we both turned around. Two boys, slightly bigger than myself, were walking behind us and peeing on me. They laughed loudly and ran away. Father stood there, undecided and helpless, while I cried with frustration and shame. He didn’t run after the boys, didn’t catch and punish them; he didn’t even shout at them. He just let them escape, and I was embarrassed and humiliated. That was long before the Nazi occupation.

  One day, when I was about eleven and we were already living in Smíchov, Father and I were walking home from somewhere. As we crossed a street, I was knocked down by a bicycle. Father helped me stand up; my knee was bruised and bloody, and the stocking had a big hole. People gathered around, and the cyclist stopped and started apologizing, but Father took my hand and rushed me away from the commotion in long strides. He didn’t even accuse the man or show anger; he just wanted to escape from the crowd. Perhaps he felt that it was unwise for a Jew to become the center of attention. Perhaps the police would be called, involving us in interrogations and protocols. Better to get lost. My painful knee was less important.

  * * *

  At the beginning of the occupation, I did not feel the persecution of the Jews so much. Yes, we had been evicted from the flat in the Electric House and Father had lost his job. Food was disappearing from the shops, and we were given ration cards. One had to stand in queues at the butcher’s and fishmonger’s, but the food shortage was shared also by the non-Jews.

  But then began all kinds of anti-Jewish restrictions; every few weeks, new regulations were enforced. We gradually had to hand over our radios and jewelry to the Germans. I remember my mother saying that this was one thing she did not mind: she owned no gold nor diamonds.

  Then came the order that Jews must hand over bicycles, sports equipment, musical instruments, cameras, pet animals, and fur coats. We were not allowed to go to theaters, cinemas, cafés, restaurants, parks, concerts, sport events, or any kind of entertainment. Jews were forbidden to be treated by gentile doctors or to travel outside the city limits. Our identity cards were stamped with a J, and a curfew was imposed from eight o’clock in the evening.

  Yet the harshest blow for me was when Jewish children were no longer permitted to go to school.

  On September 1, 1940, the school year began as usual. It began for all the pupils and students in Czechoslovakia, but not for me, nor for all other Jewish children.

  I had been happily looking forward to starting high school, having finished the fifth grade of elementary school in Žďár. In high school, teachers addressed students with the more respectful vy instead of the familiar ty, and classes had Latin names: Prima, Secunda, Tertia. At the end of grade Octava, students got a matriculation certificate and were allowed to go to university. But by order of the Nazi rulers of Czechoslovakia, now called Protektorat Böhmen und Mähren, Jews were forbidden to attend schools.

  On that day I stood at the window of our Smíchov apartment and enviously watched the children with their schoolbags walking to school. Like every pupil, I had been happy when the summer vacation started. But now the vacation didn’t end; it became permanent. I wasn’t pleased at all. I felt lost, excluded. What would I do all day long?

  My parents also worried, of course. A child must continue her education; she cannot stay at home, perhaps helping with household chores1 but remaining ignorant. They asked beloved Uncle Ludvík and Aunt Manya for help. Uncle Ludvík taught me Czech grammar, I think, and Aunt Manya math and biology, while my father tutored me in history and geography. Manya was able to provide the textbooks for my grade from her school, and I got proper lessons, including homework. I was also sent across the street to learn English with a Miss Pollak, who loved irregular verbs. I had to recite “do-did-done, go-went-gone, have-had-had, sing-sang-sung.” Theirs was a household of three old spinsters, dry, proper, and humorless: the two Misses Pollak and their mother. I hated to go there, but I did learn English.

  I had started learning English once before, when I was ten years old. My parents intended to send me to England with a group of Jewish children. They bought a beginners’ English textbook and started to teach me. Only decades later did the world learn about Nicholas Winton and his heroic project of saving Jewish children from Hitler’s murderous claws. Why I wasn’t sent in the end I never heard, but I think it was because Mother was unable to part with me.

  Yet the arrangement with my private tutors was soon disrupted. After Manya’s arrest, Uncle Ludvík was so shaken and worried, he was unable to continue teaching me.

  Another solution had to be found. My parents heard that some families engaged unemployed Jewish teachers, who arranged study circles for several children in private homes. After a short time I started attending such a circle, together with my best friend, Raja Engländer, my former schoolmate Annemarie Brösslerová, and a few other children.

  Raja Engländer, 1941

  For our study circle we used each pupil’s home in prearranged rotation. The four, five, or six children would arrive one by one, a few minutes apart, because assembly of more than three persons was forbidden. We had to be as inconspicuous as possible, careful not to make much noise on the stairs. When the teacher arrived, we sat around the table in our crammed room and teaching began. Of course there was no blackboard, but that didn’t matter; we learned willingly and gladly. We had quite a good time and often laughed.

  We had another teacher, who we nicknamed Jinovatka (which means “hoarfrost”), as he seemed so cold and distant. But the other subjects were taught by Dr. Lichtigová, a pediatrician by profession. She was small, shorter than her pupils, and had a pronounced hunchback. But she was so kind and warmhearted that we all just loved her. Sometimes we were invited to her flat for the lessons, where she lived with her mother. Strangely, I have no idea how the parents paid our tutors. It must have been done delicately and discreetly behind our backs.

  Gathering for classes was a dangerous enterprise. We had to be careful not to arouse the suspicion of neighbors, who might report the clandestine schooling of Jewish children to the Nazi authorities. At that time many families had already been evicted from their flats, which were expropriated by Germans. We had also had to move again. A German officer ordered us to vacate our Smíchov apartment because he wanted it for himself. We hadn’t lived in Smíchov for very long, only one or perhaps one and a half years.

  Jews were no longer allowed to reside in all parts of the city. They were limited to Staré Město and Josefov, which, in past centuries, had been the location of the Jewish ghetto. Soon there were no more vacant flats, and people were forced to crowd together, one room per family. Most apartments h
ad three or four rooms with a kitchen, one bathroom, and one toilet. Now such an apartment housed three or four families, who had to take turns at the facilities. This was a great problem and caused much anger and squabbling among the tenants.

  Raja and her parents, for example, lived in a large flat on Pařížská Street, together with three other families. At the entrance door were their names and the code for the bell: Kaufmann, two short rings; Platschek, one long, one short; Lustig, one short, two long; Engländer, three long. For my grandparents a room was found near us, in Kostečná Street. They shared it with two other elderly couples.

  My parents were more fortunate. My young piano teacher, Helena Hőlzlová, with whom I had just started to learn, knew of a vacant two-room flat in Waldhauserova Street and suggested we take it together. And so we came to live with Helena, her charming husband, Arnošt, and her mother, Mrs. Steiner.

  Of course we couldn’t fit most of the furniture into our single room. Just the double bed, my sofa, two wardrobes, a table, and chairs could be squeezed into it. The other pieces were given away, except for the dining room sideboard, the green couch, and my father’s bookcase and writing desk. An acquaintance of Aunt Lori’s was willing to take these and keep them for us till after the war.

  I must pause here, to tell about an event concerning the sideboard. It was made of brown oak with a clock on top and several drawers and compartments. In the lower part Mother stored the crystal glasses and the porcelain set (the one I was to get when I married); in the center section she kept the cookies she always baked, to have something ready for unexpected guests. She used to make two kinds that lasted for months without becoming stale. Both were called “little kisses”—one was white and crunchy; the other brown, with chocolate and almonds.

  When the war was over and I returned from the concentration camps, Lori’s friend kept her word and returned the furniture. The old familiar sideboard brought back memories of the times when we were still all together, Mother and Father and me. When I opened the door of the middle compartment, it was empty. No longer were there any “little kisses.” But their sweet fragrance lingered inside and wafted out at me, like a greeting from better times.

  * * *

  Starting in 1941, Father was employed once more. He worked at the offices of the Jewish Community, the so-called kille (that is, kehila, Hebrew for “community”). It was in Josefovská Street, near where we lived; today the street is named Široká. I often went to the kille, mainly because another uncle of mine also worked there. His name was Julius Tutsch, a distant cousin of my mother. He was a photographer, who for years made all our family photos. I had two reasons for visiting him: I always wanted to pose for more photos of myself, but, above all, I wanted to see Uncle Julius’s assistant, the handsome Honza. Honza wasn’t interested in me but was willing to make a pact with me: to pretend to be my brother. I always wished to have a brother, and I begged Mother to have a boy, if not an older brother like Annemarie’s then at least a younger one. But she said that in such bad times it would be irresponsible to have a baby. Of course, I could not claim to have an older brother to people who knew me, but when I made new friends, I boasted of having a brother who worked in the photo department at the kille.

  Dita Polach (left) and Raja Engländer in Hagibor, 1941

  * * *

  One day a new restriction was imposed on the Jews. We had to wear a yellow star with the word Jude on our outer garments. It had to be sewn on firmly, not only on its six tips, but all around. On the first day with the Magen David on our coats, Raja and I were riding the tram to one of our teachers—standing on the rear platform, the only place allowed to Jews. We were apprehensive of people’s reactions and tried to be as inconspicuous as possible. But one tall man in a long coat looked at us and then said loudly, so everyone could hear, “These are two princesses with golden stars.” We had to smile, and so did all the passengers. I felt a great relief.

  * * *

  One of my father’s cousins was Uncle Leo. I admired his wife, Verica, who I thought was the most beautiful woman I knew. Like Uncle Ludvík, Uncle Leo also appeared in Prague in 1938, when he and his wife escaped from Berlin. He was a charming man, as handsome as a film star. When he and Verica walked down the street, people would stop and stare, they were so glamorous. Verica was always perfectly dressed and made up, her shiny black hair reaching her shoulders. She wore very high heels so as not to seem too short next to Leo. Because Verica was not Jewish, Leo was spared the transports until close to the end of the war. He didn’t find work in Prague. In Berlin he used to be a bank clerk; however, he didn’t speak a word of Czech, so he took the only work offered him and became a porter. He worked at a moving firm, wore dirty clothes, and hauled heavy furniture, all with a smile and good cheer, which made him eminently popular with his Czech non-Jewish coworkers. He was deported to Terezín as late as spring 1945 and came back to Prague after the war, hale and sound. He was also most kind to my grandmother; within days he went to fetch her from the ghetto and took her in.

  * * *

  I wanted to continue learning to play the piano after we were evicted from the Smíchov flat. The problem was that I had no piano now. Gerta’s parents had kindly offered to keep it for us when we moved to the one room. Aunt Verica agreed, if not enthusiastically, to let me practice on her piano, every day for half an hour at noontime. Helena and I also could have a lesson there once a week. And so I progressed for a while and was lauded, perhaps exaggeratedly, for my musical talent.

  * * *

  All this time the deportations of Jews continued, no longer to the Łódź ghetto, but to Terezín. The transports caused constant upheavals in our lives. Friends were sent away; every few weeks, there were tearful partings. My study circle disintegrated, and again I had nothing to do.

  While Jews were forbidden to attend the public schools, one Jewish school was allowed to function in Prague. Despite filling classes to capacity and teaching in two shifts, morning and afternoon, and even adding more classrooms in another building, the school could not absorb all the Jewish children. But when transports started in 1941 and the Jewish population dwindled, places became available and pupils were accepted according to a waiting list.

  Meanwhile a welcome occupation was found for me. I was to become the assistant to the assistant of the dentist, Dr. Wantochová. Her clinic was in a building next to the Spanish synagogue on Dušní Street (nowadays the Jewish Museum). I was given a white smock, and my duty was to call in the next patient from the waiting room. On the patient’s card was a picture of the upper and lower row of teeth, and I marked with a colored pencil the tooth that was treated and wrote the date of the patient’s next appointment. After a few weeks I was promoted and permitted to prepare the amalgam for the fillings. This was a mixture of mercury and some silvery metal flakes, which had to be crushed vigorously with a pestle in a little glass container until it became a smooth paste. I handed tiny bits of it, poised on a ball-tipped tool like miniature pyramids, to the assistant, who conveyed them to the dentist. I liked the work and felt useful and important, even though the assistant was a gruff and bossy person.

  * * *

  Everybody was afraid to ignore the restrictions imposed on us Jews. We heard of people being stopped on the street by the German occupiers and being arrested when their ID card showed the large J and they didn’t have the yellow star on their coat.

  At the beginning of the war, before we had to wear the star, my father took Gerta and me to see a wonderful film called Boys Town, with Spencer Tracy and Mickey Rooney. Since then I hadn’t been able to see another film, because on all cinemas, theaters, restaurants, or sports clubs hung posters with the words JUDEN UND HUNDEN EINTRITT VERBOTEN (no entry for Jews and dogs).

  I longed to see a film that was the talk of the town, with a famous actress whom I admired. I collected her photos and cut them out of magazines. I didn’t dare remove the yellow star from my coat and enter a cinema, but Zdenka, Aunt Manya’s young sist
er, was daring and invited me to come with her. Despite my nagging worry of being discovered, I went. I was enchanted; it was such a romantic story! I was terribly romantic when I was twelve and thirteen. I dreamed of running through blooming meadows, my white dress fluttering behind and a handsome, tall man picking me up in his arms.

  On my twelfth birthday I was promised a special treat. Gerta and her mother invited me to come bathing in the Vltava River. They picked a spot way beyond the public bathing places, where the open meadows reach the banks of the river. Gerta’s mother was sure there would be no German controls to check the IDs of the handful of bathers.

  I was excited before the outing, looking forward to it with elation. However, on the morning of July 12, something unexpected happened. I discovered blood on my nightgown, and it turned out to be my first menstruation. I was quite proud that from then on I would be an adult woman. Mother instructed me in what to do, but she said I must not go bathing.

  What a disappointment! I wouldn’t be able to go swimming! When Gerta and her mother arrived to fetch me, I was in tears. But her mother saved the situation. She declared I should come with them anyway; if I could not swim, I might just dip my legs in the water up to my knees. In my summer dress without the yellow Star of David, under it the bathing suit over the panties with the necessary padding inside, we three went by tram to the end station of Podolí. After a short walk, we chose a shady spot, spread a blanket, had a picnic, and spent a happy day in the sunshine. I didn’t even envy Gerta, who could swim while I only waded in the shallow water at the edge of the river.

  * * *