Excerpt from 'The Unspeakable', Ch. 9.
Eva, my aunt (my father's sister) wrote the following compelling account about her trip to Prague in October 1945.
It shows, among other things, her command of English and that, like my father, she had an urge to record her experiences in writing and to tell stories. She called it ‘The Return of the Native’:
‘Will you be going back after the war?’ They always asked that, whenever Czechoslovakia came into the conversation. Free again … home! I never thought or dreamt about anything else. I lived for it, all those [war] years. Home.
[…]
It is Monday, 15th October 1945. We are flying high up above the clouds. Germany is below but we cannot see any land. I am so thrilled, so excited, that I cannot keep still, and hardly feel the cold. The babies are awfully good, asleep most of them, on the laps for their mothers. British wives of Czech soldiers; they are going home too, but for them it is the unknown. They sit in the bomb bays calmly as they might sit in a London bus, yet they have left behind everything dear to them, dear and familiar. They are off to a strange land with strange customs and an alien language. How will they fare? I wonder for a brief moment.
Standing beside me by the tail window is a diplomatic courier from the London Embassy. To him this trip is routine and my impatient enthusiasm a diverting amusement. ‘Just think’, I keep repeating, hardly grasping it, ‘I’m going home!’ ‘I’ll take you to a night club in Prague’, he smiles indifferently. ‘Oh, how wonderful!’ I had been a child when I left – no night clubs for children.
‘There’s good food if you know where to go – we’ll have dinner first.’ Dinner in Prague – a real Czech dinner! ‘How lovely, thank you!’ He looks at his watch: ‘We should be there soon now’ and once again I glance over to my luggage. One of the cases is heavy, with saved up tins and soap and presents for those left at home. The Czech crew are in cheerful attendance. ‘Don’t you run off with a dashing Russian!’ I laugh – but I had forgotten for a while that the Russians were still there.
We dip into enveloping greyness – we are going down. I swallow hard because my ears seem to be bursting and – Prague, down there is Prague! I hop out into a dull, dismal afternoon. Czech voices of Czech officials. I could hug every one of them. ‘Welcome to Prague’. I’m so happy, so happy. Cold wind and raindrops against my face. I breathe deeply and the Czech winds’ sting is a caress. With a pang I remember the sunny afternoon when we took off – for six months [in 1939] as we then thought, the six months of Father’s [work] commitments in England. ‘Seven years’ I think and yet it only seems yesterday … the bright buildings, the glistening planes from all over the world, the smooth voice over the loudspeaker and announcements in many tongues, handkerchiefs waving, all the world’s flags on ground poles. There are flags now, too, rattling in the wind. Ominously side by side, ours and theirs – the Russians’.
Husbands dashing forward – husbands and wives together again. ‘Darling, welcome home, darling’. One girl alone – holding fast the sleeping baby. Perhaps he didn’t get the telegram, perhaps he missed the train, perhaps … wide eyed, bewildered but no fuss, no scene. She is so alone – but she is British. They’re giving us thick slices of black bread, with pink sausage and a cup of nasty coffee. I love the bread, Czech bread.
It is getting dark when we are shown to the bus which will take us to the YWCA. Those not from Prague are off to the YWCA for the night. We go in a coach, my yellow labelled luggage in the rack above. Suburbs. Silent streets lined with trees – I had forgotten! The wind driving the leaves and clouds of dust. No dust in England. Bumpy, cobble pavement – home too, I think at every jolt, home – and I’m thinking it in English. Not many people about; too cold and windy. An untidy mound of rubble – familiar sight of blitz times. Why don’t they clear it away? The dimly lit streets are empty, and I don’t know any of the parts through which we are passing. Queer to not know Prague well – queer to be a stranger in my own capital.
We are there. A tall modern building. The driver rings the doorbell and men come to help with the luggage. Sullen men but strong. German? Did I hear them speak in German? Then I see the ‘N’ stitched on their front. N for Němec (German). They are German and the tide has turned. That is how they made the Jews wear ‘J’s’ and now the tide has turned. I hated the Germans. An eye for an eye, I used to say in England, they had enslaved my country, they had enslaved Europe, shot my grandmother. The first German I see, I’ll spit in his face, I used to say in England. Now I’d seen them I felt pity and disgust. Humans being singled out.
I am lucky – I have a room to myself. An iron bed, a chair, and a washbasin. I try the taps, taps with Czech inscription, but only the cold works – and it’s icy. ‘Good old army training’ I think gratefully as the water is running. When I go down, he [the man from the plane who invited Eva out] is waiting for me, proudly waving a handful of meal coupons. We set out, first to have some dinner. Now the streets are crowded, and we turn into Wenceslas Square. Shop windows are brightly lit, and people are strolling up and down leisurely – it hasn’t changed. There are many Russian soldiers and I just want to look and listen. Czech advertisements and Czech words.
Suddenly I see a group of soldiers in British battledress with Czech Brigade Flash. I don’t know them, but we shout hello, and they are asking eager questions about England. Queer – the first strangers I talk to in Prague are not strangers because they’ve been in England too, and we’re speaking English to each other. The novelty of it all leaves no time though – I just accept the facts. I am intoxicated.
We go into a large – restaurant – an orchestra is playing at the far end but the buzz–of voices – Czech voices – is almost drowning the music. Suddenly there is a hush, and everyone is looking – looking at me. Then the headwaiter beckons at us, and we are ushered to a corner table. Waiters rush to assist with the chair. And as I see the menu my momentary embarrassment is forgotten. All these Czech dishes.
We go to three different night clubs. I’ve never been to one at home before – I was too young then. People are staring again but I am taking it in my stride more. We drink and dance and I’m enjoying every minute of it. Many tables are occupied by Russian officers – but only very few have women with them.
After a while the band leader comes over to us, makes a deep bow and asks what the gracious lady would like them to play. The lady is amazed and chooses various Czech and Slovak folk tunes. The band obliges and the ‘lady’ feels like crying. One last request – the band leader bows again. ‘Do you know ‘Tipperary?’ I ask in a shaky voice and the violin gives the lead. Then everyone – everyone except the puzzled Russians – join in. They all know the words and as they sing, they raise their glasses to our table. I sing too with a quivering chin and tears rolling down slowly. Back in my bare little room I suddenly realise how tired I am and as I curl up between the clammy sheets, I don’t feel the cold …
Two thick slices of dark, dry bread spread with black plum jam and acorn coffee are the breakfast. I will have to waste today reporting to various military officers. Prague in daylight – I walk the streets slowly, drinking it all in. I notice the general shabbiness, not one elegant woman to be seen and the fashions seem three years behind.
I am taking it quite for granted now that people turn to look at me – it’s the British uniform and I suppose that I must be the first ATS girl seen in the streets of Prague. I come to a [?] and as I approached, a policeman salutes. Was that meant for me, a mere one pipper – the girl who until ’39 had felt the customary suspicious respect every continental has for the police? There is no-one behind me, so I return the courtesy. Making my way to St Wenceslas Square, where I shall catch the 22 tram, I will have ample time for reflection. ‘I am back’ I keep telling myself, back after all these years. That’s what I have been waiting for – but I feel lonely – isolated. I am not one of my own people – I am a stranger and merely speak their tongue. Their Tongue? My own tongue – Czech. It’s just that I don’t know Prague very well, it must be that. Wait until I get to my hometown, to Opava. All policemen salute, and Czech soldiers too – my right arm is kept busy. The trams are overcrowded, there are no queues. I’d forgotten that – horrible, the way one has to push and scramble. Squeezed inside, people are asking me who I am.
[…] Her account reveals her state of mind before and during her return. She is observant of the people around her; her voice comes over clearly, as does her eye for detail.
Her account focuses on Prague and describes her return. The Second World War had ended five months previously. Eva writes about Czechoslovakia’s liberation in inverted commas: a clear jab at the Russians. Her mind wanders, as she observes her fellow passengers, to how it had been when she left the familiar for the unknown in 1938/1939 when the family fled.
Doing a bit of name-dropping, Eva records her exchange with a diplomatic courier from the London Embassy, and how he invited her out. As a twenty-two-year-old woman, she recalls that she was a child when she left, and maybe she was sensing her adulthood and how time had passed as she self-confidently accepted his invitation. As they descended towards Prague, she was again reminded of the Russian presence in her home country, and, while she doesn’t openly write it, uneasiness about that lies between the lines.
As the plane descended Eva experienced discomfort, but her excitement about returning continued to infuse her. Briefly, Eva contrasts the winter weather with the sunshine when the family departed for England, and she experiences ‘a pang’ as she remembers. That may have been longing for days gone by before the war, for her childhood. Eva writes that she and her brother had been told that Bruno’s work at the Gütermann factory meant six months in England. It seems credible that the children were not told that the trip was an emigration because of the Nazi threat to the Jewish family.
The account contrasts her previous years in England with Prague, and Eva was surprised because she realised that although she was thinking about being home, she was thinking in English. This reveals how comfortable she felt with the English language. But for the first time, there’s an inkling of disquiet, and it has to do with identity. She calls herself a stranger in her own capital, and this experience contrasts with her joyous, almost childish expectations evoked during her journey there in the plane. She was bothered that more rubble had not been cleared away from the roads in the aftermath of the war. In England that must have been the case. There may have been a demonstrative aspect to not clearing the roads in Prague, which was not badly damaged during the war – a sort of ‘we suffered too’ message.
Eva commits to paper her first encounter with a German and lists the reasons for her vengeful impulses. She acknowledges the murder of her grandmother, Therese, but her 1945 narrative is incorrect. Therese’s fate had not yet been clarified, or if it had been, Eva didn’t (yet) know. She counts herself lucky because she had a room to herself at the YMCA, and, simple though the room was, without warm water, she roots herself in British ‘tough army training’. For Eva, even the tap at her sink, like the wind upon her arrival and the bread, had a Czech identity.
She was surprised that the first people she encountered on the streets of Prague were soldiers in British battledress with a Czech Brigade flash. They spoke English with one another, and another implicit identity issue seems to have arisen. Eva again notes that Russians were in the nightclubs, and she also noticed that they were not accompanied by many women. This observation seems to point to Eva sensing their presence as unnatural; for her they were not a normal part of society, because their female partners were absent. The Russians did not belong.
Eva then vividly records what seems to have been a tribute to the British for defeating the Nazis in the war, triggered by Czechs seeing her uniform. She briefly alters her writing stance and moves to the distance of the third person, writing about herself in inverted commas as a ‘gracious lady’. This she may have taken, like a cue, from the bandleader, who had probably addressed her as milostivá paní (‘madam’), a third-person form with an extra layer of deference that people in service used at that time. Additionally, this experience, being addressed in this way, touched Eva’s change in social status; as a fifteen year old (when she left), she would not have been spoken to like that. She was encountering the reality of having grown up coupled with the gallant status of having served abroad. Multiple layers of challenging experiences seemed to jarringly came together in this moment, and she captures that: it was important to her to record it. Some of the tension from the war seems to have been released as she cried while ‘Tipperary’ was sung. It was an intense moment that she saves in words. Several things happened within her: the song in English catalysed an emotional release, and possibly she sensed comradeship and her British identity which had developed during the war and had saved her and her family. Perhaps her loss came to her mind; she had survived the war, but her grandmother (and two aunts and their husbands) had not. She probably also experienced relief that the war was over.
Although she received respect from policemen and others when they saluted her the next day, Eva seems to have felt lonely and confused. She observes that Prague was generally ‘shabby’ and noticed there were no elegant women walking the streets, that fashion seemed to be three years behind. Eva was comparing how the women on the streets of Prague looked to the last time she was there, before the war left its devastating traces. The atmosphere on the streets in post-war Prague comes over. Eva was comforting herself in her disorientation, by envisaging her return to Opava, hoping that her longed-for homecoming would be as joyous as she anticipated. This part of her account suggests that she was experiencing a sobering disenchantment, contrasting with the almost childish joy and hope while on the plane to Prague. The surviving page of the piece ends with criticism of people for not queueing, a custom in British society but not on the continent. She had forgotten that.