The Last train from Prague

Twenty-five years ago, on March 15, 1939, I Woke up from an uneasy sleep and switched on my bedside radio. The time was 5.30 in the morning, the place was Prague. The voice of the announcer said : ” Please keep law and order—the German army is invading Czechoslovakia from all tour sides. . . . Please keep law and order— the German army is invading Czechoslovakia from all four sides. . . . Please keep law and order. . . .” I woke my husband and together we listened to the voice that proclaimed not only the death of one of the finest democracies in europe, but also the end of an epoch in our lives an epoch that meant roots, security, and human dignity. Even as that voice droned on, we were being turned into fugitives, our crime being that we were Jews. By about midday, the first convoy of German tanks entered Wenceslas Square. I had often stood there, watching processions in the colourful Czech and Slovak national costumes and Cheering with the onlookers. But the crowd that lined both sides of the square when the first German tank rolled down this beautiful thoroughfare was as still and silent as the statue of St. Wenceslas—the patron saint of bohemia—towering above the square. The Germans did not waste much time. A curfew was called immediately and their lorries fumbled long into the night collecting the first blacklisted victims. In the days that followed, my husband and I ran from embassy to embassy, trying to find a Way of escape. By one of those strange ^incidences that shape human destinies, we “let an old friend, who told us that until the end of March, Czech nationals did not require visa for England. We made up our minds on the spot, although it seemed impossible Jo get all the necessary documents in the remaining eight days. We did not even have 3 passport. Still, it was worth trying. Never Shall I forget this breathless paper-chase, the hours in endless queues, with hope mounting and hope disappearing while time was running out. The National Bank was closed and you could Set no money out of the country ; you could not even get a railway ticket abroad. Again by chance, I heard that foreigners could obtain tickets. If you were lucky enough to find one, he might be persuaded to part with his return ticket and buy a new one. The price of such a transaction was fantastic, but life was to precious still. . My God, where can I find a foreigner ? But It seemed easier than I thought. The clerk at little travel agency did know of a Dutchman. Please, oh please, money no object. . . . , of course I pay in advance.” In a back alley that was our rendezvous, I was waiting for two hours in the pouring rain for the clerk and his Dutchman. They did not come. But when I returned home, another good friend telephoned that some tickets were being sold at the main railway station—something that the efficient German administration had overlooked. I rushed there immediately but the news had got around and I found a queue a mile long. After three hours, when I was about fifth from the grille, the window shut own: the tickets were sold out. Nobody »new whether there would be any more. So I crawled home to a weary husband who had spent his day chasing the passports. God knows how we managed at all. Looking back on it, I can see a divine scheme in which each step was counted and each minute measured. For if we had not met just one of the many people who helped us at a particular moment, or if a tram or a taxi had not come just when it did, we would not be here today. Eventually, we held in our hands the precious passports, the tickets, the inland revenue permit, and all the other documents—everything except the Gestapo permit to leave. That was the hardest thing of all. There was the possibility of my husband being arrested, so I decided to go to the Gestapo myself. When I came out of that building, I knew that I should never be afraid as long as I live—I spent the fear of my lifetime in there. The passports had to be left behind and were to be collected with the permits—if any— three days later, on the day when the last train was leaving Prague to reach England without a visa. Anxious Hours Early that morning my husband Izio and I set out for the Gestapo. We closed the door of our home on all the precious things we had collected in our young married life, as well as on our hopes and dreams for the future. We joined the long, long queue. Friends brought us food, while the family waited at the flat for our telephone call to bring our luggage to the station. The hours passed and we made only little progress. My God, shall we never reach the door ? Round about midday we were getting within sight but then the officials called a break and the queue became once more motionless. Two o’clock came and the door opened again. We were not far away by this time but to our dismay the jackbooted Nazi in charge started to pull out his friends from the back of the queue. At three o’clock I plucked up all my courage and pointed out—humbly and politely—that our train would be leaving just after four o’clock. The man yelled : ” Keep your mouth shut, Jewish swine, or you’ll go to the back of the queue.” More waiting. .. . At four p.m. we were at last moving through the door. A woman in front of us undertook to ring my parents and ask them to bring our hurriedly packed personal belongings to the station. We arrived at the station within minutes of the train’s departure—perhaps it was better so—there was no time for prolonged goodbyes. . . . The train moved slowly out of the station and I saw the dear faces of my parents disappearing in the distance. I never saw them again. None of the 300 fugitives on that train knew that the husbands who were going out to prepare the ground for their wives and children would never be joined by them, nor were the separated sweethearts to meet again. And now we were on our way into the unknown. We reached the border of the Czech Protectorate, where all the permits were taken away from us. This was a bad omen. The permits entitled us to return within four weeks Continued on What would happen if England refused us entry ? Our speculations were cut short by an order to change trains. This was to be a direct train from Prague to the Dutch port of Vlissingen, but Jews were not supposed to ask questions. We had to change twice more and so precious hours were lost. It now became obvious that we should not reach England before midnight on March 31. Panic seized those who came on the train straight from prisons and there were a good number of them. They said that they were going to kill themselves rather than go through it again. At the Last Hurdle Full of foreboding, the transport reached Bentheim, on the German-Dutch border. There we were told that England would not let us in. It was too late. The treaty would expire before we could reach the English shores. Now the Dutch also refused us entry, fearing that we would be left on their hands. Besides, their reception centres for refugees in transit were already overcrowded. Negotiations with the Dutch authorities were set afoot, while our luggage, papers, and persons were examined by the German customs and police officials. Carriage after carriage was emptied and filled again, as people went to be investigated and returned. By and by everybody was back except for three men—one of them my husband. For six hours they kept him standing near a wall—not leaning on it, mind you, while Nazi officials checked with Prague his identity and awaited clearance. I was nearly out of my mind with worry and I was not comforted when I asked an official with a swastika armlet whether he knew where my husband was. Hearing the name, he said brightly : ” Oh, we shot him ! ” Just one of the delicate Nazi jokes, but how was I to tell at the time? Meanwhile, the first half of our transport was allowed to move on to Oldenzaal, on the Dutch side of the border, and await their fate in Holland, while the rest of us had to remain in Germany. We spent another night on the train, which was shunted on to a side track. Months later I was to wake up in the middle of the night and imagine myself to be still on that stationary train. In the morning, the local inhabitants came to stare at us as if we were some strange animals ; and we felt indeed like rats in a trap. We could neither go forward nor back, and now the German railways were asking for the carriages. Rumours reached us that we might be transferred to a concentration camp. But now the world was told of our plight by desperate telephone and telegraph messages. Finally a British immigration officer arrived in Oldenzaal, and it was rumoured that if you found an English guarantor, you were given a visa. Izio and I had had a chance meeting with an Englishman on the day Hitler marched into Prague. We wired him in desperation to send a guarantee for us to Oldenzaal. One clutched at every straw. Another night came and still our fate was undecided. The train had to be sent back now and we were told to deposit our luggage in a room at the station and form two orderly lines, men separate and women separate. We thought that this could only mean a concentration camp but to our great surprise we found ourselves at a youth hostel, where we were given black coffee and bread with margarine, thanks to the mayor of Bentheim. Then the men were accommodated on straw—sixty of them in a room—and women were given a bunk between two of them. In the morning, the good news was brought to us that all women, and the married ones together with their husbands, were permitted to present themselves to the British immigration officer in Oldenzaal. It was only one railway station away, but what a different world awaited us on the other side of the border. The Dutch went all out to welcome us, and I shall never forget the warmth of their hospitality. There was food ready for us in a school and we certainly needed it. And here we had another pleasant surprise : the guarantee from our chance English acquaintance arrived and so we faced the immigration officer with easier hearts. Yes, we got the visa and were taken to Hengelo, one more railway stop down the Une, to spend the night. As in Oldenzaal, the whole town turned out to greet us. People threw their homes open to us and Scouts took care of our luggage and shepherded us to our lodgings. Izio and I followed our Boy Scout as in a dream through the darkening streets of Hengelo. The crisis was over—this was the beginning of a new life. That night, after what seemed like a lifetime, we rested again on clean and comfortable beds. Next morning our group left Hengelo to the chorus of ” Long live Holland ” and ” Long live Czechoslovakia.” The Boy Scouts formed a guard of honour at the station. I often thought of this scene, when, a few months later, Holland herself became the victim of the same cruel oppressor. The journey on the boat was uneventful. We felt that whatever lay before us could never be as bad as our first glimpse of Hitler’s rule. True, we did not know a word of English ; we had exactly sixpence left after sending postcards from the boat and treating ourselves to one cup of coffee between the two of us ; we did not know a soul in England, apart from that chance acquaintance of ours, but we were young and not afraid of hard work. And so, during the week of Passover, when Jewish people all over the world celebrate their deliverance from slavery to freedom—we landed on these blessed shores.